A Gigolo's Ghee Gilded William

By Clark, Jeff | Chicago Review, Spring 1999 | Go to article overview

A Gigolo's Ghee Gilded William


Clark, Jeff, Chicago Review


What I was lacking you brought from beneath a ghat I was building a gimbal and it cracked

I was unbraiding a giaour's meditated tuft while you sought surplus purple for a gamay garment

Your geyser always shared in prescription store aisles while malevolent Mimes

aimed hoses into the ocean with things burning right beside

But your eyes and even rinds were sucked yesterday through gills above wavetips and over Mojave-made azure gharries

We scaled gagging spires and gutted ourselves Labioratory gone through a gloryhole on Fell

That tan transmitter taken from Rose where waning white accordion waves past collapsing places

Green grams fanned through air and the irrigation corps

dessicates in stations A vaulted sky vulnerable with nimbus symptoms

Ambulance tremulates lengthening silences In an opaline shell navigating space you

fell at Io and we owe isolate lighthunting faces who overdrew

an inventory for an old dosage boat We never broke pelicans or shot at odious offshore ships

Cinnamon-colored clinamen obscures that ocean and I oar out We never spat our objections

in a speck flask of obsidian We rung orange canalwater from two rags

All the ones I dream of are children Now comes Asian flute music and a despicable feeling

Seck fractured voices from vaporous places No longer even questions but the sound of questioning

I dream of azalea-colored eyes on a warm orb

that kisses and a family that builds

vessels because it wants to tide water

to places of somestic dunes

that swallow trauma Your tongues were wild hoes of astral agriculture

We tinged until two we began In your midst I had three friends

Double Trochee, Dilator, and Flora-Flare The diceholes filled with dew and you swam

Filled with lobal foam and you beamed A flea was riding a porpoise and they were in love!

Verdant Shunt would take us by the face To the orchid store

on the 33 in deranging rays

The fluttering inverted comb

the softly bouncing snout of a dead September seahorse

in a tank with a darting disc and oval pieces Blood does not accrue but moves

I pretend there is something in the sand the water wants that the center of the sea is silent

that at its ends one hears backwash ramming

incoming walls and to the southwest

a torquoise blasting ship on glassy resins Cunning things thrive in cummy dungeons

No longer our songs but the ache of playing The spider played its needles

the cunning thing came and was inverted

its pill drained Together we annihilated the spider

then fed it to a sparrow We pounded the sparrow to powder

We rolled a Hell Bank dollar and brought the sparrow inside

We rhymed pearls in advance of the sadness of the Chinese boy who chased a rolling melon

- Why is my melon running away from me? …

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