Wikipedia Poem, No. 864
ultimately — untimely
from the old english
pinian
("to suffer") and repines
recoils in 1820 his diction
in pain contain
languish/waste away
Tag: blood
Positive Style Witch (Stephanie Burt)
Wikipedia Poem, No. 669
bono ich ichor be the dog's hat an ichor lana brain 19th the hittite lovers whale-sea manninguage show me any persona and i will find you opportunity love lost was manhattan sweat an indo-european in you lover we'll see language has a way a dog's hat is a distinct memory branch show me any persona and i will find you puzzle's love lost ich of their guts shades only sweat ichor-ture not mentioned but black in your eye biblical way intent attention sweat caitlyn jenner show me any persona and i will whisper weakness into the wreck renee ramsey branch ich-ichor attend to sweat ana branch ichor caitlyn jenner known as black indo-european in your eye regional show me any persona tell me about opportunity's lost labor identury attenuated in your eye black unrelated for christina tom gabel your eye black show me any persona where music is buried and i'll find love to lose in you lover chelsea manning bradley renee renee renee ramsey manning the hair gel stuck in the 19th century anatolian core show me any persona deep inside your love lost sometimes uninhabitable true true love lover chelsea manning withhold my free vision bruce jenner bradley renee ramsey show me any persona and i will shake terror of the possible ichor compels ichor sometimes stuck in your eye black indo-european years bruce jenner brain 19th the what the not intention but the christina kahrl angel membered people show me any persona and hold you up to the sun sea convent bono in 19th tether from they're native lover xychelsea maman est morte indo-european luck in 19th thread in 19th century the ichor caitlyn jenner the sweat their guts show me any persona the fire within i'll tell you how stuck in your eye be gone who indo-european ichor language watcher renee related the what your eye biblically sweet a dog's hat in neon show me any persona tempt me the you about blood loss who ich ich of the was hair anatolian plague they're neither enterpreted nor competent aujourd'hui il fait beau sweat monger show me any persona cleave the hog a complete loss the luwians shot all the infants your brain-eye black with the unrelated anatolians the shot of the wettest future show me any persona and i'll tell you about my love lost black is unadorned in 19th defenestration in you lover chelsea manning bruce jenner bradley ichor language who ich ichor caitlyn jenner show me any persona and i'll tell you about my time in the forest hat and hair in sweat tethered in your eye
Wet Thoroughly with Product and Allow to Dry Without Wiping
Wikipedia Poem, No. 628
survive this bridge say nothing intrinsically unnecessary superfluous and suppose that a poet who advises that little-better speak he whose role is it to enfeeble language speak a little looser better advised and thereby unnecessary and superfluous and superfluous and suppose as a poet who advises the deep-seated one day countess of deepseats thereby unnecessary unhelpful and superfluous but lawful always within the arms of the law can a poet dance his sweet wine therebys in all their wiggling forms within unintentionally unnecessary and helpful but how can a poet among his people's trusts become a poet-king? how can a poet-king who advised so damn unnecessarily survive?
From “On Motorcycles” by Frederick Seidel
…
“On the lyrical state highways of Vermont I blatted and roared, up and down through the gears, at eighty, at a hundred and something, at much more than a hundred and something miles an hour. The motorcycle had a relatively long wheelbase and felt absolutely solid in a straight line, despite the shaft-drive, and steady enough in a turn, but not quick to turn and right itself. The bike was rather heavy, not deft and flickable, but it was wonderful to look at, wonderful to be on, wonderful to ride, a source of pride. The sound it made was magnificent. The feeling was of riding a powerful musical instrument. The hills echoed and the valleys lit up with my song. You used to be able to say of a motorcycle that it was on song when it was going full tilt in perfect tune and at the right revs just at the redline, the rpm limit for the motor. I was on song. I felt in tune, in love, so proud. It was late summer, almost fall. Pride goeth before the fall. Then I fell.
***
“I was rounding a turn on the MV at considerable speed when I had the only serious accident I have ever had. Years before, I had jumped the Triumph Metisse off the top of a rise, knowing I would land in sand, and curious to see if I could do it and keep going, but I was prepared to crash, and I crashed. That didn’t count. I may have been going eighty miles an hour on the MV when I realized I would not make it around the turn. I had a choice: I could throw the bike down on the highway or aim for the unplowed field straight ahead of me, as the road curved to the left. I chose the field and shot off the road and rode across the field with the bike upright, and then I hit a ditch, going quite fast still, and crashed. I was furious, embarrassed, outraged. My first act was to get the bike upright and try to start it. A passing state trooper was flagged down by someone who had seen me go off the road. The trooper was rushing a kidney-dialysis machine to another part of Vermont where it was needed in an emergency, and he certainly did not want to be held up, but when he looked at me he decided he had better get me to the nearby Ellsworth Clinic in Chester, where, when I walked in, I saw the blood drain from the face of the receptionist as she looked at me, and heard her insist to the trooper that I be rushed to Springfield Hospital. She obviously thought I had done terrible damage to myself and was about to go into shock. The trooper sped to Springfield with lights whirling and siren whooping. This same trooper was killed six months later in a high-speed crash. It turned out he had been reprimanded several times for his risk-addicted driving. At the hospital it was determined that I had broken three ribs, that was all.
“I had to explain this mortifying event to myself and to the world. When the wrecked motorcycle was examined, it was apparent that there was something not right about the foot pedal that operated the rear brake. The pedal swung loose, meaning it could move down from its position at rest but also it could move up—not normal, not desirable—and it was possible, perhaps likely, that this had been the state of affairs before the crash. A Vermont motorcycle dealer named Peter Pickett had driven down to JFK in his small red open-bed truck to pick up the MV after it cleared customs, and had taken it to Peru, Vermont, where my friend Jill Fox lived and where I spent a great deal of time. The crate was unloaded, opened, and set aside to be saved, it was so good-looking in its own right. The motorcycle, pretty much ready to be ridden, nevertheless had to be gone over to make sure everything was in order. I examined the front end while the back portion of the bike was checked by an experienced rider and sometime mechanic who lived in the village, not exactly a friend but someone friendly and eager to play a part. My immediate thought after crashing was that it couldn’t have been my fault, certainly couldn’t have been the result of my taking the wrong line in attempting to go through the corner, certainly couldn’t have been a case of not leaning the bike into the turn sufficiently because of the speed I was traveling, couldn’t have been the speed I was traveling stopping me from correctly managing the bike, couldn’t have been . . . and so forth. So it had to have been the consequence of the adjustments made to the rear brake pedal by the fellow who checked out the rear of the motorcycle. It suddenly was apparent that the lever controlling the rear brake had been set up in a manner that applied the brake when the pedal was pressed down, as is normal, or when the pedal swung up, when downward pressure was applied or when no pressure was applied, and the pedal was for whatever reason forced up, as when rounding a corner at great speed the centrifugal force pushed the lever up . . . and the back brake was applied without my foot touching the brake pedal. I believed this theory. I propounded it to all, grunting with pain from my broken ribs. I offer the theory to you now, dear reader. Believe me, that is how it happened. The brake was applied without my touching the pedal, the rear wheel locked, I felt it lock, felt that I could not possibly get around the turn, without knowing what exactly was the matter, and decided to go straight, into the field I saw there, straight ahead of me, and did so, dragging the locked rear wheel . . . and riding, if that is the right word, through the field might have made it to a safe upright stop if I had not come up against a ditch, almost a canal, too wide for the dead weight of the motorcycle to cross, and then BAM.
“For days, for months, I replayed the scene, explaining to myself what had happened, excusing myself. Anything to avoid thinking I had been an incompetent. And there is something else in this. There is a way in which feigning nearness to death risks death. Faking it at all well imitates real danger too faithfully and brings danger. I had gone into the turn too fast. I had not made it around the turn. I started playing down the danger I had put myself in and at the same time playing it up. Motorcycling is full of bravado and posing and the nearness of death. You pretend to be calmly, even coldly focused, when you ride, eyes everywhere, eyes on the job and immune to thoughts about risk. That is how one describes riding these fast motorcycles, except of course there is in addition the pleasure. You are riding beauty and you are riding speed and you are riding death. And it is a pleasure. But you offer yourself as a dashing devotee. You realize you are performing the role of yourself, and may be maimed out of existence as part of the act, as part of the character you are playing.
“The bike went back to Italy and returned, having had its bent and wounded parts rebuilt at great expense, with the latest disc brakes off the racing bike added. Again it was trucked to Vermont. It looked so glamorous. I rode it once, just to do it, like getting back on a horse that has thrown you. Eventually the MV was put on display at Luigi Chinetti’s Ferrari dealership in Greenwich, Connecticut, and was bought by a visiting English rare-car dealer to add jazz and romance to his personal collection.
“I had another shaft-drive bike at the time, the classic BMW 750cc opposed-cylinder twin, with its sober and good-looking black bodywork with white pinstripes. It was a touring bike, very comfortable and reliable, the latest version of the design in a long line of opposed twins the company had made. I rode it around Vermont, and then one day, with my young son behind me as my passenger, riding on a dirt road, I descended a very steep hill to get to the paved county road and went into a slide, a barely controlled slide down the hillside in the dirt, which I managed like a motocross racer, or a skier, touching the brakes once or twice only, and lightly, and driving safely away. That little hill thrill chill did it. Once home, I was ready to sell the bike and stop motorcycling for good.”
…
from “On Motorcycles” by Frederick Seidel
Hypovolemic Fantasy, Eros, Alone
Wikipedia Poem, No. 502
verbing hot
and heavy
like a
lover's
wet mouth
after dark
n u
my mirror body itself
comes
separated
skin from skin from skin from
skin
torn from skin
like peeling paint
from skin from
skin from skin from skin
from skin from skin from skin from skin from skin from skin from skin
from skin ripped from a
turtle's
shell
yr mirror
body
itself
comes
paint
from a turtle
shell
the
shell fear
is blood hard
is that
i peeling separates
skin from skin from his liquid from
from skin from a turtle's shell
the
mirror yr mouth
after
dark
n u fear
the blood is
blood coming
comes hot
and
heavy has come
like peeling paint
from a
turtle's
shell
the illness
like paint-like
skin from a
turtle's shell
the
shell
peels
separating
skin
from
skin from a turtle's shell
Poetess
if one would iridesce greed one
two three patterns emerge
one skin of ochre
two blood like blood
three one can do nothing to
embrace one’s poetess
hang a snare one two three
from the nose of a fox one two three
what awaits one there one
spiked leather collar two
three a black vinyl dress
one’s beard dewless skin
covered in iridian mess
Wikipedia Poem, No. 258
or fall into the talk abroad
that corrupts the few poetic souls
who still sing in macbeth’s blood
or uncleave our township & turn toward
his broad blessings circled by mirth
this is allowed in god’s bready decoy
or hide the sea’s black-hair with no decoy
those who ask with a polite smile pass
pass this agony shell the nobleman’s security
or would noblemen decay ur-net-shops
over art-shops or habit-shops or per
animal-shops it is not to say for angels
or allow it to come by day these even angels
caught not under force this brother cool roots
such answerable litheness of a bitten minute-body
so at each erring my herein spaces out
the no-makeup joint rapt by vague angels
sort themselves for extermination up and in especially
sanguine of
Source:
- Rossetti, Dante Gabriel. “The Germ: Thoughts towards Nature in Poetry, Literature and Art.” Project Gutenberg. 1850. Web. 22 July 2016.
Wikipedia Poem, No. 233
leukocytes appraise
without prejudice bound on
waste produce blue carbon
proteins and plasma amino
acids heathrow international blood
movements standing action committees
leukocytes carry veins toward
the cell door which exercise
dissolves in the immune system
spare black brushes of manhood
blackened hypothalamus glucose
waste principally nutrients
spirit aerated redistributed
subclavian arteries adapt molecules
strenuously deoxygenate
blood transports therea’s blood cells
her fair urothelial dress
her exalted exhale press
hemocyanin — human blue —
body heart heat cellular legs
the body thrombocyte erythrocyte
leukocyte impure
an ocean of veins
from which cells are bound
coagulate properly coat
the liver flush blood moves old
aberrant functions and plasma
platelet fluids in
circulation humans
in capacity
Wikipedia Poem, No. 140
culminations
as
a guiding
mood from the 1960s
which
witnessed Commodus
serving as
a summation of Mary
of the
final
panel despite the
Cuban Missile Crisis agonizing a much more somber and culminate the painting
wounds and in the final panoply of chaos their
composition
of
congealed
anxious
bleeding marks
1962 bleeding the line the
cycle of nine the
darkening of historical sequences of the bloody whirls
of President John F Kennedy producing
bloody whirls of historical sequences
of
historical
sequences often articulating mood President
John F Kennedy produced insanity
and tension
Source: - Sylvester, David. “Interview / Cy Twombly / Rome.” cytwombly.info. 2000. Web. 6 Mar. 2016. - Twombly, Cy. Fifty Days at Iliam. 1978. Oil, oil crayon, and graphite on canvas. Philadelphia Museum of Art, Philadelphia.
American Womanhood
i see her sipping tea
she wants to write
the Great American Joke Book
about consumerism
sour-milk yellow sniffling yolk but
they get in the way
the hardcover wesleyan
in a cable-knit sweater
the canadian monthly
masked in a methylin-soaked love letter
hands up baby
hands up
“But if I said it was the only thing that mattered
That everything else was play, was yarn, was
A 40-year-old Knock Knock joke, would you”
their theories enjamb me
up against the wall, headlines
like licorice fingernails
like bricks — she draws blood
the thinking woman left to only sit
and listen to what’s left of rain
sweet and silent, waiting, pried
loose by synthetic rubber.