Woods and Chalices (2 page)

with its tail? Saws through the cross? Should he fall

on his knees again, although he's still perforated

with nails? How will we do this, take him off

the cross so the knees will bend?

But what if they're already cold and stiff

like Cletus's corpse, whom Alexander undid

out of a guilty conscience, since he burned

Persepolis. Clearly Persepolis had to be

burned, the Rothschilds denationalized.

The sold-out butter rolls are padded.

Torcello burns. The khan who spat

over the drop is driving. The data is where

 

the woods shove. When we come through

the woods to the corpse, fond of air,

did we already see this hide?

 

Is it borrowed? Where are its signets

and crinolines and my stamps?
Die Gestalt,

all scratched, cracked on the fork.

 

Or further inside. What do I know.

Did he ramble as in some kind of pot? We,

the types, must borrow a little stove. Atanor

 

wheezes. Cumin is brutally alive.

Waterlilies go through little needles. Dwarves

jump off. The does with snouts do not.

 

Frightened, they kneel on leaves. This lumberjack

appears in a porno. He's drenched.

He has an axe. The shirt fits him well.

 

The birdies accept him, and the elephants, marching

into the daylight, trod the reservoir alone.

The curtains only hindered them.

The whore of all solar systems and diligent

little ant, let's begin with this restriction. Until here,

cows, but here the guests can already wipe

 

their backs, except we dry this laundry

outdoors and the muffs also hang, although

it's summer at Jama in Bohinj. Ŝpela is already

 

a great-grandmother now, she has a grandson

who plays hockey at Tufts, already forgotten as well,

like those who played chess here:

 

Cvit, Raša, Avčin, the awesome Montanists,

you can be Mister God in your country

(Raša), but here in Oxford we wear coats

 

differently, also stutter a little, out of pathos,

so this then pours into our Carinthian blood,

and after my sister, who got married

 

to Detela, bore a genius (deceased), and one

good and important writer,

now the living and the dead pull each other's hair

 

and with Barbara we're civil servants, telephones

constantly bang against us, and she was a little

in love, and I, too, and we sang

 

žure,
put together for us by our mothers,

Madam Silva in her instance, and out

of this are born poets and civil servants,

 

who every free minute break for the Strand,

give search for Mikuž, another boy scout,

another nephew, another son, translating

 

that dreadful Latvian, I can find him

nowhere, and then Lojze arrives, the type

who would not believe I wished him well,

 

and yet today, first he gets lost in Harlem,

then he still comes up to Phillis,

who was wildly searching for him, and together

 

they watch
Microcosmos,
Phillis

howls with enthusiasm and they talk

fourteen hours without stopping, while

 

I, with Metka, rush to the same film:

how the snails fuck doesn't move us, hardly

staying upright against catatonic fits

 

of sleep because I must save my energy

so I will wake up in the morning because then

I furiously type and sniff everything: Barbara,

 

if Govic rises, I will stare once more

at the muscles of the inflated Avčin

rowing, how should I be interested in

 

the little sex lives of insects

and robbers, and whether I truly

forgot a gift for her birthday.

Open the bread.

Oil the wound.

Throw it up, puke it, speak it.

As long as you won't speak, it will hurt.

It will hurt, too, when you say it.

A caraway seed is a bath towel.

Chafers that fold on bones.

Puteshestveny's bundles are clearly starving.

The hunger reflects.

From the statue, from Oregon,

south of your Mihec, who is poured

by a lotus blossom emptying.

Order a mouth.

You don't know you can order it.

Few things are always technical.

The fan carried Liquido in his arms.

If I make him a face L will spring.

We also capitalize the countermand

and mythological monsters help us

so our apertures don't squirt.

 

Crown witness, crown garden,

watch the white lamb!

 

Boŝtjan read me and then

died underwater.

 

Ophelias on hooks, I'm a statue.

I'm a statue, fairy tales rustle.

 

Boštjan read me and then

died underwater.

 

Who will be the third Saint Sebastian?

 

The world wants to forget.

We want to forget

the dead and youth and freedom.

The good sides of a siege are not also those

smudged by a horse. There's a face

in the clause. Seven cherry trees. The notorious

 

seldom ever helps. He thinks mainly

about his blades. Do the smaller

and bushy help? Those seized below the deck?

 

The roots are to be followed to sand and sky.

The leaves rumble on them. If there's no balance

of silver and isotope—staffs—does it mean

 

we, too, can be happy? Without rocks,

there is no pier. The shelter extends to the bottom.

Objects are already sorted in the womb.

 

The creamy pigment sticks to some.

Someone will have swelled English,

a flayed stone in Potoĉka Zijalka. White dawn

 

that will suit him, dark green plastic

to pile up. Ribs creak

a bit on an uneven floor. You don't swing

 

your brain, you swing a dish. Once more you burn

crumbs, a face, pathos. You yellow

the black seed. I march nowhere. Honey flows

 

down my throat. Shed, breached, as if a machine

gets dressed. Little barrels shielded us in the spirit

of God's eye. We poured them out as we swam.

With the screech owl the seed grows from the face.

The white vacuum pumps, the white vacuum pumps,

how you are squeezed. The cylinder is always strict.

The coil only sleeps in the clouds.

The cat and I, we scratch ourselves,

she will wreck my jacket.

She waits for fresh scales and the tone.

Clones evaporate faster.

At Fanelli's she whispers to herself the membrane

of the pigeon mail. She waits for fresh scales

and the tone. Little onion leaves are beneath the hooves

of fallen angels. They look like sacks.

They burst because of the farewell.

Anyone who goes soft gives away his voice.

Poetry is a hatchery for martyrs. The river

rinses the butter.
Warum Nichts
? A window

is installed in a house, a house is installed in the dawn.

A clock strikes the quarter hour. I am left behind,

I am left behind, on the beach at Menorca

I expire like a crocodile. In the region

of Ciutat (with bicycle) near the young man

in his bathing suit from the twenties,

reading Cavafy. Did he have heavy hands?

Goran has heavy hands. I'm molasses,

don't forget that. Cat with cloudy

eyes. Voice found in the emptiness

and driving you to the precipice. Graveyards

as at Potoĉka Zijalka. Layers on layers.

Blow into whales, schoolboy. The bait doesn't hurt.

Elephants, when alarmed, no longer know

the river. They carry penicillin between

ears and ribs, and trample reeds. Chess

comes from their backs. Birds' pecking

on a tarp is only one part of rocking. The sea

is black with fine sand. The white cork shines.

Palm trees that open beneath the robbed one

(all the checks, all the hash, two of Jure's letters),

you watch from two levels. The Ganges can wash

away the double. Luckily the current was fast enough

and in the morning, already at sunrise,

at the ritual murders, only one sipped and reaped

and didn't care at all to wake up.

Vigorous, disfigured mice,

tassels or bonbons. Latte (the name

of the bitch with white fur), did the wheels

 

overeat like the heads of memory at the ends

of wood-limbs by Deacon? They were quite

devoured. Stretched out, softened,

 

given and given. Slime

washes windows. Peter, as a rule,

dances. Shoe shining is coming back,

 

the white matrix of the Announcing Angel.

People walking along roads

is coming back, the fluttering

 

of overcoats and the stopping of coaches.

The rushing to work and the paying

of tolls. We're a bunch of flowers. Napoleons

 

of the Bible. Worms between butter

and jam at the vaults of Inter Conti.

Ceelia Min signs.

 

The foam curses and counts.

A bottle is missing.

Surely it's hidden under the coverlet.

The boy scrubs the kitchen and crushes

the dot to mom. Godfathers' microwaves

catch fire. Snakes, Easter eggs, gray hats,

and crampon lamps flake from the pillars

on the walls. He who brews brandy

pants on screes, incantation.

Boils he who carries the mountain

and this one who unsaddles, supports yuppies.

I rotate breasts and papers. The river

makes the mesh. It's easy to find shapes

in the profiles of stones, but in the mud

there's the weight of the horse-collar. Sinking stools,

you can't pierce water! Only the scattered

water can drink water. The full water twists.

Leather without history. Strength without

rickets. From a drawer. On the hand a wire. Blood

is silk. Walk silently. Blood is like

fruit. Here, too, is heated.

Shah's tanks are entrenched. First we thrashed

ourselves. We roared and got excited.

Mirrors have to function as ovens. You see them

from the road. On the machines producing

dreams. Some read between. The perfect

form springs up like an ear. I know

a chiropractor who can pull out your arm.

Five centimeters out of your shoulder.

Joints crunch. No need for oil. You spin

as you please. You leave when the tool falls asleep.

Invent a jacket for wearing out.

From a heap, a terrarium, little hairs.

From harnessed little ponies

and snorted snow.

Bitumen sits on stamps.

Whole corridors of sculpted

chewing gum underground.

 

Between seven and eight you can travel with a basket.

With a songbook, a flower bed, as you please.

You can dance with a puppet.

Silky hen, I stuff dollars into your mouth

to refresh the blood of your guitar.

We're happy

and we beam when we leave work.

Scrubbed hands, a goblet, a goblet,

a column and a dripped heart.

At the cross there's a stole and a signet, agave.

When sliding as on silk, white sheets

or linen, and a rotor flutters.

A mole sags under the soil.

He completes slits in the air.

Women yell, roll up arms,

does he make up for the fall of six million bison

over the cliffs of the Grand Canyon?

How many filaments are in the blood?

Or potato blossoms, blossoms

of pumpkins, blossoms of raspberries?

Organs shout down.

The cash box is iron.

Butterflies smack when they rise up in hope chests,

shoulder to shoulder, in the dark.

Did he slide?

Did grief produce juice?

Did he leave a trail like a snail,

only he went a little faster and not so

slowly?

Where was he intercepted?

Did they bury him without humus?

“Fast,” he whispered.

“Brooklyn, this is the skin

cream.”

The car is oily. Shutters in sleeves

rush. Trees crystallize, their juice

disputes the shutter. In history there are snails

and stepped-on snails. The dead and those

whose mouths we stretch. The juice costs.

The mower scores a salary. Can I catch

your tail and put you on the bus?

In big cities people don't walk

hunched. Yesterday I saw a cab driver

shot. On Third Avenue, at

Thirty-first Street. People interrupted

their reading. The young were worried. The police

were alert, as if they would train all night.

The air in the bus turned fresh.

You're lazy, Fedor, stupid and godfearing.