Louis Armand, from DI/ODE

 

 DI/ODE prompt

 
from DI/ODE
 


CCCXI (after Brian Birchall)
 
obscurity & clarity being common viewpoints
relating to, & relating w/, the invocating
symbol, narrative & theme, about “-isms”
& the hermeneutic “as,” or the kind of truth
time becomes through public relations,
i.e. post-mortem, yet w/ composure, composed,
a “person” of  “character,” flattered before
flattened, each the penultimate obscenity
in the eyes of the other, like the untrans
latability of metaphor, virtue or the politics
of the self-made, all being correct but
manifestly untrue, the way a stranger's mind
is always sleeping in yr head, setting off
dialectical melodramas whenever “the thing”
comes home to face the music. (3.6.2023)
 
 
CCCXIII
 
rum days & the stink wafting in off the trans
atlantic garbage pile sets lice on edge.
scanning empty space for the detail
that slipped away / like a footnote marked
“classified” blocking the shower grate.
walls heave & groan w/ the weight
of a sea straining to overpower / the way
a nation wrestles w/ its conscience.
nights of crude symbolic melodrama
leave you drained. unsure if the counterattack
has already begun or the tactical re
treat has reached an impasse. amidst
the smoke & fog of war / a leopard creeps
through underbrush in full view of the
thermal-image duplicator. the scene is ar
ranged, a cruel mouth for a crueler
month, a body undulating w/ microbic life
marked unsafe. well any moron can part a sea
in their sleep but only the true-
of-heart show sympathy for the lice.
how once on the fire-escape of a Harlem ten
ement a vision of William Blake appeared
& the blue hand of Shiva wringing
a brown dishrag sky / if the flesh-made-word
is also a bombshelter / if a poem is an ark
against a savage tide (one savagery
outdoes another) (for we had beauty on our side).
 
 
CCCXV
 
to quote the eternal Madam Wittgenstein, about that
of which y’re bone ignorant, keep yr trap shut.
every night for an encore an airraid siren.
y’ve got to be a hard nut not to crack on command,
the way a hypnotist dredges up the suggestion
long-submerged & suddenly yr running naked
in the street, screaming IT’S THE END OF THE WORLD
to fanatical laughter from the carriage trade.
the visualisation of G.O.D. is nothing but a disaster.
have we supplanted ourselves in the scheme of things?
receipt of stolen property is punishable by 10 years
under section 188(1)(b) of the Crimes Act 1900.
unless y’re the state. well what good's a voice
w/ a soaked rag stuffed down yr throat in the middle
of the night? choked on a crumb from the negotiating
table, going hungry’s an inalienable right.
 
 
CCCXVI
 
breathe. don't try to put yr thoughts in order.
yr doppelgänger's sitting on the steps
intently observing yr exit rituals.
“kunststruck,” you say, like an annoying guest
who plays the same partytrick twice.
everything cld just as well be expressed
in silence, the way silence is. tonight yr eyes
are magnets, glitched inalienables,
meaning “overly prone.” attachment
to worldly things as opposed to otherworldly
“things.” as sure as there are ears on a
bat, for example, the potential for mutiny
even in the most withering compliance.
a lifelong archipelago of missed affects dot-
dash-dot against the horizon, being
that region in which timeliness extinguishes
itself. yr uninvited attentions wander off
whenever y’re not looking, or they
aren’t & you only seem to be. on one side
Magellanic Clouds on the other a smeared
cataract indicates the view back is still there
over the next hill, where it promised to be.
 
 
CCCXVII
 
Daniel Ellsberg died (+16.6.23) & lately Ken Bolton
has been moved to speak ill of dead poets
& the war dead keep adding-up like bad coin
in circumdubious Free World economy.
pointless to compare the vocal range of
who at the top-of-their-lungs scream day & night
to cries & whispers in a lost submarine.
portraits of unclarity deem us incidental
to mirrorworld subterfuge as a combedback toupee
or a scalpcollector’s grin reading between
eyelines & smeared toothpaste hello beautiful!
well today's another day & bells & whistles
& a hot wind blowing yr brains out
in weather too heavy to think under anyway
though love's always a consolation if you can afford it.
 
 
CCCXIX
 
solstice comes & the world has moved on
from social injustice BILLIONAIRE
ENEMA LOST AT SEA trumps 500
DROWNED MEDITERRANEAN REFUGEES
but Europe long before homo
sapiens’ false start was already “civil
ised” -- the long march of mis
information's child & abortive coup d’
états played on a carousel whose
happy endings turn out unwell.
                                                            tomorrow's headline sez
                                                            y’re better off
                                                            dead / but will that
                                                            be so comforting / then?
 
 
—Louis Armand