2.10.2009

poem

Queer Fugue
"rarely said aloud and not necessarily bound to any objective accuracy"

Whisper the move
from silence to silence
to loss within loss
A crashing anterior onto
Breath that breathes by
Itself onto
unseen motion
fades
shadow in shadow in shadow

Descending silhouettes
reciting the unspoken
vestiges of carnality
repudiations of desire,
unsung
illuminate, the
diaphason of lust

cantos
of the senses
that lives past its
own conclusion
unyielded sanatorium of the mind
replayed scent of
the skin
of the skin in skin

the sleeping palm coils
sandtides hurl and bury
the untamed heart
as it searches everywhere
still
trumpets drown out the lyre.




5 comments:

Anonymous said...

Isn't it descending?, her mind screamed, unheard, trapped in its unyielded sanatorium.
Or not.

Lewis Whittington said...

speaking of objective accuracy. One of the things in you I've always admired most. Hopefully learned from.

Yes. dear spellchecker heart.

Thanks for correcting. It never ceases to amaze me how bad my spelling can be.

Anonymous said...

Accuracy, not always what it's cracked up to be, however, it's unyielded. Interesting word.
Typo perhaps?
That obsessed, unyielding, place in my mind will henceforth be known as The Spelling Sanatorium.
Love this-
Breath that breathes by
Itself onto
unseen motion
fades
shadow in shadow in shadow

Isn't the wind something? Can hardly stop watching the trees dance. And the horses have barely stepped outside. Weird. Too windy, I guess.
Love,

Lewis Whittington said...

Too good. You are a born editor. That was a typo. Thanks for saying it was an interesting word. Much pondered, and decided on.


The Spelling Sanatorium. fab.

The SS, for short?

Anonymous said...

Yes! SS lately has also stood for Stupid Spellcheck!! Aol's SS doesn't have blog!
Hmmm, seemingly something about spelling drives some of us
insane(er).
I too pondered unyielded for too long I'm sure but eventually went with the ing. Habit probably. Words, words, words.
Have been thinking of these for awhile- "still
trumpets drown out the lyre."
Love,