from The Foldings
X
If Mr Bloom found
‘the aura of election’
in the hair of a
Feminist Professor de-
fending any position
so this Poundian
applying his ‘non-chrono
-logical notion
of time’, finds the word ‘email’
in a Troubador canzone.
as rivers might freeze
but only in partial pose,
under ice they seethe –
crenulations of the rose,
melt-water, then ‘the ocean’.
XXI
Take this sealed, scented
‘letter of introduction”
to the fey, sprinting Hai-Far
glimpsed from the 122 bus
– “extreme wardrobe malfunction” –
some holy unction
from the blue bolt of the sky
without sanction an
– “extreme wardrobe malfunction” –
rucked tutu and mauve array
CCTV eye
nest of the fly house-martin
soft as her soft-breast
Coke-wheened scatterlings Hi-Five
play bi to get the right guy
XXII
smug Civic function
M.P’s, geeks and Ombudsmen
debate public art
“extreme wardrobe mal-” where the
vol-au-vents lack distinction.
If ‘form is function’
then function is shot –
a shot house-martin dive-bombs
“extreme wardrobe malfunction”
that ‘mal’ puts us in mind of
Walter Benjamin’s
Art In The Age Of Mechan
-ical Reproduc
-tion, 7 [new and used] reviews,
– “extreme wardrobe malfunction” –
XXIII
faux-décolletage
scooped plump in a bustier
white-laced and fraying
“extreme wardrobe malfunction”
cleavage as an illusion
Blu-Ray porn vids miss
such louche beauty
of disarray and
ruction – Charlie B’s ‘passing
stranger’ [His italics]. Done.
“extreme wardrobe malfunction”
the scented letters
courtesans don’t hide
in their deep-scalloped bosoms
the press of such pure fiction
XXIV
sink-plunge sucker-cup
the sweet pap swelling
whilst, after deduction, we
know it should nourish a child
[and still she’s an Amazon]
nipple as discourse
house-martins, bling, CGI
for this frayed bra-strap
– “extreme wardrobe malfunction” –
Kung will ping in chafed release
one nipple as star
hackneyed male desire – blah, blah –
[Hai-Far] aniseed-flower
– “extreme wardrobe malfunction” –
own the means of [re]production
“extreme wardrobe malfunction”
XXXIV
The Green Man and not
Ronald Johnson’s second tome
the original
where I took Hai-Far
so as to inhale her hair
eyes constellations
tank-top and one bub
order a knife-fight
but knife-fights are off just crisps
kitsch mercurial optics
Loughborough Junction
flaming but still a lock-in
an established fact –
as absinthe slips down a drain
allotments grow more quickly
XXXV
aphids in lichen
the tremble in his fingers
Ursa Major the
Fibonacci-sequence
seethes in the curl of a fern
bifurcated tongue
out from her serious mouth
a folded dock-leaf
verdigrises’ contact-lens goes
plip-plop in his Triple Leffe
someone’s iPod is
a drilled white-noise tinnitus
we exist beyond
their left ear once-pierced, no twice
little stereo-whistle
XXXVI
Buckminster Fuller
dismissed pi from mathematics
read accordingly
Municipal islands ‘all
Klimpt with violets’. Unquote.
saplings and tubers
mutually parasitic
‘Got a lighter, mate?’ Seed-pods
for eyes. Spring in the gutters
crocus yellow livery
the pavement is mist,
Hai-Far sways holds out her palm
‘You are The Green Man
my liege, take these and seethe.’ Primed,
I wade ash to the juke-box.
XL
Her shoulders, lightning
still. She says, ‘Uplift here the
parched fir’s under-parts
to glimpse the turquoise needles
deer nuzzle under when the
snow is at waist-height.’
Each ‘yes’ is too slow, this one
took a century
moreover his calligrammes
have melted. Words, always words.
Pulling aside his
shirt he huskily orders
‘Bite, please, bite me here’.
Chokecherry. Aniseed-star.
The colourations of night
XLI
privatise the sea
its Sensurround gluck and swell.
He drops a fire-work
in the melee, whatever
a melee is. Harbour-walls.
Whatever sheer side-
ed liner passes, up-close
its fog-horns honking
the sound is distilled into
a pipette, shut in a safe.
Kung at the port-hole
knelt, seeing history squint.
Dew on the vine-stocks,
cinders in the air. In what-
ever fig-arbor somewhere.
XLII
‘Buckminster Fuller
invented rhododendrons’
said the kingfisher
having fled its trembling branch.
‘Quien es?’ it says, ‘Quien
es?’ at the cabin
-mirror. One non-sequitur
follows another.
Non-sequiturs following
non-sequiturs are not quite
non-sequiturs then?
‘Follow that, my man.’
Kung will wait outside
breathing in iced mountain air.
He composes a canto
XLIII
where the voices say:
‘I will be estranged from my
lover, not because
I no longer love her but
but because the word ‘estranged’
is so beautiful’.
Say, ‘Under proscenium-
arches, pear-shaped women are
vilified’. Say, ‘Self-doubt is
the new certainty’.
They say, ‘But this is
all Chinoisery, like Pound.’
And Kung will walk past
these bluey-green cedars, pluck-
ing a quatrefoil clover.