User:ZephyrAnycon

At the time, W.W. Robson, another Oxford hotshot, remarked, “You can say one thing for Amis and Wain, they do have a sense of humor—except for Wain, and Amis.”

Leider I love stuff to be true; Poetry does probably too.

*

Airspeed

The dark, thirty-five thousand feet of air Two hundred and twenty-eight in terror

Whether it pitched down like a bird of prey Whether any were conscious then to pray

If in the cold of altitude the fuselage broke up If it dove intact for miles till the sea tore it up –

I know none of this – knew none (I was asleep Four thousand miles distant in the double bed I keep):

Not whether or how they anticipated death Through the steep dark – but this far I have faith

That there are other minds I know And know nothing of them in the terror they knew

Homage in Irish Rhyme

Stars turning up all the time in poetry. The literality is all there somewhere. One can’t just write, smack and go on.

She is a mess this made and she Requires rationalisation. Write theology of her but ignore the stars

Turning up all the time in poetry. The literality is all here somewhere. I couldn’t take a smack just at Empson.

Hydrant

There’s no one there. This you say and he objects. You had there someone, just before. I thought I saw. Thought I saw that someone there; there’s no one there. Though I see him still. I close my eyes and see him, still still there. It is a quest. Speech is there yet speech is here. Speech is where I see him still. Say, some no one there. What speech is ours but hers and this? Who says That I am this and I am this.

Gauklerpredigt

Why say, why write? in suffering’s grip or wake, why speak

if you are moral? asks Hill. Because, like gravitation, it’s there.

Because we did it. Etwas wird wahr is said as it’s seen.

Against, perhaps, the mouthings— not memory’s riches—of a video nasty’s replenished cast:

although ignored, for landscape not portrait footage; sung stills of a riven, empty tortoisehouse.

So he, pink as a scandal, is gall’s parson chaparralled on the brink of laughter.

Falterlots

In a day destroy a star; Take the epigram’s whip Now to tan in solitude’s fire

Out of orphaned rays. No fiercer buzzard Has led the sorting hour Than this we might have called a bustard.

Now to tan in solitude’s fire A chilly lark regrets The larch’s lame vendetta.

~

Given it’s beginners’ love Too sad to cherish ghosts; Logged in we gas like hosts.

In a year correct a slump. (The year the slump, and slump Correction.) Don’t repair a heart

So it might bear, in months, the less Gainful, gainfully-borne, tetanus Of love. In even art.

~

In a year erect at last A kaftan heart – Ventricles windsocks, valves aghast.

In a year bereft of crisps Grow wide as Cartman – Komodo neck, thighs that lisp.

Or in a night garrotte a Rhine. ‘It’s obvious’ the river lies Underneath, ‘underneath’.

~

Plainjane lens as barrel squat, The skywritingwritten plot Of loss was not picked up.

In a while in memory Play mythologian. Now, with it befitting me,

In flickered truth, to curse our bond Poetically: Mist falling under the lights.

Till Cloture, Iambs

kinglike prosaicity and the heart mess. ribble famogroan; on the heartling clamp toward the knelling and say stop, also please stop here is Panguitch.

hamadryad in the tire sensor, should this have coherency fire arrect Chávez, heartened Venezuela. dankheart laster may, could flood a Vegas sky with sergeantry of England’s wash; (nor escape measures dogging keymen since the conflagration).

blister lights and sumpheart shades rash the desert where a scree has lain, shrubs grown. roadside card-suppliers, Hispanic all, group about their foisting hands, their provender, as fountains go like bombs, empire's toys. the confectioneried writhe mouth, weight, through sinkalongs.

down Utah rock the set ran pinkly. the Utah light is sandstone, hoodoopeach, the smokeless heart is loinpink.

plus of a still monoblue (skin notwithstanding) the bushspread unvanish dimness of stars as complexity bespeaks millennia, bespeaking distance.

immaculatelooking towngrid. through blinds pickuplights make zebrahide of plaster. kinkheart’s out to suss a newish highschool, no Pleshey this, sangloter rankling on the whiteboard and a silent class. soft-asserted flushout and the carnaging looks.

conjuregate? err… sample this.

Huntington they plash along, seasalt stars the flag, the Sangreal leaks to tide shoreline after perfect shore. this country and its taxipachyderm waltz, some glamheart using cunt like small change. in the race of ganky foam, nothing’s lost, it goes. (there’s Getty’s sinking cloak! trawled and trawled over.) square in Camp Rubric reality may be Foleyed, the sunset cambric, reason’s prospect damning like a chestpain – perhaps this salad comes with garnicht, the cost of any grail. or to conclude with a verseclap so cavernous as to swell the bishopric through perhaps it is the culture's talent for scale, so the tough as a bullet, starstripy cross – America’s harness – morbidly weighs.

if that is the future linkheart would I could part with it.

‘I have heard a genius disavow genius’ Draft

I have heard a genius disavow genius; Heard love scorn love. I have felt an emperor’s disavowed empire Colonise fog.

I have known a genius misapply genius [...incomplete]

Care

Tinsel coal revokes the fire, Settling. Ornaments forsake The mantelpiece’s cluttered gum, As cats remake The shagpile’s level shire. Without her voice the house retains a rhythm.

Yet in the crooked chair He’d made from totalled roof – such slate – She decays, and vermin come. With scrabbling rats her legs gyrate, Look alive again. While prokaryotes respire In carcasses of cats, others relax in waves and sun.

Columbia, SC

Words of resolution, and hesitant Words, and wary, air a wordless portent.

Tripling off design and walls, noise’s Content discontent, his strength is voices –

Our attention. So complain complainers: There’s a lovely silence to his answers.

‘Hope’ is policy; yet impolitely Ductile, like a mirror’s copy

Of light’s talk, saying, in print-buttered glass What stalls speech. Which confuses us.

Theme

T HE FLATNESS of neon fills a place Bubuling. A condom film of Heinz, old spills, adhering. My hand. Radio avers the gamut —shooting; carbomb to captive bears. So: why am I here? Flyers rob the window of its point (which is not to say a sad thing). What hearty beef! I am here to eat. The tillgirl’s make-up only greys her acne out. I still would.

T HE LOSS of things is central; what one discards is to change integral. No strategies fox choice. I am here to feed, to rethink my values, and at your step to sell moroseness, very pushy. The happy simple residue of life back golden when is lean and succulent mince, floury discs of bun, chill relish. My hand can grasp the beef of hope. Never this, this, I think, I swallow.

[The Holiday August] excerpt

What lilting follower observes us? He walks our pace miles behind, telling the gestures of our love by snapped twigs.

'O the light crawls'

O the light crawls in solid pall slug-slow back to its hutch. The skin shines bristling brine yet the cold swim didn’t wash much. (You are lost you are lost   you are lost to me)

O the breathless field in wind that healed croaked, Was it worth what I paid? Subsiding wires in gales in choirs sang, Was it worth what I paid what I paid? (You are lost you are lost    you are lost)

The misfiring soldier in rain and in river tripped on the corpse of his friend; coughing on water, groggy, he thought the river-swell could comprehend (You are lost you are lost  you are lost) 

So the man warns (and lamplight yawns), says in love he is wishful and useless. Lapwing in storms, his message informs none as in love it is heartless. The one now frayed (worth what I paid?) in going made sure he knew this: You are lost you are lost  you are lost to me You are lost you are lost you are lost.

©ZA 2005–11