27 February 2011

mary magdalene is an agnes scott grrl

pum wythnos, ffrindiau

first off, a minimalist pome:

"don't let it end like this.  tell them i said something."
--last words of pancho villa

i sd, get the fuck off my lawn.

she ran into a grand piano
and we saw her narrating –––– material intrigue...
this minute

                                                            (how we admired (her))

...little museums disrupting at the drama
our dearest penelope!

            are you obsessed w/ madeira embroidery, penelope?
transfixion'd w/ the transendence of the toy chest?
            finding ministry in old texts
& singular bibliographies

i haven't read them
if this all seems to be for crisis theology

                        no ––

there has to be something else to this milieu
into the wildflowers
gathering wilderness ––– liaisoning
w/ exequies, newspapers
triskelia'd in gasoline blooms of em dashes –––

                                    there's plenty of retrospection
                                    wiring grievances, nonsymmetrical & vice versa
                                    to the curious-leaf mosaic

the historiography of coming to terms
through sheet music

and yesterday's figures
begrudge!  bespeak!  penelope!!!

outré anaphora, a hymn to stairwells

the debris of hushed, poignant
squalid stars
innocence, romanticism; seldom (if descriptive)
it was a seamless seduction
not just a black tea
then the narration detours rather violently:
train rides & nude beaches;
absurd pathos
compassion / reflection, creaking windows
on the wherethrough of
a nightingale
w/ a Leica 35mm in reference to sightings;
abruptly, in February,
backwards, from
the worn red carpet in the living room
elsewhere, the quiet moments
subtly distorted
by the dreary precision of rec-
tangled flowers
brushwork & preliminary copy editing

sláinte, until the other week(end)

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