Tuesday, September 26, 2017

Alex Lundy, Chiasma & Theogyny


The Rise of the Subalterns, image by Daniel Y. Harris 




Chiasma


Like little t’s, like telephone poles, like repeated rows              of railroad sleepers, footnotes, & obsoletions, like red edits,   traffic lights on city blocks,  like long walks, strangers colliding, jawing off, & punches thrown, like B-4 shadows & target   zones, the way homes lay   broken over quiet streets, a mortared amalgam of bricks,  like two sticks twined over your plotted grave, or else, the devil’s highway, like the burning firmament slipping surrenders, like how the moon will eclipse the sun, the sun, the moon, like clasped hands beneath             a phthalo-blinking dusk, like krackenwagon, like I can see right through you, your sweet self-prescribed moonshine taken by the jug; like a sketch of redemption, your facial symmetry, like selfhood’s geometry, what Olson declared, + this, plus this, Venn brainstorms, like what’s x, or xy graphs 90x90x90, turning, like wheels, so timely.



Theogyny

in the calloused hands of icemen,
a walrus penis bone plays god,
breaks baby seals, & births
a host of athenas riding euphoria
that tide & trip & bark in arctic skies.

little friend, what a night to sip hot 
brains
from this lichtenberg skull,
    & burn the fat, the hecatomb bodies;
a toast of blood to new gods
in the dark,
in reverence.

                lit at a far distance in spooky 
green
can you see us dancing? we, the god-
seals,
in the midst of bacchanalia;        
you, as tamino, playing
           in a grove of singing ice & still
    I must ask
in the lucubrating infancy of omnipresence
                what our seemers be?

somewhere beyond, a shadow
casts against the night veil, spectral & hollow,
its voice both dare & pardon,
        as you floe away...
o, bellower of this viridescent cascade,
                  is this hades, or oz?
        I make my discession, as you

await the stork delivery of the greek
φιλοσοφος;

keep a weather eye
       on the stars weaving off their great spindle
                                like dino-
                                flagellates,
silvery laps of paranormality
becoming heroes in blood-drunk
staggers of thought,
not more than fuzzy figures
who guard your doze.
       
little friend,
if you peer beyond your veil,
do you see the capsizing of the old guard?


—Alex Lundy

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