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2011/07/26

OR_PhEus--When




 Orpheus knottied the tie,  kicked the boat off, bad poems
were always easier to write than good ones. Like chapeled
loves hounding the day. Or stupid eleven o'clocks with
no one in them, and themes that buried themselves in books,
or eventide mornings with sown words
of tractors and detective novels, or girls you didn't really want
and vicarious lives of various lovers and their severals sons, never mind their daughters. When all the saps wore sentiment green and were blue and tabloid. That was how you made a poem , looking for the hard voice , letting go of the trite one.



Some summer evening she came to me, a surprise around
the sunrise, and she tangled green with her forest,
and mine of course, our genitals forest caught in the free
play of her belly. she snorted up at us when we was done!


Gosh we had made the mountain come! it was faith
and fides coming to us, the mountain you know that story, now
come here and let me ___ Yes, slide my hand , cup
it , cup my hand , under your breast, watermelon style of kisses and weaves . Gentle Orpheus be my song, she said, Come my dancer, Hung me tight. We hung all night. We hung all night. A song of medieval proportion and delight.




I found her body outside on the porch, note I say the
porch not the portico of some diamond ring, and her
painting body lay in my head, on my chest for weeks. I recall lying under it after we had 'made love'. As if we could make anything! and imagine saying we 'made' love, as if we could make
love do anything at all, when he, as always, was calling the shots.


I learned how to write in those days doing the impossible. Rhymes of her feet, metrics of her nose, grading of her body from toes to teeth. Her amber flesh and iambic pavement was
the sole body on which I trod . Dreaming of the song
of duty later in the night. Her hand froze on the table. She had
travelled the distance. She eyed the moment, knowing it had come like a snow man to kiss her, free her, and make her bridge quieter.

Was that really her name in a prose honesty of desire that could not be said? I loved the way she prosed my name against her thighs holding my hand as she said it.

Orpheus was bold in those days!
and ampersand Eurydice was a cheeky girl!!
in the halve nights and whole wakes of their date and dime .





Now if desire wasn't hidden in that then I am the king's
meow he said lapping her eyes to the night. Midriff knights
of bay and faith was her love her desire .

You are happy .


OR_PhEus




When Orpheus knottied the tie, he kicked the boat off, bad poems
were always easier to write than good ones. Like chapeled
loves hounding the day. Or stupid eleven o'clocks with
no one in them, and themes that buried themselves in books,
or eventide mornings with sown words
of tractors and detective novels, or girls you didn't really want
and vicarious lives of various lovers and their severals sons, never mind their daughters. When all the saps wore sentiment green and were blue and tabloid. That was how you made a poem , looking for the hard voice , letting go of the trite one.



Some summer evening she came to me, a surprise around
the sunrise, and she tangled green with her forest,
and mine of course, our genitals forest caught in the free
play of her belly. she snorted up at us when we was done!


Gosh we had made the mountain come! it was faith
and fides coming to us, the mountain you know that story, now
come here and let me ___ Yes, slide my hand , cup
it , cup my hand , under your breast, watermelon style of kisses and weaves . Gentle Orpheus be my song, she said, Come my dancer, Hung me tight. We hung all night. We hung all night. A song of medieval proportion and delight.




I found her body outside on the porch, note I say the
porch not the portico of some diamond ring, and her
painting body lay in my head, on my chest for weeks. I recall lying under it after we had 'made love'. As if we could make anything! and imagine saying we 'made' love, as if we could make
love do anything at all, when he, as always, was calling the shots.


I learned how to write in those days doing the impossible. Rhymes of her feet, metrics of her nose, grading of her body from toes to teeth. Her amber flesh and iambic pavement was
the sole body on which I trod . Dreaming of the song
of duty later in the night. Her hand froze on the table. She had
travelled the distance. She eyed the moment, knowing it had come like a snow man to kiss her, free her, and make her bridge quieter.

Was that really her name in a prose honesty of desire that could not be said? I loved the way she prosed my name against her thighs holding my hand as she said it.

Orpheus was bold in those days!
and ampersand Eurydice was a cheeky girl!!
in the halve nights and whole wakes of their date and dime .





Now if desire wasn't hidden in that then I am the king's
meow he said lapping her eyes to the night. Midriff knights
of bay and faith was her love her desire .

You are happy .


2011/07/21

Mid July













                                                       Mid July just past mid summer   ~  











































































































2011/07/17















no city more beautiful than Montreal. Staircase to the intimate past and present ~.

























































2011/07/15

and


the others 'going down'



rooms









 You will come to find these in your dreams
   of wallpaper and love's blue    ~ .



2011/07/12

Texting























 Are you going?

 Sure




Is she going to be there?
Just ask


and I can tell her and she'll prob. go.
ok
















Buff


____________

 So come here then. Rest your Jill at the docks of this space. Repose to her knight pregant to her buffer   ~ This style I replaces you no you displaces I . I is tired of I   ~. goodbye I.

_________________________it must be nice to have the power, all the power of  a 






Mona knew (knows like snow) that fiction was a desire_____________________________


________________________________________________________

she were _____________











_________what he said: 






 you were so beautiful I couldn't talk Park Avenue  ~ and you're kind
   how is it you were brokerd in night's mist 
 how is it you were born



____________________ Recollecting he'd said it 
                                                    once  before
                                              saying to her your parents must have been beautiful
                                 because look see how beautiful you are 
                                    naked in her apartment bedroom in the dawn light
                                                             after all night  




                                          


 that is what he said


________________





2011/07/11

leaves and patter

___________



And bearing straight station to station we came on a strata 
I wanted to be a mist no body any longer able to enter leaving 
left entering  the question mark utilising  time its non-egoic bliss


And that time the mountain came down
her hair curling ribbons along the clustered grapes
fronted the hair-line crafter by the sainted tint




everyone upon a name heard you coming daring 
to suggest it meant everything that could be  and like that
we came around the corner not eh like, not like, like ah,  like ,




Not like at all but everyone the same
a drifting leave sanding over the louvres bending
forward the train rigging its common thrust


better by far than the other its fortune readied mastered
humdinger to a million or more gold bullion to the wave
of her thigh




I stood there transfixed asking me she asking me how
are you doing? and my heart paralyised a wax solider I explained I was not comfortable in that situation Les Temps Modernes 


Maria: 'taking off' her  panties looking up submissive to greed grief
and the gilded craft warriors of self
handing me the wrong hand sticky cards lady


and she wont see Reason her best ally a trunk suit
along navy benders ship breaking up the water the
waves hurling their Herculean wavefists forward 


welting the sea with its marks        ~















oh that was May say?

___________

and you asked me questions. of grief and darning wool, and the pulling socks, and the things one questioned. against night dark and other sporting things that time wove into a calendar, and bearing straight we came on a pass composed of things. no one counted none did but shame, sharing lust, at the hair of the dog. a man wanting home. where ~
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_________________________the prisoner knew better
                                                                                                                                                    she lived inside (a) Faulkner book


                  aft an fore 
the botanist
tipped 
her boat
                               slide rule together along the lover's beat



How I was she asked but would not talk to me she was
wearing white I saw saying loud enough her X so's they
could hear her beauty shining 







































   ~

2011/07/07

on the street of

________________




en train de parler j'ai dits
tes levres sont commes des lune
ttes And no(t)n les serviettes! (les serveuses )
de la terre 
tu deter et moi je deter
je parler avec une ami sur rue Ste. Catherine
Clifford tu parle commes les tois etoiles et  je trouverai

ta place dans ma coeur  / I stand a silly slave
to love's belly bucket! a coxcomb to the far winding
up as she he said winding down and 


Je part tu part
on reviens commes les cloches
Cloches cochonnes des amants et ami
esque of vista and moon around the tearing
veil of her parting opening salvo O buckets and bee!


Je reviens commes des quoiquoi? commes le free verse
le vers libres (tes levres)


I think words are naughty O rhymster of sexydoodle 
dandy


And not a cheap prizing winning novel banger I but an humdinger of the son of the son let me name them
in their right order a Son of Whitman of Joyce Words
worth is that a patch of Byron there boy? Is that soul gospel bibble belting ringing your rosyposy talk to the speeches of the rivers?
Is that alL? O kay lets more to go add say Villon? Rabelais
Tzara? Rimbaud Artaud What secret poets of the lost escape? Ensemble together as the tyrant blows her horn.
If that don't iambic you're down and out for the count.




Those names say nothing. what's aname Okay who else beside the names of known and lesser known cousins and family and larger greater than famine family




The only kind of conformist I am interested in
is an absolute nonconformist


Is it true no is it tallow? non, is it oui or ouioui?



Tree and standing solemn oath pour! your reckoningsfrom you O diction. O dictation congregation of the fallow birds?
And I said we're going ? upspeak sidespeak downspeaking.






              This has been a poem. Crossed over by your face.

                                  And more  there's more always been more. Of the folds
of your skin , and the caress of your smile. How shy 
we are! A dancing dainty knave! a clave (not a conclave) of things? upspeak and turning wheel and the balm of summer's quick cost?
that sounds too like what's her names . of the red wire.


      It's not sugar you need      it's love   ~


__________________________




  ____________________
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                                                 ________                                   




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