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1
the long greens and yellows
Noertker's MoxieAnnelise ZamulaBrett CarsonJordan GlennBill Noertker
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Hunchy Hackett
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I am scarcely the outer world
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not sure that it was not a parcel
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there were connoisseurs
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preferred to have his back to his destination
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Watt’s was a funambulistic stagger
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science of the locked door
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a fine full apron of green baize
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and he sits in the red gloom
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premonitions of harmony are irrefragable
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the Laurel into Daphne
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modes of ululation – bitter, hollow, mirthless
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onions and peppermints – turn and turn about
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figments of the id
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all the gold and white and blue
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choon the piano
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a ravanastron hung, on the wall, from a nail, like a plover
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the strings are in flitters
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simple games that time plays with space
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this hairbreadth departure
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a little plated trowel
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the stairs that never seemed the same stairs
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a pillow of old words, for a head
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a little off the hooks
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a picture hanging on the wall, from a nail
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the circle sailed steadfast in its white skies, with its patient breach forever below
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like the centuries that fall, from the pod of eternity
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tenth-rate xenium
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a fragment of rigmarole reread
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this long chain of consistence
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the three frogs
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the theatre of a similar conglutination
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floccillating his hard hat
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red, bluer, yellowist
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in our windowlessness, in our bloodheat, in our hush
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through this jocose this sniggering muck
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peers in peace
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except in moments of delirium, or during the service of the mass
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the sun, so long obnubilated
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The Mathematical Intuition of the Visicelts
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two by two the eyes put forth their curious beams
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an occasional raucous sally
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the issuing smokes mingled to vanish
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the fricatives in particular were pleasing
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the grey air aswirl with vain entelechies
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in his skull the voices whispering their canon were like a patter of mice
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Watt was an old rose now, and indifferent to the gardener
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threne
