Tuesday, January 1, 2008

Tim Ormsby


Inept, susceptible,
are words to describe me.
One, two, three. A sulky sea,
a slumped sky, a tattered tree.
Self in a coffin, I’ll not soon forgive thee.
Long ago my mentor, dear Professor V.
(who later dangled), bade me never cry.
What girlishness; besides, life is piffle.
I struggled, atom-hearted, cross-purposed,
and learned self-overcoming is a wattled lie.
On I shuffle and sniffle.
Unwatched marcher, march inward
on the derelict parade route.
With your drum and spangled suit,
keep marching inward.


I lose hope quietly, like an eyelash
sinking in a bowl of milk, a stuck smile.
I walk in lockstep with my manifoldies
(as I call them), versions of myself
whose speech vibrates with earnest vanity.
What a penchant for self-regard
is hidden in my head!
Oh, how can I accomplish high deeds
while being showcased for connoisseurs?
Could I breathe serenely in a jar?
Could I perch impishly upon a leaf?
I think perhaps I could (and show my teeth).
I drink a cup of tea, eat raisin toast,
and read the travel section in the Sunday Times.
Ah! It seems banality attaches to exotic lands.
Somehow I find that reassuring, half a sign to live.


Trash smell in the apartment courtyard.
The desert sun is scribbled on my skin
and I am tail-twisted by an old man’s urge.
What a steep distance to the death dot
on this bird of an afternoon.
Unorthodoxly naked in the bathroom,
I prepare myself to receive an apricot.
The sun nuzzles the stark mountain.
Memory molecules loom large.
Nothing relaxes me like being tortured.


I rarely smile at the squat servant
who brings my boiled chicken breast,
glass of wine, and jam tart.
Clad in white pajamas, I ingest dimness.
She who chewed quietly and adored Satie
dismissed me from her life. Love is folly.
Airplanes in the night sky soothe me inexpressibly.
I confide nothing to my squat servant.
I am lordly strange to the squat servant
who, like me, was singularly crumpled
by his birth. Twin twirldown petals of breath—
one fell couth and one fell uncouth.

Loud Do My Kidneys Sing

Loud do my kidneys sing.
Purple pineapples pave my way.
I am the city’s most recondite eel.
Loud do my kidneys sing.
Loud do my kidneys sing.
I slander zebras and crimp my hair.
My strength derives from bicycle ooze.
Loud do my kidneys sing.
Loud do my kidneys sing.
I hug my knees by the flabby fire.
My loved one has furry fingernails.
Loud do my kidneys sing.
Loud do my kidneys sing.
I hereby resign from the country club.
The volcano erupts cream cheese. Farewell!
Loud, loud, loud do my kidneys sing.


Sly boots said...

Interesting is this poet,
Hypnotic him,
Hip, not ick hymns!
Ormsby, who is he?
A real man, or MS by me.


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