Wednesday, 10 March 2010

6. Contraindications

He will look on me with love and has looked on me with love.
I jump the wall and run through the park of snow. This in my new shoes.

Look at the beautiful way the meadows bend into the telephone call,
you wore the dress of rare butterfly fabric.

Rennecke huffs loudly as she is trying to pin the sleeve

Butterflies are Hera’s spies.
thought nothing of the truck driving by until the half chewed apple core came

no one loved the taste of potato soup more than Otto. it was.
And the costumes smell like this and also like ghost.

Not a fake hesitation, not the kind that is meant to demonstrate a change of thought.

except we missed the ferry and had to stay the night.

Sometimes you know what’s happened before it’s going to happen. I enjoy watching history programmes as if they weren’t. Each time a red car passes he’ll sew another button on. Soon he has more buttons on his coat than he can shake a weathervane at!

polaroids each one taken a few
minutes after the other in them she’s
drying her hair sat on the edge of the bed
she’s wearing a grey dress but with a cob
alt sash she’s painted the toenails of her
left foot lamb blood red then the ’phone calls stop

Another truth: I collect overcoats. & other people write poems about Gudrun Ensslin or lust after writing poems about her. When I was a child I didn’t want to be an astronaut. I wanted to be run over by a car “uöclopvrrrrrrrrrrrrrrio”etc. According to this argument, then, mimesis in the older sense of the word requires that the speaker’s identity merge with that of his role as speaker, just as the identities of those who are spoken to and spoken about must merge with their respective roles. [Gregory Nagy Poetry as performance Homer and beyond page 97]. the
scentedness of her back, in the time between night and not-night, doth provoke desires, phantomisationism.

an odour, not an aroma,

of existent non-existence. Great uniform, majesty.

Whoever knows the whereabouts of should contact. all calls will be treated upmost confidentiality dna. I don’t expect to see a mathematician on stilts in the refrigeration unit. Therefore I am disappointed. I write poems about Gudrun Ensslin. As a child I will be run over by a car. No one to meet us at the station, and no taxi. The fields shone, dully, with the light of rotting apples at past midday. Where are they? I know wha“t they said.”. Something’s gone wrong.Josephine eats her apple prim & prudent.
She gets naked, it’s like a fire-trail planet whooshing a Krazy Kat sandstorm. looking for adventure?
Says get into the car, blindfolds the traitor, the informer.
Josephine chucks the apple core away. It convulses into a corner & that’s where it can memorialise its geometry. The hotel didn’t have a restaurant. So we started walking. It was a pleasant enough day, though kind of like you’re on tranquilisers & your legs have a death all their own. & you were thirsty. The house had been neglected for years, The restaurant won't have a hotel.

gypsy moth sleeves, apples, the end, joe , veronica, rennecke, otto um mitternacht in monat mai, every row of memory forms a retrograde. And there is nothing to make of it really, just try to memorize the pitches as they are. and then wake up every morning and sit down dutifully at the piano and discover them shifted and recomposed.

they will never, ever sound the same.

on the piano are tulips that remind me of paula modersohn-becker for some reason. veronicka used to sketch me at the breakfast table, she would boil an egg first and sit there full of love and scrutiny. what happened to the nice boy with the moustache who used to talk about art?

what happened to everyone? at night I watch the courthouse, green as a dream of gotham. there are glass passageways. I see people walk them late at night. what would they be doing there at 2 am or 3 am? there is a parking garage at the bottom twisted like a sinister mouth. all night into day I see black cars enter them. I look and watch um mitternacht.

You don’t see for looking, my mother used to tell me.

I love that song..shall I share it? Later perhaps?
But certain lines can not be contained.

Die Liebe aufgegangen.

We walk the frozen land. Why are we here? It is too cold to sit outside. Synchronised swimming is out of the question. We descend into monochromatic dress, don’t bother to have our shoes polished. The champagne is toxic, false, unclean, it gives us stigmata. We wander the snow hills like wounded foxes. Letters are left unwritten, messages unanswered, you grow a second throat. One that curses and blasphemes. I buy you a lovely necklace.

I love Veronika and Joe and yes I agree nothing sensible.
I loved your body when I first saw you and more than that
I want to make you happy and smile at me but I am not myself. Look there is nothing to see.

Me, you, they, them; open sesame the doors will fly open

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