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John Kinsella
Approximation: Extracted Ode to Tzara
Graphology 504
Graphology: Un-unumbered series
Graphology: Un-numbered Series, 3
Graphology: Un-numbered Series, 4
Debauched lords of clavicles surely boil lids of blood
in pods of hepatitis accruing vats of muscles
and tombs of sour interiors and retrieved memories
chime clutched as lost bells of reason and we too
we delight we of lost reason who yank the chain
to make bells ring in us and we too will chime
what of the babble and whip-around we also saturated in brilliance
not serfs sunning whip-arounds and entering the main temple
and that dutiful viability inculcated with ante-colour
to perve on compromised excrescences aping lengthy torments
lagiariz the villa’s expiated basement and foundation anemones
so suave in series of automated circuits like perfumed rubies
evacuated through the colon and importations by sea lanes
humanely ordered as those of mirages
smell of tainted river laves abundant sound
of memories lit-up glistening like lisping waves
plus tombs of fondled victors lording stone splinters
the clutched sonnet lost reason and we too
the worried look makes portions of we
whose nostrils and verisimilitudes lagiarized
who also produce touts for evening
who neuter defamed mainlined reverie
ornately intuitive metallic rebuses
purifying circular passages or banishing orifices
in villas prepared for carnage or sacrifice
near sweeping or stammering sea-side perspectives
in the nonchalant and dolorous villages of the damned
so mainstream and full of heavies chatting
the chimes of bells we take as purpose
no parties within departure and arrival and arrival
parties within less arrivals arriving with different patients
less reasonable and perky than perky and naturally perky
plus companies of pain and song savouring
sour scales like languid languages
coloured by depositions of lurid penitent thoughts
and glaring orderlies resisting all that nourishment
replete with fruits and ledgers stinking of plants
dipped in tissue prised from jail cells
round the newly sounded appellations of us
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Graphology 504
I haven’t a population,
cease to add layers,
cease to crowd
moreover; I look and long
the river, sheltering bay,
as riverwalls are made of radar, lagiarized
offramps, storm-
flow hillweight
away; the less news travels,
here the offer: as up-ended, if we
misremember,
then honestly it was different,
and we wonder how difficult
against the grain: a hacker’s
massacre of figures
nurturing
early-colonial sketching — holdfast
to palm tree, hold-
fast to swayings
and impulse to make,
to break
to get along better
out to sea.
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Unwatered the tree semi-died and a demi-monster
emerged from only just undead roots, a monster
that we’d expect of the mountain, but it’s gone,
the volcano long ago extinct; in dealing with long ago
justices of the peaces take local knowledge
into account when dealing out witnessings
and punishments, quasi, as explorers
renaming start systems with excitement:
the asterisms
of the colonial. Who is doing the telling
and who is being told? Profile of trenchings
outsources jam trees, new appearances
where water pipes or telephone cables
were buried through; who will get us out
this fallen, this ice-less forest thinning out,
dead in the middle, then both ends
of a state emergency services compass,
still kept by mum to align sun,
mountain, house.
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Butterflies / are quicker / than rock”…
Lorine
Niedecker
In the valley we receive
rocks rolled from the summit
of the hill — the mountain — quicker
than butterflies flitting downwards;
every day looking up the losses
are etched into the glass photo-plate
of receptivity. Here, there is no depth
to images and likely no metaphor.
Do without them, as complaint
falls and clearing continues,
tree by tree. An anarchist
pragmatically appealing
to the Environmental Protection Agency
against the clearing of crown land
is fugitive collision/collusion/collapse, though loudly
shouted up the gradients.
The steepest places, the enfoldings,
have kept even sheep out,
and yet they thin out,
and bats in the rock crags
grow less, come down here
less often. All last night galahs
and corellas screeched.
I’ve scaled it once in an entire
lifetime because private property
(not ours — never ours) surrounds
the “C “class reserve and leftovers atop.
Recreationalists — paragliders, hang glider
pilots — have forged a deal
with one land owner who shoots
at strangers scaling his hill, who defeats charges
with the help of these new vested interests
making character references. To get to the top
they are requested to deposit a bottle
of green ginger wine in his gate-side box.
And not to drive through during fire bans,
which they do. A unique wheatbelt
alpine orchid has less space to manoeuvre.
There is no higher place in these flat lands.
This hill etched on our glass memory plate
is pain, nothing but pain,
and on a selfish level their actions
are sadism; like another neighbour
saying, “the black kids try to climb up there
but we keep an eye out,
keep them off…” It doesn’t matter
whether or not this satisfies the rules of lyrical
preservation, the law of reader satisfaction.
It is record, it is a witnessing.
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“although i am critical of your work echoing
eliot’s criticism of the young auden…”
megafauna
As lit, cave frieze
in the parklike, to scamper
abundantly
circle rough inside parameters
ingrown, cherishing
tense-up, unglamorous
in barely woodlanders
without
all names out,
meditate…
prospect: louts
and exo-shelled diehards /
stump, or firetrails
of meat ants
balancing de-souled wasps,
“genetic corridors”, water beetles
wading on land
inside the grasp
of working forelegs
aggregate of encouragement,
to follow, side-track,
see from over there
name no circumstance.
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Born in Western
Australia in 1963, John Kinsella is the author of a dozen works of poetry,
including Full Fathom Five, Syzygy, The
Silo, Erratum/Frame(d), The Radnoti Poems, and The Undertow, new and collected poems. His is the editor of Salt magazine and Folio (Salt)
publishing.
Copyright ©2006 by
John Kinsella
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