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Tuesday, May 24, 2005

Marianne Morris: from Easter Poems



seven



It is a position from which to write. To right the undone. To take apart the unwritten.





WAKE THE FUCK UP


The limp prance arranged the wires,
to cross. He was then
crowned. Then he made a
crowing sound. Then, drowned. Bonus, now
super-bonus work
to be wakened, lifting from
peasantry along the open road of no
pathos; swivelling the merchant wildness with its
finger in its
tax computation. Welds flesh to kiss up to the lightness
of likeness, to up it
breeze off. I clamp between the two; spark plug, not
as good as the lights over Fallujah when they wrought
into democracy bodies
plummy as jam and the splinter vocation.
A grand welcome to
what you’ve done again, clap on you. Bitter
lamped body-parts clutching themselves, poring
the wounds bright ‘solidarity’ the demeaned ethic the
demeaned ethic. You pine and beckon for and can
only react to you. A way of articulating
a private bitterness, murky with infected
rhythms, the first the most natural is to
shot at. Love opening the spoon for her throat jammed
in. The mechanics are sultry
body parts; forgotten those
jammy fireworks, have you already. Well, love
got you bad. Throw your back up. His fissure was
limited by the account boundaries,
preventing overspill. Worse
still flirting with militia in pillboxes who hone
in on the aura we’ve lit upon, pool
out to recover the serene of green
smoke or park. Park where
no one lives. Park the medic’s toy for textures in
the things we spend on the stretch of
back she upturns. How to speak
of the urinary tract in its chord of feminine
mystique but the circus wire some
one is taking balance
sheets. They are
flattered by your switched attentions
as you sprawl into elegies of state
you can’t pin to. You can’t
make a spool
of feathers but you can make
a plastic septum. Wake the fuck up.






Crow’s beak had always been open to sex, beak beak, it was the sheer regularity of its openness that threw. We have not taken him seriously enough, have not considered possibilities they have been hidden from us. As waking from belittling dreams the veil lifts only slowly; in pieces you merge with the past and those quiet, haunting images, you remain haunted. You are the dreamer. Position: to dream. As in you are allowed and entitled fully to your role. In the call overhead, which varies not from continent one to continent two – past 2 I can not really verify, it would be on no grounds, I had not the ears to listen – the veil lifts only slowly. Don’t be quick to judge it; it has been cantankerously present in history thus far, which however you look at it can’t be gotten away from. In some way it is all that some of us have. His face, altered from the only bone – it is not only bone, but a violence in its nearness to your dreaming eye. Now jelly comes to mean more to you. It would mean more were it true, plucked and stabbed into one fat, glib mess of a former eye. But this crow is not going to say this and has never said it, nor does this crow think it. Only that blackened presence. I can see nothing but the pinprick of one black eye, which the light has caught. I believe it is moon light, because it is not bright white, and he is muted at the all. And if I wake from this, the veil is slow to lift. What must it do with death. There is in that a responsibility to uphold. To have traveled both light and heavy through scenes beyond your control, the dreamer. They are yours and beyond your control. And yet the vast chance of them is diminished by you, either in desperation for the sleep that forgets or the wakefulness that does not wait to hear them back from beyond. No, not until you are dizzy with it. Remaining pressed to that sweat. The eye is evil – another word been dragged through relentless shit, but what else is left? That history contains shit and cannot be denied. Evil it goes. Will have no other. Will be poisonous; also kept in the home. Sweet delicious rot it enjoys. By the word here I might retain for the benefit of the language an unwanted pressure, you discern this in the word, an unwanted pressure that cannot be easily got away from, except by a shutting-down of the mind to its full nature, which you may partly be capable of intuiting, depending on your love of shit; of the word. This is really all I mean; please believe me. That dark envelope has given up its option to unfold, and I find, from what I see, that I am inside, I am flat, papered in but being no more than paper unstable in the course of escaping.





WAKE THE FUCK UP TOO


I’ll swing it in from far. Textual
admissions in purple fish light.
Soft blue accordion, winter’s
shy. Today but in all the day’s
blanched to talk about you in
violence removed from the pith
of slow waltzing through traffic
to be less stunned about injustice.
Pink stickiness comes off the watch
word, someone’s been busy
paying for shit. Eloping with a big
mac into the tiny rat’s anus of
that saw-edge, loose hunger of
a full day of no exception. Bulge
and swollen mouthfuls, the metal
hallway swallows. Tiny little
skeletons of birds made of discarded
syringes. Who’s got the time.




CALCIC



If then swaying
along the passion bluntly, charge to survive the ether-swing. Its
cool title blocks the balm of slippage, on the dusky lap of mother,
who burned you in submission. That your open, to be again another,
it’s calm. It cries now for its past action only minutes prior to the
arrangement of objects at the right moment, the right place. It
can be either impulsive or measured, the two are not one right. Sickness
of injuries that the self tries to inflict. That’s a try. He has ballooned
from the back to the front. Snug under the ivory down the western
line is that which makes up the east, eventually. Get on your map and
ride. I am more like fish than you, I found
in the bath a pleasance which pleats along the stunned vibe of mentions
in the press or office, which are both the same irritated sameness they
clue up, and wanting you, to believe, in butter. Your mystery truly
is a stop-valve gapped to save fume, and your face feeds outwards into
angry cement. The cold balms its right to stiffen and go on. The language
plays itself into strings, over the absence of something to record it with.
The ellipses are stunning in their drive to repeat. Nothing counts. I still
try with numbers. The home is weekly infested with t he slat of appointment
allocated allotment slotted in, large pinned through the body of you where
soft you are rekindled into youth, pleasure and promise. Though that
wasn’t so, or just.

You eloped in
a hurry is the fashion. Mudded through her fact of not minding about
the scabs, or the drive past the reticence that keeps us there, on that
button. Pride in that let-gap, falling right and tidy away the mention,
earlier. Still there on that button, the glass zipped in to make eyes, still
visions of impressions of connections that need making, as much as
wine. It’s water you need up faster and lucid. Brine enough for two be
that sullen and snowed under when he hots up the way with thick morals,
hot burns your throat from the outside, threaded in black sticks
of loose wire your own skin to fry up. After all, there’s nothing better
to do than be studded all over
with your own remaining tissue, hardening against the fact of your
fixation. There is a better world, over there, on the slab rolled up into
metallics for you, polish me properly with the this way the that way and
slackening grasp against wind into violence, brewing against me and
through the covering. Jobs up her losses into banknotes for handingthe fuck over. Have prepared the following speech:



EVENING PARALYSIS



Blubberous attitude of the wrist in stops
stops to pause. Merges blondely
with cartels. Elopes perfectly. The
ruse is randy. Fuse looms. Pittance in
flesh envelope. Now bend to dis
cover. Mural of paint wash
mural to up. Mush up. Trash
nuance of noise on the off. Plush
tarmac to meet you in the face,
bicycle. And circular sectors of
ring. Say bone there. Trot up.
The beautiful illumination of
aluminium, luminous. Breaks for a
record. Nice pustule of wicker, long.
Get objects on inwards. With the
utmost of pleasure yrs sincerely.





Marianne Morris’ work includes Fetish Poems (Bad Press (?), 2005 (?)), Cocteau Turquoise Turning (Bad Press, 2004, 2005), Gathered Tongue (Bad Press, 2004). Other work may be may be found on her friend’s journal, Firefly. Her own website should also be consulted.

I first noticed her critical work, and excellent account of Barry MacSweeney in
Quid.

Page 467

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