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Quarles (2)

Lanny Quarles


The Radiation of the Golden Armor of the Werewolf Knights
(The Curse of Waldemar of Oregon)

[Come this way!]

ocean-forest
forest-ocean

like chains
two children
hopeless

sometimes of the air
sometimes of Paul Naschy’s
silver atom
falling
in
LA MARCA DEL HOMBRE LOBO

is the Zeus of a single thread
the zen of a single head
or the amorphous black
octopus-waldemar
wolfman-fuzz tentacle
which floated out of
Paul Scheerbart’s nib
the way science
even if Paganini
is a single bodiless horn
mounted in a crypt
of microscopes
floated out of a poetic figure
virtuous virtuosi
that gargantuan rose
of green glass bricks
melting in the landscape

BREASTS OF SOLAR WEEVILS
BOILED UP
FROM A JEWELLED SKELETON

HUMM OF DAYBREAK
BOILED UP
FROM A TWIST MURDER MOLLUSC

Waldemar

the beast of portland
melting under your pentagram
of silky black mud
would sit so refinedly
reading
Ned Ward’s Hudibrastic survey
All Men Mad: Or,
England a Great Bedlam (1711)

Waldemar

throws up his castle
under the spell
of your red-headed drug

the radiation
of the golden mirrored armor
of the werewolf knights

that billiards room
which doubles
as a salon
of murky windows

poolball molecules
foaming
in the lycanthropic
air

Lady Bedlam
under whose deceptive
sign
we boil

(hand sliding up to cup the breast)

John Hughes
or
Waldemar of Oregon

the vampire rugby player
who plays the sitar
all ascrum &
primordial as a bomb or chirp
and drinks from your
nakedness

drinks from your
fopling flutters
sparkishes
and witwounds

dead serious
Ichabod Crane mosquito

and wants your red beehive
of bloody necks
not to mean
the sleeping real

[Pope Bugbear on an eyelash-leash]

but to bear
witness
to a galactic foal
abbey
folly

whose white dwarf spots
(o what gentle, dappled feathers)
murmur
something better
more stupid
(as in the incandescent multitudes of oceans) than the fantastic draining of images in the
hart of the whorled (or a person sitting, near the wheel, near the deer)

in the desert of moths

there is nothing finer
than this paisley house coat
this protoctistan alphabet
(step lively, sir!)

nothing which compares
to the taxidermy
of werewolves

or the eroticism
of a perfect
brown silk
cone

(presently aquimble..)

Paul Naschy’s
filthy
bloody
shirt

(hung on an automaton of woven antenna)

placed inside
some clay dark canopic
owl partially
obscured by
northwest fog

‘the end’
drawn in gothic cocaine
on the green felt
rulebook

the fossil ferns
which tile
its giant eye-sockets

the trouble with Krug
thought Krug



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