Donna de la Perrière
ON LONGING
with the advent
of spectacle, the object
becomes more distant --
nascent words
flicker like tongues
in the trees: out of all
the abstraction, a flutter
of arrival, a spoon-hung
ghost in the eaves
of a newly-entered house --
here the text appears,
a blond and bright
nothingness (dim lights
overhead, insects ghosting
the ceiling): a self-
sufficient machine erasing
the labor of its maker,
a festive display of everything
that will not stand
MYTHOLOGY
before
this she wore
the falcon-
beaked
head of a harpy,
the blue
cloak of peaked
feather,
the talon smoothness
of repose:
she woke the dead,
whispered
words into her own
crooked hands --
already the sky
is darkening
and time cracks
like a whip
marking
the margin beyond
which you cannot
travel—
her tongue scrolls
toward you,
a warning,
but she will tell
you nothing;
she is the pestilence
that tears
at your windows,
that storms
your closed heaven,
that ruins the world
for Gertrude And
INVOCATION: I
was there on the other
side, waking up
from the dream --
a name dissolving
in my mouth, a tension,
an appetite — the richness
of the mind vs. the lived
world and its primordial
dance: but desire can only
be something that you’re
chasing, everything falls
into darkness, periodic terror,
complacency — domesticity
and all the haptic modernity
unfurling — which escapes
the ticking self
with its fantastical exhibits,
its fragile instruments
in silhouette, each
tuned to a different
frequency: breath weaves
us then unravels,
is created then
replaced — a geography
of waste, the saddest
story in the world —
so we lived below the flood
plain, frozen and
dreaming — we awoke,
were cut down, fell
headlong in the field —
each of us born
with time clutched
and crashing in
our bodies — a riverbed,
a seam of ore, a placid lake
called never
FOR YOU WHO ARE BEING OBLITERATED
after Yayoi Kusama
you enter
a space—
it is the closest
thing to not
having a body—
lights blink on
and off
intermittently—
darkness hangs
from cables
overhead—
everything
is becoming
erased
around you—
you must determine
how to walk
to the exit—you
must determine
whether
the exit exists—
lights are hung
on dark
cables—they
glow or change
with color—
the walls are
mirrors
reflecting an exit,
assuming of
course there is
an exit—
there is
a stunning,
yawning vertigo—
there is magic,
there are fireflies—
wouldn’t you love
to walk through this—
wouldn’t you love
its blackness
and polish—