God’s Stars, or the Automatic Screen.
We could say that the camera shows more than
necessary
being positively stupid, unlike a sculpture.
Like the One of God,
the open whole remains enfolded in each shot.
A bird eats an eel alive.
The eel eats through the bird’s stomach.
Here it comes,
The
cunning sun.
The ground is what I kneel on
and on it
John is a name
the prostitute’s mark
when does George emerge
from Gerar, from Gyon,
from dry of carnal lust?
When does the universe expand
into postcards stained at the edges
with the fingerprints of a possible past?
The wind
on the ground.
Entrails. Covered wagons.
Snares laid, pitfalls
dug.
Where is the sloop yacht that violates attention?
Manifesto Destiny
In this sequence of landscape
we the people logo scorn
the rear projection of our leader
his noble council the uncounselled
life-grim war animal
of Augustine’s world
of Hos
the sorrow mound
of the
white chaste elephant
clit
of the landscape
the
edge of manifesto
yew
beauty
yelps
the Whig’s descendent
like
a highly spiced Marco Polo
fetching
thee
beautiful
detached arm
Vampire’s Kiss
Where were you, Nicolas Cage, when the sea foam
gathered at the shore?
Was it necessary to stoop and curl your bottom lip?
To use your hands as weapons
as if humour was like it was
when the mechanical was encrusted on the living?
I remember your performance at the museum,
we scratched your emblem on the column
and joined you in a writhing quarry
for the love of goat, and of goat man.
It’s ram-head Radiohead
on the Spartan stage,
Gilmour before the many-breasted vest
that made you cross-eyed.
Jennifer Beals
appeared the moment I loved you
like a dolphin or expelled human
loves Pompeii
with iron-age attitude or think pink solo show.
They embed your head in the rustled fleece.
A smooth sculled love loops the necropolis.
How they fought TV
Heidi
sung a womb song imbibed and reordered
Sol watched movies on mute. Jeff sat elsewhere, in a field
The words Kunst did not say were later to abscond
Harry fought the urge to be meta. I failed
Ham helped shift the poles. Shem pissed into the cardinal wind
Aggie stuck to a fourfold schema and found nations in soil
The sun was an ordering principle and Bob closed the aperture
Jerry absolved the animals the industry keeps running
As the eye that Monica massaged fell from its trope
Randy developed the striking ability to produce volume
At a fixing that’s toing and froing. Emily found a parasite
Code at the photo but spoke twice like a painting
Sarah went to the bookshelf in search of a scholar to pet
Felper asked the psychic at the head of the division
About now is when the oboe tropes kicked in for George
And Mary hollowed out her point of view with a camera pen
Father’s Photo of the Actor
It’s
not that change is mummified
in
father’s photo of the actor.
It’s
just the bottles and slops
Remind
me of father at twelve,
asking
the actor “would I be famous.”
Strands
of scud clung like a clam to his scull
beneath
the scar sign of healed skin
that
is significant for the bit actor,
as
hats are to the dim of body,
but
he is naked
as
he appears in The Pathetic Fallacy,
as
he was on the day of his birth.
The
truth is that it was the squalling air
that
he banished for the sale of his mother,
and
I will never forget
the
puzzling coldness and controlled anger,
the
thing-handling clumsiness,
the
hounding down for the rest of my natural.
This
is why I am at the brink of speaking.
This
is why I desire his cadaver be shot
out
from cannon without grief show
or
rest from need.
Tom
Brami is a poet and filmmaker and PhD candidate at UW Madison. He lives in
Australia most of the time.
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