17 February 2011

this is not a pome


[week three was a busman's holiday; i.e., writing was written, but not posted.  now i owe mike a beer.]

but before that, some new pomes.

pome ending nabokov's butterflies crocheted w. typewriter ribbon

                                                            for joe burgess

            sewing maelstrom – tracheotomies and tulips –
...and stability,”
he sd,  “i am now an
            like police furniture w/ philosophical kilowatt hypotheses
the color red, in 2008
(scratchy cardboard heart) b/c clearly, it's a hospital
for febr., couched –
            it's just the isoceles intimacy (she liked haute couture)
of reverb as it collides
w/ the brand of an image, isolated – the nuances
of grey areas –
but dormant oceans always seem to write you love letters
shrouded in fog
            impenatrably abstruse, not so much b/c of
lackadaisical velocity
but the thrilling resonance of resignation – which leaves open
the hostility of palindromes…
            or anne
becoming conscious to the affair;
but sometimes the spark reminds me of question marks & then
i start to resent you...
            withal, it's emotionally distinguished
w/ evocative
screeches of feedback & kites annotated
along the concrete –
            it's twee & acoustic & drowsy as the roofie
i slipped into yr tea –
            elsewhere, it's the optimism of a pastel house on the avenues
where we siphon beer
from glassine necks, & discuss a crackpot
book of theory
on the origins of the universe, or
ted berrigan, & the kids in the hall – nightswimming...
            it’s the underrated prosperity
of our relationship –
our institution of unreleased rough drafts –
            but this might be a lie
this is probably an accordion dance party wheezing
through benediction
highlighting the certain instances i take for granted, every time...

maps are sometimes an illuminative assignment

the shrubbery of dreams
in hesitation, or

emotions & dramatic situations 
for the espionage-esque memorandums delivered 
in a sultry monotone

let us establish an off-beat intimacy 
full of haunting
harmonicas; or, recycling triangles

abrupt memories
diagrammed w/in the pink patchwork
of potpourri...

or the aspirin of evidence
through old typewriters

“i like to scotch tape the inner feelings 
of the chess board 
of a lover's heart,” he will say, prompt--

birdhouse or syphilis
like a map made of perforated “.5 heart-metre 
stress chemise”

"them's the breaks,"
she'll say, asseverating, "i got a snowflake;
it's a hell of a symbol..."

this image goes on, 
interregnum, like a door slamming
like a caress

the temple of a leaf, shifted
against the bent water of sunday's matte'd newspaper
whispering a glimpse

sometimes i get lost in the datelines
of the evening
until i am the last one standing

& sometimes
i get lost in the weeks of windy sunsets
trying to say--

scrapbook vignette

...very 1920s sex;
more wine—
or a funeral; kind-of shell shocked,
like throwing
paper airplanes at ceiling fans,
but tonight, a war symphony,
or an equally
characteristic kiss g'bye...
such hushed
plural strings & italicized woodwinds;
w/ a no-account novel
of a collage,
like bourbon & branch water
the narration of estranged self
the nature of loss
or grief
["morphium" by mischa spoliansky]
stormy rain
or, a tear in the aorta
as it builds
slowly to a howling finale of
sweater design;
tennis racquet & potted plant...
that this,
but for the grace of god, (is the story
of yr life,)
go i into the great unknown—

untitled, or upon the legacy of numerous...

rearrange yr faith:
for the coming of the L'ultima orgia del III Reich
(how classy)
fire extinguishers & champagne
waking up to war crimes:
i want to irritate you like the dickens
there's a storm
inside my veins, stet:
the degenerate plays tack piano in an elevator
as i'm thinking of you—
who needs a preamble, when yesterday
is tomorrow's
rumour; this was thurs. morning
abt 4 a.m.:
seething w/ the white pain of isolation, or
the ensigncy
that comes w/ articulating
yr screams:
"holy fuckface, batman!  it's an untitled poem"
what bullshit...
the jazz of this serenity
a rabid laugh of random construction
the invulnerability
of these myriad conversations,
before words—

the producer fucked the intern, leaning politely
against the teleprompter

and on that note, i bid thee adieu.  gramercy. 

--justin l mcelfresh

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