Monday, December 31, 2012
NEW! Poem by Ethan Paquin
NEIGE [THREE SCENES]
aimless animal-coloured tumbler your library’s aphotically indeterminate
you morning the ground to groggier-than-usual’s millions of earmarks;
there are no students eternal only stop signs to bark commands rufescent,
only stalléd cirri shelves and shelves of them bustling ether of nowhere
only my eyes no millions of other watchers imprecise tumbler heft spills
from the seat of god onto our laps a necklace to be untangled with bones
and a half-erased script and stumps for motivations, ut pictura cirrus this’s
all that comes to mind Latin for curl of hair thus the portrait of a girl who’s
blanched perhaps she’s suffered, perhaps she’s been spooked, likely in love.
in love and staring out a window ut drizzle poesis, so goeth poetry as drizzle,
lovers’ crazy ideas of where their object went the evening before, before snow
tumbled before her eyes saw the result of the katabatic front. Ut drizzle poesis,
long gray nuance between stanzas the meander from cup of tea to the next one,
snow’s meanwhile abstraction an easy metaphor for the week. Young woman
in love as you are please, do not comb your hair—I see you motion for a brush
through the window I watch and clasp myself, do not to the narrative of dawn
surrender, stay wild and pained and look that way. This is not mere entertainment.
Snow tumbles aimless, accretes aphotic my gaze though is fixed upon you.
such sentimental passages about love, weather and fixéd male gazes hunter
as he is, supposedly, of erotic experience wherever to be found. I’m stupid
like dander, or clover. I transcend no fence reach no apple bough. Limitless
are other poetries of the engines, of the random, of the idiomatic, of the popunders
and overt flâneurist grit-amenities. I wear a poem like this like, say,
a dead braid or a last match, bit of its tip scratched off, the thing useless for
cigarette to say nothing of survival or bonfire at the beach where the talk’s
of sex and nothing but sex. A deadened band of cirrus is known to haunt us
at our windows the girl and I like snapped taper candles, outside the snows.
Posted by Verse at 5:00 AM