the bleeding beat,
it sows so sweet a misery
that only jumps its sombre pace
when landing at her feet.
But Oh! What Dreadful Havoc /Her countenance
[...]
the bleeding beat,
it sows so sweet a misery
that only jumps its sombre pace
when landing at her feet.
But Oh! What Dreadful Havoc /Her countenance
[...]
a five-legged creature, violently still
upon a binding chord of minor keys,
befitting major locks,
has with its muted exhortations
cloven wax from wick and
rue from blight and
sea from salt.
a leaf of flesh, its tangled skein
scrying spring while lined with rime,
a piquant son of deciduity
—sunward turned and hot of mien—
exacerbates decline.
and so, with efficacious speed
it flicks from [...]
depending on the state of reference,
the duck-billed platypus is either—
the last evidence of God’s great sense of humour
- or -
an ikon of general Antipodal alienness
- or -
an egg-laying emblem of Wonder
- but -
regardless of opinion,
the duck-billed platypus is neither
concerned
- nor -
remote.
See the rest of this year’s listings • What is 52 Books in 52 Weeks?
38
Title: Say Goodnight, Grace Notes [$]
Author: Jack McCarthy
Publisher: EM Press
Year: 2003
Pages: 108
Some readers may be aware of my intense admiration for Mike Kadela. He has a book out on EM Press, a small speciality press co-owned by my friend and [...]
She is inexorable comings
of better things;
(like the laughter of children,
playing in the ashes of a stormcloud,
vanquish’d)
and She is a terrible pressure (and relief)
that fixes rivers gone astray,
turns brine to milk,
derives a brick or two of gæity
from walls of grief.
She is a holocaustic heat
which flares my dampened match,
and births a heaving heliotrope
with seceding burn of [...]
limn this libertine with smoke and orchids;
bind her errant limbs with sleepy vine.
her mien is hesperanthæ, long with st. martin’s summer,
eyes of dusk, features drawn in mulled wine.
a voice of vesper, arousing every spiræa or sylvan bloom;
rust-lit tatterdemalions, holding burning apple branches
on the banks of the Tigris.
all around them were the seeds of glass,
and all [...]
Who in night hath conjured up the
form of fallen bird,
its breast asunder?
the shot hath broke its heart.
oh poor bird, rest not thy tattered wing
or feathers wont to slumber deep;
cease not thy song or all shall seek
the throes of silent sleep!
if for every bird
a breast; for every breast a heart (which
flush with blood has bled but [...]
there are spaces entirely undusted
where the
casks age
where the
dogs dream
where the
cheese stands
alone.
i am Heliotrope,
face to the sun.
when You smile,
i feel like falling down.
i am Waterlily,
formless.
You are Ripple,
quietly disturbing.
i am many stones;
we sit.
we are aphelion,
and cold.
You are Helios,
riding the sun.
we are tall constructs,
drawn shadows.
when You smile,
we all fall down.
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