Thy Stuff: A Creamed Jewel

O Cumulonimbus, let me speak:

of mugs, of t-shirts, and specialty magnets, of
crystalline texts abloom with rice and lentil
mixtures, of otters on rocks, of cloudy
pelargic mushrooms, cyrilic typewriters,
green or orange shirts, and pensile ostrich eggs.
A pleasant hour has passed away
While, dreaming on your stubbly cheek,
The dewy brother-eyelids lay.
As by the twig and volumes you reclined,
I went thro’ many wayward moods
To see you dreaming– “I’m going to be
a geranium today”- and your behind,
in dove-grey panties crisp with benthic words.
And I too dream’d, until at last
Across my fancy, brooding warm,
of plushy cloudsong, dusty catamites,
steatopygic meercats in bottlecap glasses,
The reflex of a solitary past,
that loosely settled into forms
of doomed canines howling in their cages.
And would you have the thought I had,
And see the vision that I saw,
Then take the broidery-frame, and add
A crimson you can’t even see,
And I will tell it. Turn your comely face,
Nor look with that too-close eye:
The rhymes are dazzled from their place
And order’d words asunder fly
as sweet as cherries
in a bowl of extended life.


The varying moods with increasing sensitivity
Clothe and reclothe the happy human heart,
Here rests the pen within the pocket,
Here strokes the hand along the veins.
Faint 5 o’clock shadow, pungent vapours lightly curl’d,
Faint murmurs from the meanings come,
Like hints and echoes of the graphomanic world
To spirits folded in the womb, separate but together,
in 1964.

Soft lust bathes the radical no-thing
On every stereoscopic curve.
The vegan to his place returns
To almost perfectly mimic the jerky
Deep in the dark cinema withdrawn.
Here a genius hides in the movie,
On the hall-hearths the festal fires,
The peacock in his lonely bower,
The parrot in his gilded wires.

Chibi Cloud Cartoon is Super-Omega Kawaii:
In these, in those the life is sweet
as relational connections, glistening fact-arrays…
The wrinkled shirts from the golden pegs
Droop sleepily: no sound is made,
except by a gnat that sings
in a weird falsetto and the click
of fingers on an organ toy.
More like a picture seemeth all
Than those bad portraits of old husbands,
That watch the couple sleeping from the wall.
[should  I continue this? what do you think?]

4 thoughts on “Thy Stuff: A Creamed Jewel

  1. Yeah, continue, definitely. I love this kind of thing. I get the feeling you're word-subbing/N+numbering some chestnut/warhorse I can't quite recognize, like something by Shelley. It's fresh and strange, but haunted by the classic music.

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