Volume 5: DISAPPEARANCE

Friday, November 19, 2010

Mark Lamoureux, "3 Poems"

Mark Lamoureux


THERE’S NOTHING ELSE TO SAY

Execrated, in the columbines;

A Rome Plow built of tiny globules

Pawn missing, pwned by the rising

Slab of waves; a planet cooking

In its fetor, resplendent malice

Begging to differ, or begging generally;

Narcissi in the back of the big

Black brig—let loose for Anubis’

Alligator.  A feather like a fucking

Anchor: the snow & everything else.

Who says we brook the myopia?

Frothy on the shores of Normandy,

A Norman king was not prodigal,

Archaic.  Given to the succubus, all

Your dreams in the pine

Needles.  Needles, baby, & pins,

The sleeping limb may never wake

If it sleeps a world better

Than yours.


Our Love is In the Pocket

O dream carp of threescore,
 a babushka doll foretelling
reverse peristalsis.       Buoys in the
flame-sea of dreamtime, those
remembered, a constellation in that
vein-colored sky that dips without
ground below.
  Remembering one
inside another, those who walk
as they walked when last beheld,
others still who walk countenances
not corporeal at all.     Where
falls the sleep fluids,   imps arise,
            deaf progeny that pace there
with bellows to blast fake winds
            on the glimmering set,
each flash-bulb pop of transgression—
            to fan each panfire for tiny
paprika feet skittering, each dangling
            a wattle that is your deflated heart
your heart your heart your heart your heart
            into the hopper that extrudes
still another one: painted faces,
dead relatives, questionable arrangements.
            The blue bolt that is the hand under
the clock’s spins like a Bermuda
            Triangle instrument.  This to spike
our lives, this to dull the edge of the side-
            real. To stave death, the aegis
of wobbling eyes.


I CAN’T GET AWAY

Square mouth in the dust, bottom-
            feeder vacuum.  Spark in
the wood eyes, what had silence
            begins to low.  Wild emerald
tufts in the cemetery.  Motley
            for the clown’s shroud;
follow this to the end
            no laughing.    Daggers &
such, dead
            on the patio lanterns of the
greening buds.  What went into
            decades ago, diamond-
eyed pissant.  Pins in knees
& elbows.              What was I?

            What to be? May the skin
slough like burlap, underneath
            wings or lightning or dancing
shoes.  Spyglass the continent,
            the members
of the academy.  The same small
            love for large things.  Punch
& Georgie.  Old walls, old posters.
            Got to get hit
by a car to do it.  Back in time
            Grover disco.  Take this
pen
            start digging.
_____

Mark Lamoureux lives in Astoria, NY.  He is the author of two collections of poetry: Spectre (Black Radish Books, 2010) and Astrometry Orgonon (BlazeVOX Books, 2008).  His work has appeared in Fence, 14 Hills, Jubilat, Denver Quarterly, Conduit, Lungfull!, Coconut, GutCult and many others.
_____

RECONFIGURATIONS: A Journal for Poetics & Poetry / Literature & Culture, http://reconfigurations.blogspot.com/, ISSN: 1938-3592, Volume 4 (2010): Emergence

1 comment:

Charles said...

warm and fuzzy!