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Excerpt from Poems Descriptive by Tim Earley

Excerpt from Poems Descriptive by Tim Earley

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Published by Jen Tynes
excerpt from Tim Earley
excerpt from Tim Earley

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Published by: Jen Tynes on Sep 06, 2013
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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*labour among flowers is presentiment to desire. exceptionalism in the coal-forked individual thelayering failures the loom its rapier replete tickingween and nailbloom bowel and imaginary sister’sextra smiles one way to extend time beyond its sicklied limitation, its course on the rickets plain andheath fellfended, we drew from the welled musk together, leastwise and mostwise, colloid of godhawk and grain. hillock woundless betime the clay will instantiate a raising, massified natilics, thehaunch decroup at variable rates dependent on moral courage and the number of thoughts that flew straight to raven hitched to branch overlooking the others walking peacewise to their merry andselvedged folkways, which build up a kind of mechanism around them, an adversarial cogito toasignificance, the raven’s sturdy housing of itself, the patterned feathers instruct or not and yet itseethes its primary eye an anchoritic jackle contagion groan at my borders. her yellow dressremainder the mountain. everything inside her. the pastoral and vector. code and completion.psychic faculty sorcerous. truth of flame azalea anatomical. brook that usher in primitive settlers andtrout freely transmitting variables. ergo her underwise and infinite seeking hole. very much rain and very much wine and very much song. I could have assayed her multiples, wretchedly, monoscrimedher throat with gall absolute. attendant systems of judgment fired eternal. what kept me from it thenotion of a surfeiting that would slaver us, snowy white negation of her allures upon my summersadness, microscopic sponges, my own fouled stratums, prisoners turned to wood, monopoly pulsation, local redundancies, entire organs of awe and fear.
 dog recourse a new attachment. it like a hose and suck up febriles. Its heart get a new chamber thatmake it moreover a human and timeless except for its tongue. I rub its belly it pardon my murders.and dungal fleep and dead-rot gristle and each little thing a horsehair wilderness and infinite really and even without wings. now the dog can fly in his dreams probably. probably he can. goat recoursea new attachment too but I have no idea what that one is like.* The poppy has deliquesced. I am suffering from an increase in birds. What of the deliquescedpoppy? What of the increase in birds? Should we all participate in the white slave trade? We shouldall participate in the white slave trade. A portal in the scrub oak. A merger of matted air & dimshineamong the pines. You are not like the others. You are exactly like the others. The poppy hasregrown into a brain stem. The birds are fluted bombs & missionaries. My ovary exploded in the Women's Hostel. Jesus Christ also exploded. The poppy is his afterlife. Will this afterlife of coruscated organs be offered unto you? No. Not even a chalice. Nary a knuckle. The poppy, a tiny green spider, my sternum. The American communes hum. The deliquesced poppy may be enteredinto, spectral aperture, a grace beyond toadstool. We are exactly like everyone else. The child frownsin the deluge, a bird in each fist. It is raining in Mogadishu, Mississippi, and it is raining inside herheart.
*put some tor grained fish in the metal bitters. my cousin a tree frog. my earl scruggs a tree frog. I seeinside the translucent curl of amphibian belly. it is june. it is sinkhole. it is patched dungarees. it iskerosene fire. it is hay bail. Filch’s life in serious nomenclature attributed. he kill a man with arailroad spike once. he burn a house down around his lover once and she sits in the chair in the ashand smoke she almost a diaphonal phoenix cigarrillos in her boot and she pops his shin with ahammer was all in the compense of time. he sells them scripts and makes five hundred dollars andmore. he replaces the bad engine. his mother she chases him with a butcher knife. his mother hechases her with a baseball bat. the phone yellow and on the wall and always ringing. blue lights bobin the nite like the flicker in the nite like they alien impressario in the nite like. it is venal albumsscathed on the grass. it is the grass itself scathed by the lordy burn the lordy burn his flection virusinto our ears and out go the mongrel itch from our brains but not our crotches o thorny never. heran over himself that is possible. he identified the bad element. it is a spectral face of the river laird.it is the sour-mouthed others. it is sawdust pile and hornet and jack startle and mica as notary scratch and event. it is all that which is foolishness and all that which is not foolishness. all of that isfoolishness. in the boscage the head of the treasure daddies screaming like advancing pigs or a stormcored its rancible insides a last meatery of horizon and verses, the choral raptured, snipe-tuned,agorse and grot-simple and always the wind the wind. it is natched and naught. it is one more nail inthe intestinal bone. the gamete trigger. the poisons arise. the forelording prig an asemic grief. it isone more bawdy bawdy in the ground.* This welter is
Knock. Knock. Finally, a word or two about napes. How many does it take. Idrift westward with the Hammemites. A good goat will do that willingly. Their fiddles yellow andflorescent. Wanna go make out behind Fuddruckers? To loll or shank. To harumph or rakemercilessly, a rakish angle, a worm in the sky. Then the doctor says,
Ok, Now it’s my turn to cough! 
 Such misery is
Then the fat cannibal turns to the skinny one and goes
 , I prefer white meat, but the rosemary was an inspired addition to the recipe.
Nothing is worse than the true lip of everything.
 Achhk, you bahhhhhstaaard! That's not me bagpipe! 
Oh please god right. Nothing is worse than a rueful ship of acetylene. Dalai Lama, Dolly Parton – there's a difference? Oh please god right. Nothing is pursegland a dual pimp whose phone rings. Oh please god right. Nothing is cursed atom a fuel chimpblue thong blings. Oh please god right. We must listen, for not listening is like placing a souvenir onthe parapet, is like not insinuating that the globe is all fulsome indolent sans post-anal tail and thatmy love is not starling-like, Lord, that your love is not star-nosed-mole-barking-on-a-chain-like,Lord, and I am so happy to have been gifted with these oars as the green waters rise ceaselessly anda lecture is not like a lock of hair and an umbrella cannot be raped in the face like a lock of hairdefying the starlite of pantomimes. Dear Herod: We all sprang from apes, but you didn’t spring farenough!!! Shalom!!! So the precinct commander says
 , Cocaine? Tastes like regular old angel dust to me! 
It isone thing to sequester a body. The moral of the story is: Don't count your lesions before youscratch. It is another thing to fume and contemplate in a rosary-ring of mittens on a hardwood floorin the fire-glow of generations a spot of God in an inexplicable eye. A ten inch pianist. So Jesusturns to Judas and says,
Why do you always have to be such a castrating bitch? 
* The normal reminders of persecution. The blue reminders of incompetence. The sexual pontoon, itsboarding party of insurance agents, their streamlined Jesus, dollar bills fluttering from his anus. He ishalf-balloon, half-carp, amenable to any position. He crowd surfs. The day is sunny. The watergimlet-green. On the shore, a viscount baptizes toothless Mennonites. They have strayed into thestatic and only the static can return their bodies to the appropriate automotive superstore, one of many stops en route to the cemetery and singing earth. They wear funny hats but do not ride horses. The loveliest girl of their number has a birthmark in the shape of an encephalitic gnome on herknee.
The truth satirizes your heart. Eat your lunch. The apple salad is marvelous 
, says Sweet Peter James.
What is this planet and why does your dress swirl so loosely about your hips 
, I beseech him. I rattle theplectrums all around in my lunchbox.
This is our genuflection. This is our sweetness. Do not try to escape my holsters 
, he replies, and makes a little noise like a caterpillar dying. I am driving a fire-engine naked. The vinyl is obscene against my thighs. A little league baseball team is on fire. All fourteen of them,including the two who never get to play, the one because he talks to trees and his eyes gobble up the world with an artist’s strangeness, the other because he throws the ball straight into the ground andshrills like a jackdaw consumed with brain fever and swings the bat at his teammates as though they are Armenians and he has been taught from birth to hate Armenians as the embodiment andpurveyors of social and economic declinism among the otherwise sylvan webs of the untouchablesynth-inflected mystery that is our birthright, and also for their creation of finely-tuned andmordantly humming Armenian devices of torture. They would have kicked this one, namedMadducks, off the team had they not agreed to a sprog that his incandescent rage boosted morale,took them places. It is not my job to rescue the little-leaguers, but rather to drive circles aroundthem in my fire-truck, naked and sweating as they burn, to add to the spectacle, though no one is watching, and they are all orphans, and it is too late to save them anyway, and they are at least thirty feet from any other flammable structure, these sportive and nubile lanterns of abortive hope, and Iflash my lights, and I unleash my siren, and I feel like a knight Templar who has been slithered in theear anew by the spirit and the musky knowledge of his own rapid mortal decay, the decay of his age,and I wish against wishing I was wearing a magician’s hat and a plastic, toy badge pinned to my chest. A crowd-surfing Jesus beats inside me. The children do not scream, but rather make throwing and swinging motions as though they are playing a very poor and erratic form of baseball and thendisappear, puffs of dragon smoke into the sky. My uncle Almarine killed my dog when I was six. Aman’s body can be redeemed through labor. Animals cannot be redeemed.
Is your aberrance sufficient to grant you a name 
, asked Sweet Peter James of me the night we first harpooned our livers from among the madrigals. I love him unduly, as a wraith loves its saint. A man’s body can degrade intobeastliness. The house a person lived in for many years can become another person’s house, or rotinto itself, can be wyverned and redeemed by beasts, a shambled, lean-to for spiritless yellow eyes. Almarine did not count himself a continent man, a man of the church, a man whose fluids stayedmostly inside, a man not irrigated by whiskey. He shoveled most of the day. His body’s own localslurry creased into his skin, blackfaced, sour-hearted. I look around and cannot find my Sweet Peter James. I look around and oh my god my Sweet Peter James is being devoured by ants. I look aroundand my Sweet Peter James is an ant heroically carrying the skeleton of his hagiographic and former

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