"No Clinic Gawk" (Pessoa, V.)

This paralytic dance demands suave action,
Vanilla Mint Listerine. Fierce sleet, sleep-need
tear at the slates. In lieu of sweet distraction,
cancer. See, i learn to stint my greed
according to the measure of my mint task:
broken out windows? cardboard squares will do.
Shoes disintegrating fast? Don't ask.
Ilka eight-ball scratch has got its cue-
shipment, spare and necessary muse;
violent, if it must be.
And still i lack disasters i can use,
as columns of smoke transfix infinity
out the limo windows where we're driven
blindfold and humming canticles to heaven.


"Almost any sort of poetry writing or poetry life counts as countercultural in a manifestly postliterate society. But that doesn't mean we get to reclaim avant-garde status..." (via Silliman)


The world as a drawer of broken things.(via Dumbfoundry)