Blackbox Manifold

Issue 10: Corey Wakeling

The Lull

Imagine it sounds like quackery, this lull.

To pastoralists their oats woodland tend, amongst the parochial

all wild. Moel Fammau barren but pate-like. And if it were not

then why donate at all the corpse to the ploughshare?

Any relation to the Millerites                                    this eternal return

it would unveil the unfortunate in the fortitude of the cap of the head.

Soot skies. SCREEN DOOR CAKED IN MUD                 RATTLES

BY CURLED FIST.                        THE SUN IS GOOD ENOUGH.

Propensities to vivisect once curled in a ball lose

consciousness of the cup of blood, that second return

not eternal but as deliverance sautés the aureal

dismissal of crumb of corn chips all about

the vestibular lie in. Rung ears of mid-morning. The sun is never good

by portal, spy its fury prone, under it mores of spite are unforgiven.

Hack caulk not caul indissoluble. You in shower curtain like that

acting all Rite of Spring with sea turtle Habitus

screen door open to all of Hobbs, New Mexico the drab suit

persists not in the quicksand of the prairies

and what we’d call sunbathed meadows; no, especially

not here not yet cataracted that spicy panegyric shaking

not hand of sphinx but Entitlement.

That wayward land in relation to that scrivening, j’adore.

Mens rea,

In medias res


dawn fracted vitrum

yet again unplaced

diurnal lolloping

like the dance

of all hot hell

surd socketed

Entitlement called barter via middlemen with the warm hand supposed of sphinx,

vitreous. Go shake the second hand of divination,

the desperate sand prayer. Today like yesterday is clammy inheritance day.

Dry mud shatters all about the fist that speaks, in its place the smithereens of terracotta,


The Tavistock Lectures

How they make Hebrides tartan is in preference

to the bull poems, snow like the arachnid parachutes in the hotter part

of the state of Victoria.

We had asked of memory

nudity for science’s sake, for the field of Rembrandt’s

leer and dissemination, for the gloss of lard and pumice-like

stale sponge at the Tavistock series of lectures in your London.

They strung the subject up in the lane outside, to throttle,

to hammer the flanks like butchery,

history panegyrical with fists made

prognostication, become the sphinx satyrical.

Y’s excised, how it was preference was made to the bull poems

sits ably within coastal noise,

they call it stealth when you imitate futility on the cusp

of the noxious oven; imagine if jealousy were not like monoxide

but instead sesquioxide, haematite,

blood ash, like the spots on your skull and your face’s new abstinence.

The cretin admires marine mammal copulation as sound, the union scoffs

at the cretin admiring marine mammal copulation as sound,

both skin the broth for wherewithal, though only

sign we have of the living is froth.

Widemouth Bay in Cornwall

did arrest you during the great trawl, especially the sulphuric coastal foam.

What might Nicolaes Tulp,

or the Carlton blood sausage, make of this, I wonder. Somewhere in nudity

is the trap, and entailed by the trap,

Punishment, though it might be sublimely historical,

like Bacon’s admiration of Eisenstein, for example. That is, admiration

for the cold stung carcass of the infrigidation containment,

containment cold stung in admiration

of the death mask.

It’s good to be forthcoming with your fear of the lash.

Corey Wakeling is author of Goad Omen (Giramondo, 2013) and co-editor of Outcrop: radical Australian poetry of land. He lives in Melbourne, Australia