La Gloire

[image by Mat Brown]


perfection's freakish imp
pneuma

there is a naked witch
a wave hat itch's ich
on the battlefield
who cannot be killed
who cannot be called down
by the aminotion

by the cannon
by the rifle

cannot be hit
for she is too quick
too agile
too spectral
and ragingly
conschissionift

In my tall military hat
and dragging mustards
her eyes
seem like vast dictations
of palimpsestic orchards

inside my skeleton
is an amber warmth
of timeless music

sick blue amoeba whales
rise in rapt clusters of shymbrace

i pass through her
through La Gloire
back into the battle
the stupidity of man

stewed cupidity
stuck avidity
strewn aridity

and its perfection
or erectile perforation
or aurochylously
pure formation
however carelessly
impishly

la Gloire.. still larger
in her largesse

there is nothing but
beasts of snapping jaws
to make the crinoline
of her collared
dear and arching

suivant
autant

flaser gabbro
cum hypabyssal ukha's
cooking pot's
topiary huttern hatter
talea