Issue 10: Corey Wakeling
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.
In medias res
dawn fracted vitrum
yet again unplaced
like the dance
of all hot hell
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,
HIS FACE STUNG LIKE A HAND WRUNG DOTE MAP
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