Azimuth Ring
A quick poem.
The wailing will continue until morale improves.
wisterias grow on the south
which south?
that south;
on the westmost edge of the known globe
a carcass mound
racquitic Emilia cast rice
blessed thrice
spun around her spur-bells
and lit a match;
on the eastmost edge of the known globe
snow falls tattered
fled: the Romanovs
using swordhilt for cane
pearlnet blanketing their hairs
pannier whalebones repurporsed for
makeshift pavilions
the north?
I dare not mention what goes on
goes on in the north
this, all this
is my province.
this is your inheritance as well
daughter
you receive
iambic, enjambment
(for far better application than mine)
x30 bronze Candelabra (six branches)
x2 prophylactic
x4 opal
x1 lark
x1 handfan
x33 mercury bullet
x5 wood-carved statue of dark man
x1 chambermaid on retainer.
wisterias grow on the south
which south?
your south.
you know the one
with the shackles
and the cypresses
with the lashes
and the folksy singsong
when the lady says “molasses”
and then the north has
fled north
heretofore leaving notherners
to come dwell amongst us
with their foul habitude
and suspect purport;
leave the tithing
leave your hamlet
and let him roost
let him expulse this land for that land
let us love that land and not our land
let us understand that position is
relative
to that man
he with the crown fanning out
into sunbeams.
strange news have come from
unheard-of-tropics
he crashed into shore
with his frigate
and brought martial law
gee thanks mistah
I needed my neighbor to be stoned.
I
toiled and reeled under generations
of mill wheels churned
reeled mad with the dogstar as compass
had voyages akin to Sinbad's
fled, fought, fought like ten devils
fled, felt thirst, felt hunger
I saw a tiger on a dream
I saw a tiger betwixt two apple trees
and I tamed him with this necklace
I gave all my chattels
for a night with that woman
you know her
with the golden girdle and the
the ringlets of hair
and the slender arms and feet
and the room where the moon plays
in waves and polkas
and the olibanum, the olibanum rises
the ringlets of hair
caught in the torchlight glare
of him, her watchman
hand to knifehilt
and long into the night
the fresh zephyr on her
all on her
by the double-arched window
the river running in low drone outside
birches clung with dew
and her eyes, you know
you know her eyes already
the moon playing by her slender feet
I felt hunger, felt lust, sensed my elders
bow down to me amidst the theatre of stars
all this I did
until I touched the small of my back
‘till the radii was flattened to a straight line
knows not... maestro Vibius whomsoever he may be...
but suspects this is not his language
these people
these people
what am I doing?
what am I doing.