Yclept faux
image by Irene Koronas
Beefheart’s Sugar
i.
Raw, assimilar shoptalk
Indigent asymmetries
Or some kind of indignant memo
When summers were bland dictionary silos
Profane like silence
A roseate infrastructure of pigeons
Some of whom went crazy
In a spectacular folly
Of gateway profanity
Disavowed as what I cherish
When great tanning is through
ii.
Everything is someone
You aren’t anywhere
Where is anyone who is?
Who is someone always?
Why aren’t you there?
In a cruel motion
Where the sun won’t cling
iii.
Yclept faux stocking alerts
Hills or threnodies?
In the innate red mirror of Stockholm apologies
Some sort of ignescent tablature
A book that tries to be everything
& In that process, becomes itself
Poem
You, bright impostor
Roll with
the shimmers
Find your dream yurt
Flicking miniatures
Tidy
barricades
Flaying dodos
Flood the ice rink with
Layaway
malice
Four hundred thousand new missed calls
Something to glimpse at the eddies
A practiced
silhouette
In
search of drone funding
With such a firm hold on us that
Canal sex
couldn’t be better
Even after space invaders shrug
Corrective Housesitting
The contént were dressed in tupperware shelving
A grimace of fishhooks
Reversible mirrors
Lips like red blotted plaster
All birds are clouded ivy. The buttermilk ghouls
Trembled with lockdown futility. All was fuzzy
Peace through the scenes
Of amethyst dolls. Taut lemon cargo
A smoldering of rattlesnakes lay low on the
Verandah. June was frumpy with sheet metal
As if all the weather were a snob
That the wind might heal, in the strangeness of dullards’
eyes
This Garden Futility
Slump echoes evenly
Evasive by plunder
On a cartoon shore
Tender egress
Collapsed housing vagrancy
Is or intentional
This procedure says so
That you wanted to set free
Within seeds or an echo
Of nuzzled oleander
Plummeting
faintly real
Roseate miseries
Echo echo solo material
Waves upon the stranded
Plexiglass nobodies
Botching futurity
Harbor with Birds Looking Away
i.
Scenes bled loose
Of degrees on
the
Hilt-wind
Gnarled
screens
Redact
bladder stumbles
Nightlife tenderly
Hoist scenes
Of
rubble— gash inflection
At interim
zoos evaded
Doors or jars nailed down
At
stride
React plumage interval
sidetracked
Gift
economy notation
Pillage
Sensibly
Notation notation
ii.
Swoon gape
Brush anxiety
Housing
Gaiety &
birds
Appearing
To laugh a wild
appletree
The divan is
ragged
Wind long gone
A fluttering in
the eye
iii.
Ladders
walk
Innate
housewares
The
ticket only
You
could win
Sealed
in acetylene
Structure— gnarled endings
A
banquet of kitchenwire
Shattered grief
Faint
animal coughing
For
he who is is he who does
Once in
awhile, in Pittsburgh
Where
the clockwire gets loaded
By
peaky kinfolk
Dead
moon suffering
Wire
angels (juggernauts)
Part of
the heat (lost) sealed
In
rooms’ viewed channels
Stealthily stealthily as night redeems
Agency
penmanship housing
Rain
partisanship
Interstitial delving
Night
where moon runs away
Dialogic Interlude
Night-borne reverie ripples the liquor
From your quiver. I’m standing here eating mangoes
Amid freeze-tag partitioners with all the right
Equipment. To die by moot endurance
With all chances baffled. Rise up carcass &
Vanish, or put an
End to this condition.
The more you wake, the more you quake.
Spread outskirts appeal to the glittering mob
Of cattle watchers, stuffed with clusters
Of willow droppings, plaintively, as night reveals
Her inborn stillness. Later,
The panoramas can yet be inspected for
Their irony & poise. Years fade
When convergence becomes looneytunes. Trouble a moot
watcher
For some bitter water, please. Analog fortunes often
accompany
Anesthetized critiques &
Shoehorn repairmen. Don’t linger by the font of animé reverie;
Study its pratfalls & metastasize silliness.
I wish Jack Collom were still here to write “a scene” with,
Yet “scenes” do cause a stir, & we’re even yodeling
As we strew the “course”
With golfballs. But what is seen? A shimmer or
Mirror isn’t likely to provoke
An out-of-body experience,
Unless you’re laborious as a chipmunk in winter
Playing hopscotch with kangaroos, though it doesn’t
matter
Yet, when
all is after &
I hear the
sound
Of
airplanes coming.
—Mark DuCharme
