(or chevreuse ii)
in the spirit of my spirited attempt (the attempt that’s been spirited
on me) to migrate from a word-to-word based aesthetics to a nonword-to-word
based aesthetics, i offer chevreuse ii as an example. It was formed through two afternoons sitting
before/roaming around riopelle’s chevreuse ii at the ago. (Auden does this sort of thing, far better
naturally, in his perfect poem, musée des beaux arts. Let this attempt of mine be a finger
exercise, a scale, in f sharp minor perhaps, if language can be scaled in such
a way ...)
impressions
sagrada família yanked into flesh, dropped from a
star
heaven’s scorecard, sound’s soul
false seductions to the one true word
doors to the silence of our eyes
robert frost meets stephen king meets laurence sterne
parrots doing coke
auschwitz dressed up for a night on the town
the book of the shards of questions
self-lit, as though by hot human ash
flowers of glass in the wrinkled palms of time
a two-dimensionality of such depth mirrors lose their
souls
the where’s
waldo of the key to time travel
berlin’s destructions and its walls
the decalogue as gift-wrapped satan’s fingernails
aesthetic dna
details
pawprints
of godfoot in the perfect suffering of fragmented mud
pools
of haikus with moomintroll & seaweed
foundation: blood piss the
purity of moby dick
the
tygers of history erupting through the corpses of children
burning
ears canadian flag messages from mars
wormholes
blackholes holes, holes in holes, holes
toboggans glossolalia pigsties & prodigals fungi-phalli david letterman
three-toed stygian slime
holy
astro-hawk-priests sporting wagonwheels, geisha fans, with trains of hatched
& aboriginal guts
the
buddha tree in fungi form in a snowstorm, bent
zombie
pacmen
naming
the fall of saigon,
the roses of ludwig wittgenstein, chief brûlée’s last stand & laugh, kubrick
on vacation, the broken garters of paris, cleopatra’s nipple, the extinction of
africa, freddy mercury’s tonsils, a torah construction kit, dialysis, crowfight
on a bed of sunsets & menstruation, happy hiroshima, flo’s birthday, job’s
heart around chapter xli, it could be called almost anything ...
yet really
and yet the whole
mess is about the tongue & chasm of love, its million teeth w/o a dentist,
its maw of colour, the way it reaches into silence to create silences, these
endless keys without a door, only stab & spectrum, splinters of the
memories of beds, splintering; and the
sea so distant like a god or an apple, apertures in trenches, desire hiding in
death, barbed black @ the visual center of all things,
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