Issue 7: Ian Heames, out of Villon

Out of Villon


I and François Villon

Wanted to break the very in love prison

In fast maul

To duel with lime pits

These deluxe rigours and beautiful semblances

Of disappointing savour

Orders that endure death

I leave

I do not last more


To obviate has its dangers

Without my piteous regret

At the height

I say lover for martyr

To me how hard is much departure

And after death there is realism

I see I’m in a remote country

If starlit

A plain of dawns

The veil of excuse in a brave fist

Toward the tart ditches


I leave my brush

With maestro Villon

Who, in donor of his name, bruits

I leave my branch


My tents and my house

And diamante blare has my sane Rolls Royce

Which moves back, articulate, against the Carmelite bubble

I leave the priests to the known

My slings stand in for honest coffers

Inside these masques


I leave them wrung beautiful rifles

Pierre’s lantern, Troy’s arrayed lily

And ill chosen maiden

I leave

And with dissonant pedestrians go agued

Welded to the capon

The gland also a sausage

And every day a fatty ore and lung of hale grass

Ten white wine mugs and two lawsuits that too much engross

Dogs frank prints on all my goods

Too much amiss

And this molested chanson


And Mister Jacques has leave

Popping peaches, pears—sweetening the covered fig tree

With fire

Mutant Johan and Master Beanie forfeit the liking of the Lord

And outdraw Jacobean emulation

Lucy leaves three straw gluons

Extender above ground, to make love meatier

Or it will lay fulcra its life queered

Because it scents another metier

Jacques with pies, shrubs, coal and ploys with the larch

Stratagems with the lyrical


The healthy member dies

Fraud barbers my hair

Latin pralines

The lecture peacefully enflames without wandering

I leave, in pity, three pettish infants

Sobs trap door birdcage

While waiting for meals to have

Charitably I leave them

Forsake them whole

I lay freaky other lays. Bread has two hands


Item: an injured glow worm for the caretaker


This evening, select, extant

Dictating these discrepant lays

All day by the bell of Sorbonne

That predicted angel who has nine hour sounds

At the time, I felt Lady Memory

To begin again in the metro

By doing this I’m drinking wine

By force

My asperity is a lyre

                                                                        1st December 2009

The most recent publication by Ian Heames is Gloss To Carriers (Critical Documents, 2011)