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1
and carrying away.
of the salty
no of the fresh
unleavened
lake.
(the planes.)
(it is
frosted,
this is the psychoanalysis,
crests of waves
made of ice
offshore:
this is my subconscious,
y'know).
and carrying about
far where the ship is
and near where
the pier is.
i you i you i you i you i you
i you i you i you
i you i you
i'm losing verbs
(y'know
let's do it this way:
let's say i'm the subject; so.)
the verbs am i
*
tristan and isolde.
luis and tristana.
a triple score of
waves of ice.
the nude naked expanse.
the white white shoal.
and not enough for me:
the chalk-colored plage and
did you know
about my love,
you, the New World?
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snuggled
into the pouched
hollow
the frosty
feathers
of aspiration airspiration
the tree is felled
the clog is dragged
the limb over knee
the firewood
the plantwood
the stonewood
or another halcyon egg
winterfrozen
sensation
oh how it flies
oh how it clutches
like plunging
abruptly into the lake
like a
spindle
sinks:
the answer is roaring of waves.
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3
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cans, bags,
a little crab claw
and the big blue one:
the bluest blue indigo claw.
it smells like damp
this alien soil,
this thin sand!:
(forcefully
foreignly
it smells of
damp), and the hollow
birdbones strewn over
by winds off the water:
the fish fishy wet.
the wind swirls the brains,
adds more gyri,
cavities, caverns
verses and their colons:
the wave
sifts
the sand
the word alien:
it's my life
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the stone
i'm restless
somehow
the lake has been covered with scales
and rustles
raising its belly above the surface
as if her end is near
it's reeking of fish viscera already
on the shore
from water and from smoke
the willow's winter skeleton
as if some flesh had rotten to the bone,
the gulls', the hominal.
this heavy icy wave, wow,
a lot of sound and not so many stones,
now like the meat, now like the soap,
now there's a pebble with a hole,
the hole right for the finger
or to make ice inside,
to place it in the glass with ice
and go to sleep with pebble in the stomach
not with you.
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and crawling over to the boulders
over the cement paste slices
(placed here as
the seats)
you drift
aside with the vein opened
over the boulders coloured
like the canned cod liver.
the fish milt faints in this wind,
the gulls' liver gnaws of hunger,
the nosebleed drips in the tide,
into the spray and paints the rainbow
transiently between the waves
the color of sunset. the bluff
doesn't lie under waves.
slamming the stone, the wave leaves
the life. the stones are
frosted thickly with icing.
the cod liver on ice,
and the pebbles for candy.
sitting on the paste slice
you'll have your vodka what you find
you'll eat if you find it you'll drink it
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