Saturday, January 23, 2010

Five alternative sonnets


Oldening ici. Under the moony stars and the dark metropolitan ceiling. Memories exist, of V------- and her nose, her subversive belly. For the plupart of tiempo we mope most joyfully. Do not go grumbling into that good night.


I will salute you presently as my sovereign queen. I shall praise your name, your chevelure, and your purple socks. I shall venerate your thermostat. I shall keep an eye on Lucky. I shall leaf through your shelves, blunder through your busses, and bow to your ever-youthful smile. Let anthems be composed in praise of your wristwatch. Astral benedictions, monastic vigils! For the glance of your eye is the wine of astonishment, and the beacon of your silence a luminous serenity.


Next week there shall be "missives" in the mail. Next Thursday, there shall be weather in Portland. At five o'clock, at Kip's Cafe, Canadians shall polka. They shall drink Labatt's and perform acrobatic karaoke. The quislings shall swoon for the love of country matters. And knowledgeable fiends shall scatter biases and blisses. Dedalus and Cranly shall take their argument to the threshold of the rosy-fingered Dawn, and the precincts of hankering and hunger shall breathe in a deep, deep peace.


Afterthought. The sabbath of the ordinary. Cynthia's minimal gestures. There is a light and it never goes out. To coin a pretty plagiarism. Radiance and shelter, life's jolie surmises. Wally spoke French, and the lingo of Insurance. It's an owl's brow of a night. Now I lay me under much blanket and beaucoup de quilt, it being a great frost. Sally Tomato complains of no snow. Just like the old man in that sarabande by Gordon and the crew.


My love is like a presidential press-conference that's newly assembled in March. My love is like the soundtrack to Peter's Friends, not forgetting the coffee-jingle. All my psalters are crumbling like mad. Gymnastic shouts go echoing down the corridors of dreams. Oh, my love is lovely. Oh, she's a brick, she's the ace of spades, she's the water-spider in my stream of consciousness. She suspends my disbelief, and that right early. Oh, she weigh much pound but give me gallons of joy. She's my health, my hope, my jeux-de-mot, ma jouissance. A frowsty old hag she is not. She's my cloister, my marketplace, my violet iris, my cedarwood chest. She's a deck that's most fairly stacked against me. She's a wayward young sprite, she's my heart's delight, she's my glorious and shapely ampersand.