Out of Villon


I and François Villon
Wanted to break the very in love prison
In fast maul

To duel with lime pits

These deluxe rigours and beautiful semblances
Of disappointing savour

Orders that endure death

I leave
I do not last more



To obviate has its dangers
Without my piteous regret

At the height
I say lover for martyr
To me how hard is much departure

And after death there is realism

I see I’m in a remote country
If starlit

A plain of dawns
The veil of excuse in a brave fist

Toward the tart ditches



I leave my brush
With maestro Villon
Who, in donor of his name, bruits

I leave my branch

My tents and my house

And diamante blare has my sane Rolls Royce
Which moves back, articulate, against the Carmelite bubble

I leave the priests to the known
My slings stand in for honest coffers
Inside these masques



I leave them wrung beautiful rifles
Pierre’s lantern, Troy’s arrayed lily
And ill chosen maiden

I leave
And with dissonant pedestrians go agued
Welded to the capon

The gland also a sausage
And every day a fatty ore and lung of hale grass
Ten white wine mugs and two lawsuits that too much engross

Dogs frank prints on all my goods
Too much amiss

And this molested chanson



And Mister Jacques has leave
Popping peaches, pears—sweetening the covered fig tree
With fire

Mutant Johan and Master Beanie forfeit the liking of the Lord
And outdraw Jacobean emulation

Lucy leaves three straw gluons
Extender above ground, to make love meatier

Or it will lay fulcra its life queered
Because it scents another metier

Jacques with pies, shrubs, coal and ploys with the larch
Stratagems with the lyrical



The healthy member dies
Fraud barbers my hair

Latin pralines
The lecture peacefully enflames without wandering

I leave, in pity, three pettish infants
Sobs trap door birdcage
While waiting for meals to have

Charitably I leave them
Forsake them whole

I lay freaky other lays. Bread has two hands



Item: an injured glow worm for the caretaker



This evening, select, extant
Dictating these discrepant lays
All day by the bell of Sorbonne

That predicted angel who has nine hour sounds

At the time, I felt Lady Memory
To begin again in the metro

By doing this I’m drinking wine
By force

My asperity is a lyre

                                                                        1st December 2009



[The most recent publication by Ian Heames is Gloss To Carriers (Critical Documents, 2011)]


Copyright © 2011 by Ian Heames, 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.