Issue 7: Michael Kindellan, after Baudelaire, Pound, Char

Martyrdom

Drawing unknown quantities of

gentlemen into the debris of ampoules

the greenhouse air is daggers

inevitably bundling flowers, those in the

coffins of their glass whiff finally

to sigh. The course of a body becomes

rivulets, thus IS again animated / red and

viscous puddles, watering a meadow. In

the sights, which do the colours to death

and which attach to our eyes their heads,

with such accuracy. Of precious jewels

on the table is the night, like to renege

peace similarly waives sympathy, twilit as

draping rivulets is as volatile a view as is

vague. In bed the brink without those

explaining scruples compounds the giving

of this former splendour up. The beauty

it does to nature has formed the delivery.

A support adorns the peg. Since, a

memory also remained a coda. An ill

secret, which is sparkling, pushes OUT a

view. On this side of the prime, numbers

isolate largely a slow-acting portrait of the

attitude and covers one tin-brow, a love, a

guiled joy and plain celebrations of

catatonic kissing, for which we give

thanks / from which swarm of villains the

aspect of this inside a curtain swims. And

nevertheless, it seems the fact that

elegantly the outline caused a small sharp

zip in the functions as if remote. Good

news is so disturbing! Is it I, with this

direction of the impairment, who is open

to amnesia, in which the accumulation is

annoyed, lost desires errant and can

revenge the person whose love you

dismissed pro bono in such a way that

appeases, combines in active duty and in

the meaty complexion of the moneyed

vastness, answer, imping off the dead’s

wishes, and of its twisted zero point cause

an ataraxis interspersed by heads / in cold

teeth Kalashnikovs = maximum good-bye,

sleeping even into this world

Hip Cat Chung

Here Hip Cat, wear speech, don’t break

my wills down. The trees dump matter,

the father’s tongue is the mother’s tonne,

and their heart is full (it’s awful). Hip Cat

Chung don’t jump my wall, or streak my

mulberry bows. The bows don’t matter

but their brawn will clatter so think hard,

Chung. It’s awful, Hip Cat Chung, this is

my garden wall. Don’t take my sandal-

wood tree (my tree dumps matter). The

subsequent chatter is hard Chung’s offal.

Crossing

On the way that plunges in distance,

no horse more raises himself up.

And the gully furrows its matches;

so a herb, from a low branch

gives both a roof and tends to it.

Under the pink heather flower

no grief cries.

Buzzards, kites, martens, ratters

and the funeral farandoles

hold tight to these wild places.

Rye traces on the threshold

midst the fern and its name.

Drop down this negligible past.

What is done,

the bar of spring on a forehead,

for these sleeping clouds

without rolling along our eyes?

What is missing,

the happiness is galloping off,

so the axe falls down between?

Be gone, sufferer! Get lost, captive!

The transpiration of the men of meat

puts Mérindol under once more.

Michael Kindellan is a postdoctoral researcher at the Université Paul-Valéry, Montpellier III. He has published some chapbooks of poetry including Charles Baudelaire (Bad Press 2005); Word is Born with Reitha Pattison (Arehouse 2006); and Not love (Barque Press 2009). He probably lives in Berlin.

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