Thursday, July 5, 2018

Nathan Spoon & Colin Winborn, Unaffected by Strong Force


Democracy of Flower
(acrylic and paper on wood; 11 x 14)
image by Nathan Spoon 



Unaffected by Strong Force


detail

i will accomplish nothing. will

  take in joyfully the glow of

    this maple in nov(a).ember while

      thinking about biscuits.

*

am i the failure i have always

  wanted to be. since nothing

    could be worstward.er let,s

      hope? snow is arriving soon.

*

On the page.
          Stars fell.
From the sky. In the night.
                                        Fell as snow.
A page is our heartbeat. A page is our breath.
                    Our blood.
Look now.
Unmeasure. Now this vale.

*

Under a blanket.
                                        Of snow.
          Of stars.
Carrots grow.
                    In earth. Through which.
Worms whistle.

In sightless unison.


retail

from vessel.   you sieve
                
               within             nothing kept from

tomorrow. doing         a domain

bounded through.  to

                         leptons anointing
                      
               a slave mission

fizzy filigree
         
            snatched quantity. of attic
                  
                   blocks

kleptomania up
                   
        braids your hair    still set

                in
               
                my hands

catacombs
        
        are pets

beloved

               ear canals

              call
         
         my vassal


derail

They are tiny. They are few. They are snowflakes.
Pack a horde together in time to blink
                    the world astray.

*

From a lost future: smoke.
Beneath a stone: a

*

Snake. I put the toe of my shoe

behind its head and, gathering it up

between my child’s forefinger

                                   and thumb,

carry it, like a golden rope, home.

Once over the fence and returned

                              to our back yard,

     I return it eagerly to the vatic

*

And grassy ground. Watch it crawl like

a shoestring of imagination. Put

                    the toe of my
                    shoe again behind
                    its head and reached
                    down into the darkness
                    of its impossible

swivel where it struck my

forefinger with its

babycopperhead fangs.

Here: spliced

                    lance-marks.


tail end

which is.

 limbo

                  sent

                        out

    lying. in

what state

           coppice and  
salty waves   -

        gate,

   way    propped

the snow

             this

   blue

horizoning

          no.

vember

     vestige

allows flesh

        a hostage

intuits   bardo           within

                                 limits
    stinting

at                 the

               meat stash      suffers

stares   down

      the alley/    way   inter

                                  ested

               all night

          a hinge    a pivot     i’ll

swing

          by that


―Nathan Spoon & Colin Winborn



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