Well blow me down, a goon siren always
sings like this.
[he marks out the poem he is writing]:
fluted and cold,
brute sap fossil supple
marked by rubble with scratches
a treasure
enshrined near piny copse
to rival common boulders
your stalk has caught root
among wet mouths to play
and drift such singflungsang by sea
and grinding shoals
singing skulls as split-conch-shells
visit enshrine.
Beautiful, wide-spread mouths
would fire upon a leaf ear, mouth
open upon tusk what
meadow is as orange so
strange the sap tusk flute as
your bright brute feeler?
Amber tusk flute piercing oyster afternoon
soft empty notes on formless inpenetralias
Here, the sullen ideal republic,
its brute us, a favorite list,
fresh young pepper on the spinach,
but poise in emphatic precision's halting
the bulge that carries out the alternate notice
they do not place anchors on their pages
he does not place anchors on his forearms
but instead
rainbow trout
whose insides
are washed with virginity;
libated
thin elastic skeletons
are libated with ultra virgin
olive oil
and treated to the sun
with Heliodorus
must have this kind tattoo
the green winter ink
of its molecule
displayed
lacy symbol
in the skin
now festooned
by rainbow colored hairs
a fist comes out of nowhere
but is massless
simple
Popeye under the pepper tree
sees the mandala of spinach
and o'er his tranquil head
appears a nimbus
of disembodied spinning forearms
with each fist a green spinach sun
holding a sea poppy
flour to fry up
a nice popeye chicken
in an eyeball frying pan
for
ALICE THE GOON SIRENS
FUCKING WOW. I'm going to go home and learn to write. You tore images out of nowhere there with certain speed; very friggin nice, and the spinach. Esta un bonito, una fuckin mahi-mahi of a poem. A sailfish. A hot pink pig submarine with turbine whistlers. Or what is that early dinosaur with the huge cooling fin? Dinorhynchus or something like.
ReplyDeleteActually, I expect i'll go on writing just as I do, I don't seem to get to choose much on the matter. But blow me down, that did.
I'd accept a framed copy of that. Some things should hang.
PG
And who the heck is Jason Robards? I'll go look it up, he said duncily, across his palate and out his nose.
Thanks for the poem. Best thing I read today. I mean, so far. But it's always like that, isn't it?
A treasure to rival common boulders. Yeah.
O3! It is nice to have a fan!
ReplyDeleteI need one! I just found out one of my oldest friends has died, and other domestic junk is taking a shit at the moment. thanks bro!
Oh, that sucks. I'm sorry to hear that. Death is untrivial and at the same time horribly false. I hope you feel better. And that events surround you with treats.
ReplyDeleteI was just on my way out the door (to mop a floor 9and participate in the glory of morning, birds an' shit all going on with sun - Fat Boy Walks!) - remembered the name of that dinosaur, from a book I had when I was a kid (so who knows if it exists anymore! Dinosaurs transform at this range in time -) : its name is dimetrodon, and it's a pretty one.
Thanks again for the poem, and for all your nice work out here in this electric fairyland - you are making the world a more decorative place. I think the web should always be like a decorative Caribbean bus; covered with everyone's art, and inexpensive.
later and Happy Winter -
PG