Scythe and a sandglass
Serafino has one handkerchief
which he keeps in an oak box
wrapped in linen beneath his bed.
It is as clean as the tears of a saint
and twice as holy. Prior to its interment
beneath the bed, his wife Malvolia
wanted to burn it, to cleanse it of spells
and demons. She didn't know
what she was saying, so he put her
in a Russian tea room and kept her there,
wrapped in silk, jewels, and etiquette.
He pretended to sympathize.
Each day, when Svetlana served her,
Malvolia cried and cried and cried,
but the tears from her good eye
were mud-stained and smelled like fish.
Her bad eye was worse: a bug eye
that always stared and never blinked.
Once it had a foreign name: Eleanor
of Arreton Manor, Isle of Wight.
In those days, before the misfortune,
it was a queenly eye, with long lashes
and allure. Now it was diseased, a yellow
coveting eye: Maloccio.
Every day, except on weekends,
Svetlana peers into this eye and frowns.
Once, on the occasion of his rare visit
to the tea room, she asked Serafino how
things had come to be as they were. He replied
with horror, "Occhi e contro e perticelli agli
occhi, crepa la invida e schiattono gli occhi."
She had no idea what he was saying,
but found his voice to be intoxicating
and beautiful. Hearing her say this aloud,
Malvolia began to smile. In an eyelid's beat,
she wore a mask that was almost lifelike.
A smile in an office
chair and piles of affliction
learns that mirrors
are always constant. They portray
no less, they mirror the least
and the mighty. A stable
depiction, the brightest and the most
desired is that which obeys
the depiction not rendered
so much as confessed.
An intelligent face, well-groomed,
obedient and curbed,
an intelligent suit, quite intelligent
and not less generally
than preening, something intelligent
is something proper.
A detail is that
when the smile is perfectly
smiled, no less, further,
timeless and at the perfect instant
instant, not just any lip, the principal
duty is that beyond
there is still perfection.
Employ anger, employ
the lie that states that truly
states an obligatory
outrage, in depicting
now that here is rage
Fear, what is an ideology, an ideology
is the affinity between a silver underlay
and something else, something else.
To embody it is
begun, it is objective
and less than that it has
it truly has the feral face,
and a surface
full of retractable
and less generally
far less grit.
Wear a face, a cross-section
of hope, and create more
than has ever been
resolved, unfold into this face
not seeing, not seeing
an accidental glance
is so reflective and less
than that, it is an ideology, it is
a dull stare, it is rage
The duty to shine
is reputed, it is why
there is no refraction, why
is there no
is there no singular
What it is like to be a bat
This poem partially describes the ongoing effort to home-build a JW-03 Luxury Blender. You may read it as an illustration of the brilliant things people do in their spare time, but I also hope to encounter a few readers who will attempt to wag their pistols -- or are doing so already -- and wish to complicate their credibility by building on my own success as a disassociative model.
If you found your way down to this stanza, you probably know what std(X) is, but I need to regurgitate: if X is a matrix, std(X) returns a row vector containing the standard deviation of the elements of each column of X. If X is a multidimensional array, std(X) is the standard deviation of the elements along the first nonsingleton dimension of X -- meaning 'you', or a close approximation of 'me' describing 'you'.
The trick of this equation is to measure 'space as a verb' (for the purpose of determining the erectile function of a hairy-legged bat) by calculating the rotational heat capacities for NH4+ and ND4+ in NH4PF6. This of course leads to prurience, but when male genitalia are introduced to their female counterparts, the subsequent tunneling frequencies reverse their thermal expansion loops, thus resulting in a state of 'soft modernity'.
Our results suggest that the D.ecaudata penis is under directional sexual selection and is a reliable indicator of male phenotypic quality. Satisfying these dependencies in advance (as much as possible) will greatly ease the pains of building your own Luxury blender. Fortunately, recent studies indicate that the instinctual inclination to not view 'penises' as 'poor nucleophiles' is mediated by our capacity for mixed metaphor.
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Note: If the idea of generating kitchen implements that spawn sexual phenomena via ionized ammonia does not appeal to you, you will probably find this poem too exciting. Still, if you've never attempted to mount a peizo-stepping device inside a glass-rod frame, I suggest hanging the frame/mount device via rubber bands from a tripod on the White House lawn.
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By reading this poem you agree to the following terms: 1) You MAY NOT use this poem for your own pleasure, nor may you relate it to the works of Abū Rayhān Bīrūnī. 2) You MAY NOT redistribute the elements of this poem (for example, in a blender) without written permission from the Nantong Ronghui Machine Co., Ltd. 3) You MAY link this poem to any sexual deviance you wish, but ONLY if it is NOT wrapped in cellophane. 4) You WILL abide by any philosophical statement inserted into this poem at a later date, regardless of logical coherence or uropatagium. 5) Online payment via credit card is the preferred method of subscription to this poem. Payment is due in advance for access to premium services.
[Jim Benz lives in the U.S. with his wife, two cats, and a dog.]
Copyright © 2009 by Jim Benz, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of Copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author.