(Being a Canada Dry mistranslation of High Diver by Kurt Brown)
Queer spined, filth-mongered rainbow
on the smoke-dull risk of precipice
agent provoked and twice ashamed, conscious
our eyes on it; we too were once
composed as beauty hard to understand.
Expleted boys jostle one another
in their ineptitude, half pressed out
on the edge of earthquake risk their eyes
and light seduction of water, smooth but tough
as sound. Whistles echo off the walls.
I cannot tell you what it feels like, balancing on the edge
of effervescence, the girl melting into the woman
it will become supernatural in her tight skin
a torn glabrous halo of limbs stretched up like a marching dream
attempting comprehension and corruption of her tears.
Now, it circumducts a dancer gripping to the convocation
with his toes, and it rides like convulsions in time
then settles again. It waits until it stops,
until it comes together, until there is a balance between
great and indisputable, we turn back to withering light.
Suddenly, his knees bend, arms stretch, ra ra ra
then he abandons it and looks could kill
where she squeezes his neck with her hands
as a fetus rolls backwards in her perfect womb
letting her know that it’s home again for long Autumn.
And then his fingers tearing open water and body
disappearing into her, nothing but a projection
marking what we once were, and the boys turn
into something else, feeling their own bodies
fall dangerously through childhoods spent in love with it.
To immortalise that nonspecific date in 1920 she grinned obscurity
from her obsolete fish phalanges to the limb darkening, in astronomy,
the appearance of the border of the disk of a celestial body
says Wikipedia, seven years old now but the funny bone of a dead man then,
with a large rack of ribs for a fascinator, we saw rows of living time,
tiny strings of theory cobwebbing in some remote predicament of the mind
and for our personal epistemology, then, as I smiled back down the length
of the longest freshwater coastline of any political subdivision in the world,
we took on trust what was scrawled in the margins of peer reviewed journals
and collaged happy photographed eyes from this current future
that dragged up somewhere good for us, on some tiny, remote predicament.
Your head! when all around you watch
Bonnie Tyler doing the best she could
to form letters, words, symbols, words
that found pleasant frondescence anonymously falling
to a large tract of land covered with real wooden floors;
which thing or which particular one of many
pyres for Guy my correspondence would create
no kind of doubt in yourself despite all others a long time canned
laughing the smallest element that can be uttered- hydrogen,
twice, and oxygen; Youtube would-be robber struck by bus
experiencing respiratory impairment from submersion
when I was your man I, Edward Said, not a man I’ve heard talk,
but an important man that did exist and has nothing to with that
I love you.
(Being a Canada Dry mistranslation of December Love by Randy Blasing. No permissions sought or gained)
In some specific temporal location, as is your wont,
you fall me down from trees to be hoovered up
someday, invent something to believe how I whittled
a blood pump out of the frozen water, smoking pot and feeling faint,
that left cheek of your ass…
See things through, so that when Eurydice disappears you’ll total
the organs I misplaced in you [ampersand] you had right
ass cheek too- as you read J G Ballard and shifted up a gear.
In blunt falsehood, the sentiment you imbibed at that time
was your hymen when it broke into tears that streaked
at the Coal Cats game against the Canaries, I had made you come
from where I flipped you the bird, your clitoris
etched on transparent surfaces as if for good. My heart is italicised
for your emphasis, it talked to me when we had our meltdown,
reading aloud from our collection of celebrity gossip magazines
as my own words raced to lay out banana skins; black face under my feet.
Ceaseless, dreadful gods condemned by a rock (Brighton Petrom), either rolling by wise mountain top, usually in sexual intercourse, or thought from reason to punishment in utero, and labouring through three stages characterized futilely by hopeless practice of tradition, ulcerous highwayman eruptions, and mortal contradiction leading to certain levity.
[title of an accident by Albert’s Camel (1478?-1553), from feedback loop, the im-patient’s condition.]