Skip to main content

friday revision of 'Shame"

Shame

Ladies and gentlemen, better wake up and hijack these images. Don’t wake up too old for experience. You’re beginning to believe in the past detached from the body. I have found ergo I am dead. A damned birth needs continual shock. An exaggeration of subtle truths. Here beneath the house of language a bat beats its wings in the shadows. Gifts of gods in exodus. Written though. A skeleton soaking in lamb’s wool.

A benign herd of words supports a backward relief system. A delicious meal on the shells of the dead. Daylight reveals more of the shrine. Only cold mud can cure the leech-suck. This is a musical theatre. Get aroused by the gaps in your ego. Gestures of broken heads. Hell is visible in the scene speak. Drunk on evasion the fish are swimming in the bucket. Be weary of elegance.

Drilled-in, and shaken. Are you listening? Drilled into the skull. Can you hear the operations? Skip the opera these lines pull blood to the retina. You are banished to the boonies. We are a metaphor within a marvelous body. We are the world’s most bitter conflicts.

Drunk more than a cupful and still drinking. How much you got? Sleeping on a fence
of spikes. Proud of no-nation. They are all little shits. Human-time is disappearing from the universe. One light at a time. Can’t shake all my Kultura. Sand wipes us out and silence sticks to the Pines.

myself did
love did
leave

a tribal self
a tribal elf

effaced
and given, to
you

when I was born
when I was born
my face was bruised
was bruised
with precepts

what is forbidden, what is broken, a broken
thing is contorted, a contorted self, an elf
in hiding, in hiding a broken self
is contorted

what needs checking is checking
itself, revision itself, itself
because what’s in store
now that we live
is because we love
and you, you
decide to stay
and bleed


What needs checking when the self is effaced? What is shame when the self is deflated?
Shame is civilized. Shame is cloaked. Shame exists in the making.

Decided to stay, strum more than a string, and love. And. And live in an unknown country.
better get out before
it’s too late
better open
the door
better bake
before it’s too late

better rethink
your mind/body problem

better rethink
your forgotten country

better make sounds underwater
to find out what’s close to you

better better
before it’s too late

bent over, doubled over, doubled in, the death
sentence is where we’re going.

images exist, near the eye. I exist
where the muscle contracts. Near
the eye where the muscle contracts.

What images exist beyond the screen, what exists
in the reporting, between the scenes, between
the lines, between the lies? What exists? What exists?

What micro and macro invasions
hold our eyes, the grave is plain white, plain white
bread flaked into a gurgling sink, a gurgling grave,
held open to the grave, held open to the sink.

Held open, and let in, what light, plain
white, death white, what light is let in.

she wouldn’t open
the door, I asked
her to open
the door, no one
is at the door she said
she said the door
is already open
but no one
is at the door
and all our
credit is blank

We’re breaking down, breaking down to break in. We’ve come for you. We’ve opened the door. The door is open. No one is at the door. And no one is let in.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

poets reading poets

There are on A now: Andrews, Antin, Apollinaire, Ashbery


A project from the Atlanta Poetry Group. Check it:

http://atlantapoetsgroup.blogspot.co.uk/

The Poetry of Tao Lin

Another Ireland by Robert Archambeau

This review really hit it for me. I recently read Maurice Scully's _Livelihood_ and Geofrey Squires _Untitled and Other Poems_ is on deck (I love that baseball term. It is baseball, right?)

I think this is from The Nortre Dame review, but I found it via goofle (I mean google).


Another Ireland: Part Two
Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
Geoffrey Squires, Landscapes and Silences. Dublin: New Writers' Press, 1996.
Catherine Walsh, Idir Eatortha and Making Tents. London: Invisible Books, 1996.

By Robert Archambeau

I began the first half of this article (Notre Dame Review #4) by mentioning some of the limits to the legendary hospitality Ireland has shown to its poets. If you arrive in Ireland from any point of departure outside of Eastern Europe, you will indeed find a public far more willing than the one you left behind to grant poets the recognition all but the most ascetic secretly crave. However, this hospitality has never extended to Irish poets w…