(about she and her)
She thought it was an admirable point, although, with mock-exasperation, she
moved her attention toward sounds from the road beyond.
Generally speaking, she was permitted entry,
but budgetary deficits guarded her by night and day (a daily journey across the sky).
My fragments of reference show her taking part in a larger view;
an assault to be launched against my life.
I am watching as more and more shreds are blown off the various parts of some strange flower.
It has never been determined how she took 12 years to build the doorway
(a loose nail moves, and, at any rate, you know the truth now).
Like the wing of an albatross, each year she tries to take a photograph of me,
sitting around a table laden with runnels and drain-pipes.
I am delighted to think that those who live there, including her,
carry a tramp-steamer gloom, that hangs over everything (where dates and figs were supposed to once grow).
How to convey the chalky whiteness of her skin; the tones of rock, slowly cooling lava.
But for the time being I sigh and gaze round at hidden groves of olive, fig and orange,
For years I have been trying to describe the bones of the nymph Rhodon to her.
But, with a cigarette in the corner of her mouth, her mind is offshore somewhere, near the island Clementia.
Along the circumference of a drum - we are still busy fighting,
and have escaped again into that magical darkness of a long-suffering dance.
It seems hopeless in my frantic lunges (tango?), as I become further entangled on the outskirts of fantasy.
The faces of our friends would rise in gravity as she lost her temper.
I realize now that her sharp classical features would morph into something more adolescent, unformed.
Letting my head fall back, I listened as her voice became crumpled and cold with bilious humidity.
from a sky of wrapping paper
she does not smile
our scrapped issues
are a penny's worth
and as it gets darker
my heart is stained
with salt water and brandy
Can we ask for explanations?
(I wave the powdery dryness of my lips under her nose.
She rises and crosses the garden.)
Her mood is a variegated coastline of stones and rock.
Can we admit our mistakes?
(It becomes obvious that my words are an attack!)
...these fragments of reference disturb our account
of misfortune.
I am watching the light
play upon the wing
of an angel
but now with the preparation ...
of food...
darkness is falling
the wet deserted waves
come to say goodnight
with a criss-cross
of imaginary linotypes
she made little money
and was a natural poet
serious, beguiling, world-weary
life had been too big for her...
with magnificent friendliness
I was convinced of what was
not clear -
she said, "a flock of pigeons"
(good manners sometimes)
and continues, "you are impossible"
(rejecting all etymology)
then whispers, "there is darkness on the horizon"
I lean back and study the shapes of birds
humming and yawing...
Together, arm in arm, we go off
Living in pauses and silences between events
Held together by string and Scotch-tape
She had the habit of spitting with great abandon;
part brute and part escape, her love was an odd love,
as precious as the belief in fresh-water fundamentalism.
She starts up her car and gets into it slowly.
It is a vehicle much ruined by damp and neglect.
Soon she is swallowed up in her own individuality,
her ego moving round and round to the rhythm of her body.
The success of her livid attack would give me what I wanted most.
I am a walking symbol of faith, and need death as sombrely as life.
A good crowd of bright vegetables is expected.
And then there was the whole idea of seasoning the clouds in dense gloom.
I mean, "bad weather", she said (charming but mechanically resolved).
Connecting her comments was enough to carry assault-crews into the mouth of exclusion of anything else.
vague lights and the scent of spring flowers ~
(our distant war had really been very small... our fingers flying as we argued... I loved her once)
sky blue and wasp yellow packets of color ~
On popular prejudice, her self regard was always proper
(across open seas and oily water)
Is that why conversation was an impossibility?
(thinking of all the insults I received)
Our reality was based on bad literature with Greek
ambience, and a verbal exchange that patronized
blindness and headache.
Such was the dread influence of my once beloved; the end, indeed, a long time coming...
The smell of darkness, weakening and diffuse - it was like climbing into a foggy mirror.
"A tube of white lead
And a punch in the head"
(Dante Gabriel Rossetti)
...sunburnt airs and holes in the clouds
and I say, "here I am, at this point in my life...
For a moment I thought I heard the sound of damp crepitations.
"The seas of mightiest monarchs, and so large
The prospect was that here and there was room
For barren desert..."
(from Milton's 'Paradise Regained')
a consuming/ project
perfectly timed
"I never could..."
conversational gambits
among the first
imagine it/ to be
"...he just makes drawings".
When the weather gets colder
we talk about stone-carved tombs.
Beneath the surface I am a very old man
with a history of eating Spam (with some
figs perhaps).
"While down and dusks grow warm
beneath my skull"
(Stephane Mallarme)
She persuaded me to join her after a series of protracted
pottery-throwing exercises. I hear the sound of snow melting...
"Gripped in an iron ring like an old tomb
And sad I seek a vague and lovely dream"
(Stephane Mallarme)
the air is paradise
flares for a moment
light her profile
backs to the sea
we become older
as the trees laugh
"through fields where sap
begins to strut and swell"
(Stephane Mallarme)
As faces pass by in a crowd
The ripeness of her body
Is less about divine doom
A crackling has returned
With the noise of the storm
We are led slowly
In the direction of light
A narrative impulse
Fails to withstand purpose
a stone woman/ quarrels with myself
hoping for family/ living a fable
- nevertheless our little group of friends
continued to dress like mandarins -
I drew a symbol in the sand
and stood staring at it for six hours.
When the children are sent to bed
I survey the soup-stained wall.
"What relics of the recent past remain
And in disorder clutter up the plain?"
(Secundus)
For a moment I watched as
another storm was brewing.
She had been making a few friends
and many enemies.
Sooner or later, deeply wounded,
I would divert the sewage
to congratulate her.
with pear-shaped lenses
I carry a step-ladder,
reaching for another level
suddenly I come upon my arm,
behind your head, and am
perplexed by the multiplicity
of possibilities
"Alas! either the locks were too large,
or the key was too small.."
(Lewis Carroll)
my windows/
looking out on to the sea
my eyes/
the weariness of our journey
(the trunk of an old tree
various books and writing)
hanging by my elbows
while stubbornly insisting
my cloud-shape is a mushroom
- such gaiety, love, truth - a year of coronation
for the mango and the beetlebug
We are practically face to face, when I say,
"Please don't turn your head and spit and run."
(my voice crunches on crisp eucalyptus leaves, and
I think, 'where are my exacto blades?')
I listen to my own breathing,
(phantasmagoria of shaking willows)
imagining we are all travellers
to a cafe for a final cup of coffee.
(engaged landscape of hysteria)
revolvers in hand
under the walls
down repeated stairs
a churchyard
and monastery...
she kneels as we
watch our eyes
grow puffy
beyond this enchanting landscape
was the success of our joint attack
our journey was poorly cultivated
with so many pointing fingers
Her clothes appeared to catch fire.
There was no noise; just an insane silence.
Dancers were beginning to form a line near me.
All I had to do was walk away. But could I?
For so long she withstood not only the genius of
the ruined suburbs, but the momentum of our
history itself - over two decades of adjuration
and bombination. (I am so indebted to her for our
scraps of sponge-bag memories.)
she had seen enough -
and her laughter had no joy in it
at odds with her experience
she delivered us from success
She was always fond of explaining things
her fingers flying as she argued her point.
With a great till of red-brown anger,
it became a battle scene.
precarious stepping around/ continued
rising out of a pine-glade
(you would be wrong)
cooking a dish of vulgarity/ remembered
According to ancient legend, truth is faith in a body.
A warm spring brings green vegetation and half
a dozen red mullet.
(I waited for love by the roadside, drinking a tea
of myrtle and thyme).
There are special faculties advantages,
and she suits him perfectly.
He is taking up his position,
prejudiced by no illness or servility,
except a blindness of heart.
I am relinquishing the melody.
In a little while our candles will
burn out forever.
I can no longer hear the violins
with any clarity.
The circle drops and unwinds...
- no second line of defense
- self as a constant nuisance
- the hooves of goats
- dark-skinned chattering
- expeditions against the ripening skins
of tangerine flavored coconuts
She reserves the right to be vicar of all the known intellects save her own ego.
(As the clouds move slowly across the smooth surface of the sky.)
A mountain of melancholy followed a marriage of words.
Walking towards a darkening border, our voices swam in
a courtyard of deceit.
And for a moment I heard nothing but the blinding drizzle
of future tears.
I was nearer to her than some others,
but far from the shattered dwellings of
her soul.
I realized her original determination
would be that of a desultory novel.
The end of the year has passed
and my slice of new year cake
gives bees and flies the graceful
appearance of benevolence.
As will be recorded in popular literature;
nothing to be said about her.
She did not speak, except to be caught
by her long pointed nose.
© David Ronce 2014
She thought it was an admirable point, although, with mock-exasperation, she
moved her attention toward sounds from the road beyond.
Generally speaking, she was permitted entry,
but budgetary deficits guarded her by night and day (a daily journey across the sky).
My fragments of reference show her taking part in a larger view;
an assault to be launched against my life.
I am watching as more and more shreds are blown off the various parts of some strange flower.
It has never been determined how she took 12 years to build the doorway
(a loose nail moves, and, at any rate, you know the truth now).
Like the wing of an albatross, each year she tries to take a photograph of me,
sitting around a table laden with runnels and drain-pipes.
I am delighted to think that those who live there, including her,
carry a tramp-steamer gloom, that hangs over everything (where dates and figs were supposed to once grow).
How to convey the chalky whiteness of her skin; the tones of rock, slowly cooling lava.
But for the time being I sigh and gaze round at hidden groves of olive, fig and orange,
For years I have been trying to describe the bones of the nymph Rhodon to her.
But, with a cigarette in the corner of her mouth, her mind is offshore somewhere, near the island Clementia.
Along the circumference of a drum - we are still busy fighting,
and have escaped again into that magical darkness of a long-suffering dance.
It seems hopeless in my frantic lunges (tango?), as I become further entangled on the outskirts of fantasy.
The faces of our friends would rise in gravity as she lost her temper.
I realize now that her sharp classical features would morph into something more adolescent, unformed.
Letting my head fall back, I listened as her voice became crumpled and cold with bilious humidity.
from a sky of wrapping paper
she does not smile
our scrapped issues
are a penny's worth
and as it gets darker
my heart is stained
with salt water and brandy
Can we ask for explanations?
(I wave the powdery dryness of my lips under her nose.
She rises and crosses the garden.)
Her mood is a variegated coastline of stones and rock.
Can we admit our mistakes?
(It becomes obvious that my words are an attack!)
...these fragments of reference disturb our account
of misfortune.
I am watching the light
play upon the wing
of an angel
but now with the preparation ...
of food...
darkness is falling
the wet deserted waves
come to say goodnight
with a criss-cross
of imaginary linotypes
she made little money
and was a natural poet
serious, beguiling, world-weary
life had been too big for her...
with magnificent friendliness
I was convinced of what was
not clear -
she said, "a flock of pigeons"
(good manners sometimes)
and continues, "you are impossible"
(rejecting all etymology)
then whispers, "there is darkness on the horizon"
I lean back and study the shapes of birds
humming and yawing...
Together, arm in arm, we go off
Living in pauses and silences between events
Held together by string and Scotch-tape
She had the habit of spitting with great abandon;
part brute and part escape, her love was an odd love,
as precious as the belief in fresh-water fundamentalism.
She starts up her car and gets into it slowly.
It is a vehicle much ruined by damp and neglect.
Soon she is swallowed up in her own individuality,
her ego moving round and round to the rhythm of her body.
The success of her livid attack would give me what I wanted most.
I am a walking symbol of faith, and need death as sombrely as life.
A good crowd of bright vegetables is expected.
And then there was the whole idea of seasoning the clouds in dense gloom.
I mean, "bad weather", she said (charming but mechanically resolved).
Connecting her comments was enough to carry assault-crews into the mouth of exclusion of anything else.
vague lights and the scent of spring flowers ~
(our distant war had really been very small... our fingers flying as we argued... I loved her once)
sky blue and wasp yellow packets of color ~
On popular prejudice, her self regard was always proper
(across open seas and oily water)
Is that why conversation was an impossibility?
(thinking of all the insults I received)
Our reality was based on bad literature with Greek
ambience, and a verbal exchange that patronized
blindness and headache.
Such was the dread influence of my once beloved; the end, indeed, a long time coming...
The smell of darkness, weakening and diffuse - it was like climbing into a foggy mirror.
"A tube of white lead
And a punch in the head"
(Dante Gabriel Rossetti)
...sunburnt airs and holes in the clouds
and I say, "here I am, at this point in my life...
For a moment I thought I heard the sound of damp crepitations.
"The seas of mightiest monarchs, and so large
The prospect was that here and there was room
For barren desert..."
(from Milton's 'Paradise Regained')
a consuming/ project
perfectly timed
"I never could..."
conversational gambits
among the first
imagine it/ to be
"...he just makes drawings".
When the weather gets colder
we talk about stone-carved tombs.
Beneath the surface I am a very old man
with a history of eating Spam (with some
figs perhaps).
"While down and dusks grow warm
beneath my skull"
(Stephane Mallarme)
She persuaded me to join her after a series of protracted
pottery-throwing exercises. I hear the sound of snow melting...
"Gripped in an iron ring like an old tomb
And sad I seek a vague and lovely dream"
(Stephane Mallarme)
the air is paradise
flares for a moment
light her profile
backs to the sea
we become older
as the trees laugh
"through fields where sap
begins to strut and swell"
(Stephane Mallarme)
As faces pass by in a crowd
The ripeness of her body
Is less about divine doom
A crackling has returned
With the noise of the storm
We are led slowly
In the direction of light
A narrative impulse
Fails to withstand purpose
a stone woman/ quarrels with myself
hoping for family/ living a fable
- nevertheless our little group of friends
continued to dress like mandarins -
I drew a symbol in the sand
and stood staring at it for six hours.
When the children are sent to bed
I survey the soup-stained wall.
"What relics of the recent past remain
And in disorder clutter up the plain?"
(Secundus)
For a moment I watched as
another storm was brewing.
She had been making a few friends
and many enemies.
Sooner or later, deeply wounded,
I would divert the sewage
to congratulate her.
with pear-shaped lenses
I carry a step-ladder,
reaching for another level
suddenly I come upon my arm,
behind your head, and am
perplexed by the multiplicity
of possibilities
"Alas! either the locks were too large,
or the key was too small.."
(Lewis Carroll)
my windows/
looking out on to the sea
my eyes/
the weariness of our journey
(the trunk of an old tree
various books and writing)
hanging by my elbows
while stubbornly insisting
my cloud-shape is a mushroom
- such gaiety, love, truth - a year of coronation
for the mango and the beetlebug
We are practically face to face, when I say,
"Please don't turn your head and spit and run."
(my voice crunches on crisp eucalyptus leaves, and
I think, 'where are my exacto blades?')
I listen to my own breathing,
(phantasmagoria of shaking willows)
imagining we are all travellers
to a cafe for a final cup of coffee.
(engaged landscape of hysteria)
revolvers in hand
under the walls
down repeated stairs
a churchyard
and monastery...
she kneels as we
watch our eyes
grow puffy
beyond this enchanting landscape
was the success of our joint attack
our journey was poorly cultivated
with so many pointing fingers
Her clothes appeared to catch fire.
There was no noise; just an insane silence.
Dancers were beginning to form a line near me.
All I had to do was walk away. But could I?
For so long she withstood not only the genius of
the ruined suburbs, but the momentum of our
history itself - over two decades of adjuration
and bombination. (I am so indebted to her for our
scraps of sponge-bag memories.)
she had seen enough -
and her laughter had no joy in it
at odds with her experience
she delivered us from success
She was always fond of explaining things
her fingers flying as she argued her point.
With a great till of red-brown anger,
it became a battle scene.
precarious stepping around/ continued
rising out of a pine-glade
(you would be wrong)
cooking a dish of vulgarity/ remembered
According to ancient legend, truth is faith in a body.
A warm spring brings green vegetation and half
a dozen red mullet.
(I waited for love by the roadside, drinking a tea
of myrtle and thyme).
There are special faculties advantages,
and she suits him perfectly.
He is taking up his position,
prejudiced by no illness or servility,
except a blindness of heart.
I am relinquishing the melody.
In a little while our candles will
burn out forever.
I can no longer hear the violins
with any clarity.
The circle drops and unwinds...
- no second line of defense
- self as a constant nuisance
- the hooves of goats
- dark-skinned chattering
- expeditions against the ripening skins
of tangerine flavored coconuts
She reserves the right to be vicar of all the known intellects save her own ego.
(As the clouds move slowly across the smooth surface of the sky.)
A mountain of melancholy followed a marriage of words.
Walking towards a darkening border, our voices swam in
a courtyard of deceit.
And for a moment I heard nothing but the blinding drizzle
of future tears.
I was nearer to her than some others,
but far from the shattered dwellings of
her soul.
I realized her original determination
would be that of a desultory novel.
The end of the year has passed
and my slice of new year cake
gives bees and flies the graceful
appearance of benevolence.
As will be recorded in popular literature;
nothing to be said about her.
She did not speak, except to be caught
by her long pointed nose.
© David Ronce 2014
all works herein © copyright David Ronce 2009 - 2015