MARK LAMOUREUX

Rococo

Were I not already the bride of wildness,

what is undone could

eclipse what is in the rectilinear—

the braided paramecia

of the fabulous fluid of

the eye, like a blimp

underwater, ribbed with

rocailles.  It is the future

as it hovers toward us, dangling

boneless arms across the impossible

fields of possible poppies. A swollen

shrike. All will melt into the legendary

crystal of a saltcellar.  This is

unwholesome, say this is all

far too chartreuse even for

the leaden eaves or the hard-

forged reliquaries.  Tamer

than even the dead.  Say

this.  There is a pause in the marching

where never there were bayonettes

or feats of prowess.  Where never

there was this beaten grey

age.  Torpor in the hold, stupid

on the brain.  We have chambers

filled with departing vectors, say

“progression.’  In the veins of

gestalt, the rivers of molten bakelite

advance.  Darling, this is my last

walk beside the garden of open

mouths, pastilles bulge in my smock

like landmines.

Belle Epoxy

The cranberry sun sets for the village

in the clocktower, tolls

a surge of negotiation that shakes

the hovels—a bad candied wake-

up call. This charlatan buffs

the voice from his own throat.

Peristalsis of slamming doors

advances the fetid argument

down the red road. Celeriac-

shaped, my second brown

heart is good for sparring, logistics.

    O the silly storm of zygotes

    O the broken bones of then

Shall I fix you an ear?

A funny arm chucks plates

at the hurt & regret

that pass for the sky around

here. Never guessed

the reasons for prolonged exposure;

albeit certain, there is never

grounds enough to acquire

its stain or its slippery

mien. Black gold rolling pin

rolled out the moon, glazed

with olive sweat for shallow

cuts in the plinth of the sibyl's

scapula--this prefigures

a rusted cycle, a dynasty that

hovers on the pillow of its

transgressions. Whip up

those dishes that murder

me, time for dice before

the last act begins.

Fortress of Solitude

35 winters, 35 blank

white books on a glass

shelf in a crystal house.

An erratic heartbeat—the snow

smashing on the transparent

roof.  Unending, the history

of water: vapor

to liquid to solid

to vapor again.  Drifts white

& heaped, Koro is the fear

of the genitals being swallowed

by the abdomen, this

is the fear of the spire

of time: a tree that is a curl

of tiny lights, a diamond bullet

spit into this house

without sin—ice is not

hard as glass, not un-

breakable as crystal, the shelf

screams into a heap, the story

of water advances: runnels &

rain & a hail of precious

stones—so saline & opaque

is the story of this crystal

tower melting.