A kind of a "dangerous supplement", marked, scarred on a body, post-orgasmically, always, already in anticipation of (a) crisis OR for a desert avec 'agape'. Mindb(l)ogg(l)ing Noise. "Avalanche, would you share my last pursuit?" (Baudelaire)

Thursday, February 26, 2004

Appendicitis - if it's to crack the silence

-3 C. With the streets smelling of stale beer and whiskey and coke laughs. Footstepsonhis (and he apologises!) but apart from that the words aretobefoundwiththeHB'sandthewineandthatplateoflentilsyou-know-where-, a huge one, as the one thatcamefrombehindafter it, andcaryingon20minutestoclosing time (in the absence of limbo attend borders, so to speak): I found these. OR from the papers

My Love

It's not the lover we love, but love
itself, love as in nothing, as in O;
love is the lover's coin, a coin of no country,
hence: the ring; hence: the moon -
no wonder that empty circle so often figures
in our intimate dark, our skin-trade,
that commerce so furious we often think
love's something we share; but we're always wrong.

When our lover mercifully departs
and lets us get back to the buisiness of love again,
either we'll slip it inside us like the host
or we'll beat its gibbous drum that the whole world
might know who jas it. Which was always my style:

O the moon's bodhram, a skin gong
torn from thehide of Capricorn,
and many's the time I'd lift it from its high peg,
grip it to my side, tight as a gun,
and whip the life out of it, just for the joy
of that huge heart under my ribs again.
A thousand blows I showered like meteors
down on that sweet-spot over Mare Imbrium
where I could make it sing its name, over and over.
While I have the moon, I cried, no ship will sink,
or woman bleed, or man lose his mind-
but truth told, I was terrible:
the idiot at the session spoiling it,
as they say, for everyone.
O kings petitioned me to pack it in.
The last time, I peeled off my shirt
and found a coffee bruise that ran from hip to wrist.
Two years passed before a soul could touch me.

Even in its lowest coin, it kills us to keep love,
kills us to give it away. All of which
brings us to Camille Flammarion
signing the flyleaf of his Terres du Ciel
for a girl down from the sanatorium,
and his remark - the one he couldn't help but make -
on the gorgeous candid pallor of her shoulders;
then two years later, unwrapping the same book
reinscribed in her clear hand, with my love,
and bound in her own lunar vellum.

Don Paterson, from Landing Light, 2003, Faber and Faber, London



Now two strangers shiver
under one roof
the one who delivers
the promise and the proof

and the one I deploy
for the poem or the kiss.
It gives me no joy
to tell you this.

Don Paterson, A Fraud, Ibid.

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