|
Canto XXIWhat I have written I have written. --John 19:22 Don’t touch my shroud Capture the Holiday Scent clove Don’t touch my shroud cardamom mother Old Spice My touch My fingers—the creases along my knuckles—I remember My hands My arms— the thin black hairs and two small moles above my right wrist and the valleys of my elbows Abraham says “Sit while I sharpen heat for your mother’s heart” She leans in the light as steam climbs Mother’s face over mutton glows Better Ways to Scale a Fish skin a cock Roses will still pierce Snakes strike You breathe icy wind along my skin False Choices prerogative through choice I freeze in your blood—a river of wine You beside her spiders all in a row Non Serviam no surrender no sub mission no prisoners no resistance You will not be Saturn and she will not be Mary and I will not be Adonis They will not be Kali—fall down No one is without sin: the same light falls on all and both are tarnished by air: all have sinned and fallen How can anything so common shock the conscience of mankind How can anything so human fall out These Are Times That Try Men’s Souls blah blah blah Why the feck did he add an e to pain: Tyranny like hell is not easily conquered blah blah blah women’s underdrawers I have as little superstition in me as any man living blah blah blah BF’s endorsement not withstanding Short of the glory of god: Let him who is without sin be cast in stone Judge not lest ye be judges There’s a still in the
holler bring a bottle bring a jug bring a
cup Cora
has a hand in it
Fall UP Blessed are the poor in spirit Blessed are the hungry for they shall be fed Blessed are the sick The pretense of innocence that no one was injured in pursuit of lucre that dollars and donuts are holy For they shall be healed Blessed are the weak for they shall be made strong Blessed are the meek for they have two ees Innocents has 2 + 1 ens like nano [pretense of curing multitudes with] technology with loaves with fishes if n + 1 equals infinity up equals the following sequence: azure assure azzuro assurance shall inherit the earth As it shall be done to them let it be done to you Protect the widows and orphans Simplify the doctrine of 4 squares Find the Pythagorean Theorem within the circle a square triad Visit those imprisoned in hospital Love and cherish the unlovable Honor those who dishonor you Symmetry with two ems like mimetic The pretense of simulacrum Pretense of cloning Pretense of past tense See the lesser and raise the latter so that their victory will be yours so that all are above the fairy within the Vatican Library the letters correspondence of saints heretics’ dogma like a shopping list for Satan Memories of the
They have no anchors and move in the wind Memories of the Beautiful Gate stand upon no bearing wall They flap their load in the wind Even a small breeze can blow Solomon’s Porch because it rests on one pier and cornices hang off themselves Shingles of the Royal Porch cover it all from mitered joists to lintels from posts to crossed string lines and sills to case ments and sash To handsaws bartered for nets—spare hip roof furring strips Memories of the Three Courts glide away Roof’s sheathing has leaks Balustrade is weak and wobbly Footing cracked from frost Studs rot Siding peels Jambs collapse A Stone Rolls wrapped in swan skins lion heads bull horns and eagle beaks over arrows steers horses stars Forge armor on mountain tops Bleed and die alone Witnesses lie Sing the lies Steal the corpses Soak the skin flesh and bones in tannin Stuck in peat sons clutched to bosoms tree limbs [not meat] then stained glass smeared with chocolate: Holofernes’ jittering eunuchs: fabric shaking like metal or coins held high in the sun: sewn into the scarlet’s black border Sandals kick dirt Sword slaps his leg Longinus wrapped in red wool and lambskin Belts and greaves piled beneath the tarp Crimson skirts flapping on lines hung between olive trees Shined harnesses Thick strips of leather Hammered buckles reflect the flames' fine flicker Spear of spice-holy-old-warm blend cardamom mother Old Spice Capture the Holiday Scent clove Walls Tile roofs Shutters SPLIT Tagged back like hurricanes' quake [not-a-word] She-Wind Mother “Their tongues will lick His blood from this hill It will trickle over their bowls’ brims and sparkle in the sun”
|
Thoughts on Pattern Recognition by William GibsonOneTwo Three Four Five Six Seven
cantosIII III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV XV XVI XVII XVIII XIX XX
sites
atomFILMS
|
