Head Disaster I and Head Disaster II – after Brodsky
Tone wakes in the middle of the night. A breath breathing on his neck. At first he assumes it’s Flint’s fitful breath. He must’ve joined Tone in bed, stretched across the arc of his back, his snout behind his head, his nose close to his ear. A grumblevoice. A shifting of weight.
Folds. Folding down
together in a group: sliding them around on the floor.
Tilting like a choking child (oneself), two splitting arcs,
on the inside. In back of. Value? Untouch,
untouch in tree sky, someone in tree sky, tree sky . . .
the internal color
bobs as I walk, flashes. I
pinched the flesh into a little wing.
a dirty word a dirty
bird a time to speak
to sacrifice fantasize do not
disguise or pretend do not decline poison
poison alas a dirty bird a dirty third
a vulture vulture defecates spits from his mouth
ties neat excrements with string repeats repeats
it is a need, no evil is wide, it is time for sweet
relief a hole inside a pot leaking leaking leaking
any decline is poison a no nonsense & no sense sense
it is time to end the first call dares there will be time &
boom in “What we call the beginning is often the end.”
And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where
we start from boom it in it is a need it is a need it is butter is *
*excerpts from T.S. Eliot And Gertrude Stein
I’ve been ignoring all calls since you began ignoring mine.
But “Voices” sang to me in the cacophony of critics that spend their day, my day, in my mind commenting on every thought or action I associate with my I. You, I associate with my id. (“’What id like to do to you’ would have been a better line,” one says, as another says “You’d never pull it off” and still another, “They’d assume ‘id’ is a typo.”) Perhaps the emergence of your smile draws out my words, but that information whispers too softly for me to hear over the cacophony. Continue reading “Autoi-biography by Dov Nelkin”