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Martyrdom
           
after Charles Baudelaire

Drawing unknown quantities of
gentlemen into the debris of ampoules
the greenhouse air is daggers
inevitably bundling flowers, those in the
coffins of their glass whiff finally
to sigh. The course of a body becomes
rivulets, thus IS again animated / red and
viscous puddles, watering a meadow. In
the sights, which do the colours to death
and which attach to our eyes their heads,
with such accuracy. Of precious jewels
on the table is the night, like to renege
peace similarly waives sympathy, twilit as
draping rivulets is as volatile a view as is
vague. In bed the brink without those
explaining scruples compounds the giving
of this former splendour up. The beauty
it does to nature has formed the delivery.
A support adorns the peg. Since, a
memory also remained a coda. An ill
secret, which is sparkling, pushes OUT a
view. On this side of the prime, numbers
isolate largely a slow-acting portrait of the
attitude and covers one tin-brow, a love, a
guiled joy and plain celebrations of
catatonic kissing, for which we give
thanks / from which swarm of villains the
aspect of this inside a curtain swims. And
nevertheless, it seems the fact that
elegantly the outline caused a small sharp
zip in the functions as if remote. Good
news is so disturbing! Is it I, with this
direction of the impairment, who is open
to amnesia, in which the accumulation is
annoyed, lost desires errant and can
revenge the person whose love you
dismissed pro bono in such a way that
appeases, combines in active duty and in
the meaty complexion of the moneyed
vastness, answer, imping off the dead’s
wishes, and of its twisted zero point cause
an ataraxis interspersed by heads / in cold
teeth Kalashnikovs = maximum good-bye,
sleeping even into this world

 

Hip Cat Chung
            after Ezra Pound

Here Hip Cat, wear speech, don’t break
my wills down. The trees dump matter,
the father’s tongue is the mother’s tonne,
and their heart is full (it’s awful). Hip Cat
Chung don’t jump my wall, or streak my
mulberry bows. The bows don’t matter
but their brawn will clatter so think hard,
Chung. It’s awful, Hip Cat Chung, this is
my garden wall. Don’t take my sandal-
wood tree (my tree dumps matter). The
subsequent chatter is hard Chung’s offal.

 

Crossing
            after René Char

On the way that plunges in distance,
no horse more raises himself up.
And the gully furrows its matches;
so a herb, from a low branch
gives both a roof and tends to it.
Under the pink heather flower
no grief cries.
Buzzards, kites, martens, ratters
and the funeral farandoles
hold tight to these wild places.
Rye traces on the threshold
midst the fern and its name.
Drop down this negligible past.
What is done,
the bar of spring on a forehead,
for these sleeping clouds
without rolling along our eyes?
What is missing,
the happiness is galloping off,
so the axe falls down between?
Be gone, sufferer! Get lost, captive!
The transpiration of the men of meat
puts Mérindol under once more.

 

 

[Michael Kindellan is a postdoctoral researcher at the Université Paul-Valéry, Montpellier III. He has published some chapbooks of poetry including Charles Baudelaire (Bad Press 2005); Word is Born with Reitha Pattison (Arehouse 2006); and Not love (Barque Press 2009). He probably lives in Berlin.]

Copyright © 2011 by Michael Kindellan, 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.