Phillip Whalen in My Living Room Last Night
you who do
collapse in a dream, with no bucks
no benjamins
the face plucked out
you make me frolic in my blood
i don’t know what
to call this thing i’m about to declaim
it hath the gift of healing
ready to cook my goat-head with the shoulder bone
she stuck it where she liked —
are you swifter shoot? your tits
i Loved
so much
i would not leave my vow, streaked
red with adonis
now i conclude my whatdoyoucallit
let him sing in the cave
my Lady of four months
once he has it memorized
piles up my sweetbitters
on a surface of cunt-muscles,
unzipping
kai moirai’ adonin
(middle of the day)
sara larsen
may 6, 2008
**w/ some language from raimbaut d’orange, ezra pound, charles olson
Translation of Raimbaut D’Orange
ecstacy… more-so notate kisses
send a Whore soak my vulva in Comet scrub
i see a bear a robot her bent teeth
no nest no name no lull sighs — trouble;
meat of gitmo bay o couer: meat faces
crystal poles of Acabar
came Io home in May sewn with Fag Italics at home en femme
spread eagle in haute couture what pizzaz
call me ludicrous fowl if you want
pretend the name Paura lays far
that in my talon no one is Dis
no men own cajones castrated in ER
total cunt not pressed into police car
vas deferens of Socrates bayonets scar
dear sabor tooth tiger, i see my gut, it is no use
a trapeze of maps ten rats sailors prefer a car race
Maria says dinners in my mouth punched with 2 million souls
in cells.
Juno, my theme ran far from my pen
my Amex asshole vulva left ajar
salts orbs no Baudelaire monies
but you who sells what is conquered
now put my mouth to the gallow
the Kaiser’s dick dominian: how to pay? queer with ringing bells
piranhas eat logos, give Respect – i don’t know why.
pot me bon’ esser, senhors?
what’s past quarters me
so maybe a thousand ants is sub-par
through my heart Paura shot this promise
threw my heart (beaten) in police car
Lady, 2 million inmates: quasar, pulsar
therefore i cannot douse them with love
thy dead news, help me, normally pap-smeared in philadel’ conspiricy: Sanka tea
Lady, how will it all turn out?
coo boys perverse goys dearest pleasure
rats jaws in my fates’ song-troubled bar
and so men part seas w/ talons in threes
here moon, nana’s grave, lured in park
i am not foiled by the short song
and come to yr igloo
don’tcha forget about this guida, con-face of niaads
expired in the sinking armpit of plaque
in defense: no say-whatever this is
i have had this baptised in a bait jar
puss mayonaisse to lick off the Jester’s Uzi
belay of ennui in ape lair
whoever likes it, let him sing
here with his vulva his tar
and if he demands that i am a fag – cock desire to un-sell that
sap – far, total, final – he can see well.
sara larsen
may june 2008
No Punctuation
there is no
punctuation in the mind one pays
protean
word, holiday feckless pyramids
after fall forget yr the tie:
ecclesiastically small, plied
cloistered & vivid creature
handsome eggcup
—
sara larsen
oct 1 2008