Skip to main content

LONG POEM IN PROCESS

1. Eski Yeni

Their bodies were made from a slice of toast, the kind you put under roast piegeons (Sartre, Nausea)

I’m writing to you
in this weather
among buckets
of bumble bees

I’m with slow tongue
these leopard skins
are not my people

children squatters
& shoe shinners
sinners oh my sinners
the little twirps
sing
A NAY A NAY

I’m with slow tongue
a granny upstairs
coughs up
stones
before breakfast
before I head out
to ACTIVE ENGLISH!

I’m with slow tongue
sweating off
Turkish tummy!

it’s balmy
with terrific Turkish
POP!

I’m with slow tongue
and persist in rising
there is dust in my nose
and dust in my toes
and dust in my keyboard

I’m with slow tongue
lookey here
I’m a traveler
I’ve got to keep
from going under
bunkered
near Ataturk’s
tomb
yep him
the icon of icons

I’m with slow tongue
juiced out
on teaching
the past simple!

Pascal says
why am I here & not
there




2. DREAMS INSIDE A CUCUMBER

MESSAGE FROM DREAMWORLD:
the slaugherhouse is on the move

A man was cleaning a mess by the river, blue buckets and sponges, he rubbed oilves
between his palms.

It was sticky. There was a soft light against a red sky. Near the river a lace curtain opened and a woman above spat stones.

Then there was Aaron running up and down the hall in Milton Keynes, two years old, slightly bald, slightly blond, head, smiling, running from one wall to the next.

On the bedroom door, on the glass, the smoked glass, there was a sticker, a sticker
of the Turkish all-seeing EYE.

*************************
we took you to the river and drowned you
we left open the curtains to bring back the dead
we’ve clouded yr eyes & scrapped yr tongue
we’ve come in waves but leave in particles
we stripped down yr body but want more
tick goes the tock
*******************************
a dot in the night is the bey that sells you
freshly squeezed
orange juice
bones in the embassy
of light
bones, bones
as a mind lowers
it’s ticker tape
where is there precisely
not
to have
your chin not yet gimpy
there are silent helicopters in this missing
landscape
there is a stuffed tiger
on your bed
how life passes over
beautiful and boring
what faces you
in this house
there is nothing to make out
nothing
so much glass
give me time
America
blood is a place
soon leaked out

*************************
we took you to the river and drowned you
we left open the curtains to bring back the dead
we’ve clouded yr eyes & scrapped yr tongue
we’ve come in waves but leave in particles
we stripped down yr body but want more
tick goes the tock
*******************************


3. I JUST CAN'T GET ENOUGH

making-----making it---------machinations (Paul Celan)

. . . carry their existence into language, racked by reality and in search of it (Paul Celan)



what evades you
or what are you evading
the poet continues
DOPEY
washing hangs on the line
radical furniture designs
I find YOU digusting
who is used
who uses
what is used
I’m setting out a mind egonomics
from here
yes you can
yes you can
read a new line
twitters, twitters
I have you secrets crammed
into
my tiny box
there is no way outta
here
lungs in bat’s juice
my face in yr pansies
spritz up spritz up
i just can’t get enough

Comments

Simon Howard said…
Love this Marcus! Wonderful writing (& the Sartre quote - oh THAT kind of toast :-D).
postpran said…
thanks so much Simon :-)

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…