The Bluebook (part 3)

From Plastic Tub

Collection of poetry by Steven Adkins (2002-2003). It is also known as Half-Told Tales.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

The Frenzied Rush, in apathy

A SUNDAY which leaves no question about itself
Silent and gray, oddly enough
like Monsieur M mawked over the ocean
like a hawked wind
	somewhat deranged
(But there is no sun
haven’t seen it for daze
	hallucin’d smoke
	a glaze of sombre
	“real-world” responsibilities)
and ever expansive this innerdrome
of echoes, steadily amplifying against
each other, as if the interior of the 
skull were the shell of the brain
reflective stainless steel which sends
careening ballistics of thought into
the Babel of consciousness
	some call it “monkey mind”
some escape through “the mouth”
	a tourettic telegraph
others get twitched out thru various
means via the “fingers”
	This is usually automatic
	and relieving
	      like a good solid shit
		    breaking clean off in a vanilla
					swirl tip

Oscilloscope dangling
	like the image of a clock
twisting against a stark white wall
shadows sharp
	& electric
“One should be motivated –
			to think of
			a well-known
	skyscraper round and gleaming
	chromium-steel head
	giving them the appearance of
	enormous dildoes

Oil derricks lifting well-seasoned
    buckets from honeypot black
    in the deep soil
	there is no bath
		no deranged puppet upon
		the infant infantry
    dogging-tired upoN the
		knee-flight of the soil
    friggin’ fortuna night-fucked in
│in we go
│injun joe

Draped, up if the pointed
end didn’t really matter
	bang slap of artifact
coldly reminisced upon the
		steel-toed organization
		in a squeAl-toed fate
locked into,
	one must add
	musty attic
	rusty adverbly
		aardvarkian numbness
		kevorkian clumsiness
	wouldn’t you be guaranteed to die?

	shoes, as filters
		gamming up the lockstep
imagination eating up tarheels
		and not the North Carolina variety,
		shrouded and squealing
		jaw-makered and dillabout
	She comes
		comes all about
		shenackering the globe
		the oily globe
		the sun-smoked robe
	Bleach spots upon blood-red
	    yolk-storms of globular light
	    shoot excreta upon
	    dying sardine sideways upon
		over fine-lined aube....

	Jovial, then
		when not dangling
		(which is rare
		like French meat
		is rare)
	And can a sentence start with
	and can a sentence?

	Where did we begin to forget?
	gonna hand that saxon too ya....

	film has become too precious a contract
	to merit
		one gets “out of it”
		while remaining in,
		if only broadly;
		if only slightly
	RIDING vermin the size of
	should we explain the darkening sense of departure
the strangling beauty that
develops out of the strange
sense of adventure

in the rain
in the stark
falling rain
heavy shadows

upon the desert
	under the new mexico sky
	we must wait
	for these things to become myth
and we know they are on the way,
when we begin to dream of them
the lag-time of démenagement
	in the chalice of the earth
	of be-mountained horizons
always a kind of spectator in this
	a perhaps all-too-willing
	    follower –
	but no hint of leadership
	        much less charisma

Some make up Roman exploits
some wallow in self-pity,
alcohol, brain numbness
But all of them, at least, have hobbies

You degenerate spawn....
unfit to share the name

Nothing will take the world by storm
	....ever again
	    (not really)

To be honest, I’m surprised they
         lived, much less	│so untouched
│without a scratch
        all too willin’
        	        spectral villain
        people gettin’ fucked up all over and
       	all over nuthin’
        he grins round at the


  Keepin’ it up with the cheap-shot
        beckoning to the clim-roast
        of junked-up hoodoo conundrum,
        staring fixedly at reverberant sun

        in the Russian winter
		without sun
		circa 1930

        It’s time to start living
	    ha! leaving
    it’s :13 passed the hour
    but ye olde dark hole
    knows well
    you don’t need another 
    	but a confrontation
    when you pitted acid
    against conventionality
    and thought you were 
    actually doing what you
    said you were doing—
    and like that egyptian snail-shell
    that fiery cloud of eternal rêve....
    it was a scorpion
		stinging itself upon the back
		that symbol of self-destruction
		and suicide

slow as suicide
	choklit covered
		cuvvered and bivouac’d
	encamped upon the vanilla slope
	slowly melting underfoot
	wrinkling	nights
	as if they was
	(slow prophets)
	pert noses

	a country adrift
	a cowboy be-spliffed
	drunken cow toss in
	the dead of night
	the dead ringer
	    [unclear]  around spoke
	    doppel ganger
	    they meet,
		and explode

Life goes very
  in a vast slowness
Life goes very 
  in a minute fastness
hold fast!

IN a degenerate lockpick
	IT arrives
	aliens among the ruins
the square stones unpocked
but nonetheless ruins
this nimble shadow that ate my comrades
while we ran slowly with bloody fingernails

Shot out from the mouth of
      a trumpet
	I got those coronet blues
A darkling duck flies across the
	navy sky
	wings outstretched and vivid
	like a fleet of righteous bombers
	in a WW2 propaganda poster
Floating nearby, Kubrick style
a baby made of cirrus
      wispy –
	    smoke by candlelight
	    in a darkened chamber

Four Fragments

I saw the dead rats of my generation
    swimming backwards into life
    On floating boards they scampered
    back into the murky bilge
    as the water seeped back into the sea....

either an announcement of an
    airless conflagration
or an injunction to let loose the
    cannon upon the bearded
    pockets of desert in the sky

Freud!  Freud!
He’s our man,
If he can’t do it,
Jacques Lacan!

I’m just a gigolo
And everywhere I go
People always die
around me
I’m spreadin’ my disease
While restin’ on my knees
Lights go off
around me

	It seems
	        as if
I     have nothing more to say
	        at least for now
      Just obliged to fill the cahier,
Kerouac-style:  allowing form to 
follow the limitations imposed upon
it by the shape and size of the
      Not “Claire Fontaine” but
      -- Not something we will
be inclined to romance

	Riot!  100% pure New York in Toulouse
shrouded in the unintelligible
	it jumps boots and delegates
	spuriously relegated to a back room
	curiously inflated by pride,
none the wiser
more the merrier
we shook hands and mumbled
stark contrast to the punk rock shouts
1 hr 10 minutes of feedback underlay
songs like “Don’t Kill Me” and “Urban Shock”
until the cops showed up
gotta shut down the tunes by half 10
as though we were back in the village
What village?
any village that isn’t the 
fourth largest city of half a million

<and Barcelona was not the egg it
  was cracked up to be>

and my wife--my wife!—still
harbors our egg until July
It is developing normally and 
she has gained 7 kilos
I don’t know if this is a lot
or not
but she still looks fine
drinking mate with her middle finger
up to her lips
(is she flicking me off?)
muttering over the dictionary 
and the ubiquitous forms

curiously reflected

scenarios laid out.... Opera of Figs
(her legs smooth
and well-formed)

....c’est la fille
Jowls quivering
the Beast moves in trails of slaver
leaving oil rigs upturned and burning

pouring smoke upwards into the sky

  49 Euros
lying on the table
“Somebody blew up America” in a manila 
stuffed away

and to think I
only half-kidding
called for the 
nuclear annihilation
of the desert

<it lies under
  the television>

At 31 I should
have already known
And I’m only 32

Once bitten,
        twice shy
Fool me once
        shame on you
Fool me twice
        shame on me

I hope it is not 
That you cannot
teach an old dog
new tricks

But can you
search an old dog
for new ticks?

Or break an old log
into new sticks?

Or plunge an old frog
into new cricks?

Just add saliva

Powdered wigs
    dripping the lard
that holds the errant
    hairs in place
August, 1786

We are burning hemp-rope upon the hematite
blood-rocks pouring from wounds in earth
giant smiley-head scream
with the bullet wound as 3rd eye

The arrondissement reeks of uncollected
And she takes me for more naïve than I am
because she never asked “Did you ever?”
And I never corrected her assumption
that I didn’t
Thus, after another moment uncorrected, or
I feel pangs of guilt
	having lied by omission
And yet
these aren’t the things you casually
bring up out of the blue and
expect her to laugh along with

We are burning
And the super
fine chick with the
dick-hardening shape
turns to meat
sliding off bone
putrid puddle
of green and red
fly shit advancing
into coagulated vomit
finely-furred mould
    You’ve fallen in lust
    on a bed of spores
(Old Buddhist monk trick
    to combat lust)

But why not let the pecker rise?
Why this track, now
    leave off with a slopatine
    sliding backwards off slick
    backboard in the sea?
A grand summation of all these
Books = the Red and the Black 
    the Blue
	....will never come
....sounds too much like a 
pulverized face lying broken-teeth
downwards among the excrement
of a society with too much 
    too spare
Spartan reality forgotten
    like a cigarette butt
with yet a few more 
No matter
    if it’s before 10
there’s a Tabac right
    around the corner

Buy blackened lungs for use
		as handbags
	puckered nuts as castanets
throw de-brained heads to use
			as sandbags
And tangled hair a seamen’s nets
semen’s nest – tight and curlies
that go “meow!  meow!  meow!”

	at a pt. of discovery
	cars clashing
	a heavy wind falling
	about the heels
	letting windsocks drop:
	at inopportune moments:

	        across railway runners
		    are sermons....

	What interesting conundrums
	        by the canal....
		cop cars
	        and brazen sluts....

	crouching sounds....
		and rushing

	Russia jumps!
	(at bedposts)

	cold wall.... brick

	and awake
	    a bus
    an outrage factored in
    motorcycle engines....

	seasoned heart
	a pain
	    in silhouette laid
	across the twilight fallow....

	(she double-crosses
		at midnight)

	burning, squealing,
	a squeaking main....

	like wind is gone....
	....with refugees

	(and her motorcycle
	  is a casino Theresa!)

	<adhesives and robes....>

	sacra familia!

	cross with bells ringing

	wind rushes past delicate
	(tin can rutting like
		pig along livid glass....)

	and how much do they
	    these flowers
	a hurling light
	along obstinate paths....

	and flowers surrounding
		her perturbed head
		she is not angry
		        disturbed to core
	but never angry
	    the jumping crevecision
	    darkening incision
	    she loves musicians
	    and performances

	    blues lick jump
	    with kinetic hang
	    a gramma w/ an electric poke

It was a jumping night
Chris calling his wife an idiot-jerk
		a whore
	a slut
attempting to pry
      a privvied
between his wife
	      and his friend....
....threatening to make this
        visit his last.... if it would matter....

	this electric jerk
	a bad plug
	....there are daughters
	in the house
	        that Jean Cocteau
     	        and André Gide
	        cannot touch
	an explosive television
	explodes truth by rendering
	the capitalist emission
	impossible to watch
	<it is the wind –
		and she is lovely>
	my lines render it null
	an obscure tomato
	a twilight patch of lilac
	an oasis
	    dark and shimmering
	a translucent illusion
	in silhouette
	across a darkening sky
	    pink-robed in crimson,
	    -- violently nullified!!--
	    it is violet
	    in noir (black) and purple!
	    and the hunter vomits
	    and the flannel cries
	    and the pilot hunkers
	        the navigator lies

	he has white space
to hold up ‘gainst
her spleen
her victory

a cough and heavy breath
with a greek-sounding soundtrack
    and with manacles

The TV Jumps
the wind howls out the window
an her snozz marches

I am a window with
    phalanges climbing....

	Fascist sympathisers claw Spain....
	a trail of liberty which
	we may ride
Poetry our refuge
slinking anger @ lateness
		excused by a plume which the exquisite
		rattle of seagulls (machine-gun)
	<yet the tractor may
		call it		after all>

A snood
A sleeping hat
A shadow
A tractor....
	these are the refractory
	billabones of a high-fractured
	Yes, and trumpets  -- fall
-- call

ROUND bean with hoe-guard
she sits
calling gum-lords to sleep....
hoping to extract a vicious
never knowing she has
snared a giant by the
crochet-hook of a minor vice....

She is a delicate horny toad
leaping along the lanes of
Armenia Avenue, hog-tied
    and broken
by LSD encounters
upon the Howards
north of Kennedy
“He is sideways”
calls the child in Holocaust
tiled room,
of dead-end deathcamp
inane dull

She jumps Catalan hills
with berets asunder breathing
heavy in righteous anger the
dry spore vomit of puff-puff
and indigo –
	it spawns the spores
of argent upon wrist hosting
turquoise brave gem of flaming
exquisite power....
banished now upon dark wing
of impoverished embarrassment

1)	it comes, regardless
2)	you have nothing to do with
3)	she is lovely
4)	and capricious

delicious riptide of dream
it happens at the long end of
where there is a hill
a shopping mall
and a bay

Should it bear no mind to
viking penumbrance of jackal-
hide hindrance?

I think not!

	delicious jumping
	upon brain-stem
	--she watches movie--

I record destinies in minutiae
Americans do not like the betrayal
implicit in communicating in a way
beyond them

There is publicity in small heads
        an electronic stutter

ON the television, a weird
        PUB addressing the problems
        of a youth who must learn 
        French without parents who
        speak the language properly

SUCH as we
        the delicate green bean
        among the smart flowers
        of darkness, decay,
	teeth rotten and slowness
	        in learning

Mash potatoes are a sign of
She can’t
	she can
“sans papiers”
they’re not important
	it’s all place....

	in closing
there is an attempt
to give a kid a language
in which to learn

the best comes from here
or is translated....
despite the mal miked
rubber ball dropping on
the slim-slide
it is very hollow

echoes are our desire
our indication....
groans come from
wind upon metal
    grunts from unappreciative
        kids who know, nonetheless,
more about living than I do....
        chofe ....
And when sheep solid on habo·ma·jeem
cream wetland upon froglegs of

....we skip the wicked drawing 
and hope the last page is

she rocks in flat boats
launching into languid space....
with panic

Her eyes have tears
And yet, thru the jumping,
there is laughter
we cannot stand his tears because
we are happy and

    A snake tail....

    She marks solid details
	and waits
	    grows bored,
can you stand a hot wind?

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

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