Richemundi Cantos

 

I

By wroth, up-planted

A dangle-bangle root, telephon'd accusation

            Near-twittering, blamed for breathless

A collusion!

A treachery!

A sentence! – deposit lost, skin marked poison

            Like this name, the reputation of Orestes

Marked with slather splatter light of galena.

            The real poison is on the name.

Dare it be utter'd, damnably so, infernal, not exotic

            But the periplum name changed.

Avast: (as to announce a change in jargon) : let us

            Talk solely on this matter of tide

            And nine months solitary slammer, listing

            And more wroth twixt the agonies

This head pounding wall, this bottle tipped back, many

That lined the brick walls.

Where introductions exhaust themselves by the necessity of the spent pen,

 a broken stylus nib

II

Whisked in & forced out by a trident of lies.

The mendacious fear no falling fruit, alight & squashed

            The garden path, the chariot wheel, her war.

Beware, I said to myself later, too late, of what happens

From the shadows behind the shields!

You will not see her eyes, but you will be encumbered by those

            Her gaze has stirred into motion, the same eyes that

--conscripted those into her legion.

Where the scene is set upon the afflicted,

The burning brand affixed indelibly upon the innocent

III

Let there be end. A word of lux was of Genesis and

Be it in parallel case & without reason as stipple'd sense

A nasty word ends all ties.

            A word shatters a monument.

            A phrase cauterizes against possibility

But eyes flashed in drunk prophetic wrath utters itself

With hoarse imprecision

To plough the sea.

To plough me.

--Stick the prick for the prick to stick

--Prick the stick for the stick to prick.

--The SEND buttons are flashing double, a tracer of light,

A slip of the digit

A knot – omphalos of light, not desir

Ruin is deployed, and its cost is mounted double interest donkey

A pound of flesh in saddlebag.

            With fire he drank

            With fire brought to the people

            With fire in his organs

            He deployed

Ruin pecks the prick to stick the stick a prick of a stickly prick.

A prickly stick pricks to the sticks,

And a line forms a square in the social common

            A mass a pack a bloc a blob

            Bloodletting eyes for sword blood to flow full drawn

                        The saboteurs take the stage / the jongleurs take the port.

Ploughing at sea.

As the afflicted brings finale with an electronic dispatch

Construed as a threat, but only the catharsis of his desire,

A desire for full closure as disclosure of dead sentiment.

IV

Nauticaca

If roundabout the fore and aft, the electric vessel could sink

            Before port reception

But no

As I said dot dot dot

And she split the mizzen of the mind.

 

V

Through the arch, he was presented

Alongside the floggers

            The chance dice tossed for garments

            Finances a cracked egg even under

The fat hen's feathery fat body of warm prudence.

The cock will crow,

            And with her printout

            Ecce Machina.

Another dipped a hand, not so much a gesture of assistance,

But soon soiled.

            Pull the rope around him now.

            Pull the knot around him now

            Trap the crying minotaur in a concrete hedge labyrinth

And he wasn't even eastern.

 

VI

"You have been accused of the following:

            (one) Having no voice at a distance at the oddest hours,

            (two) entering the ruin of the false oracle without the billet

            (three) failing the faith course en masse w/o parachute pants.

            (four) infesting your own dome and my home of the gnome

She was experiencing something suddenly medical

            Of this, I was sure

Or vengeance has its bite, and I bathe in venom or slick-sickly sea-salt

Grind it into the skin!—the only clear path to the bone,

            The only entranceway.

I nail my own portico with weather-stripping of a kind

Because the storm is about to start, and I've front row seats worn out bottom pants.

The pseudo papa telephones – berates w/o proof

            Or posture for the audience on the other line

By wroth again, confused! Stultifera navis and the stultifying naïve.

Shall I appeal to the lord of the law as the other apostolic anodyner's clubs do,

            -OR-

Shall I just clutch this bottle and wait out her storm, her suddenly medical storm?

Waiting is no choice, and the only choice.

Who to trust and who to bleed—questions for later.

 

 

 

© Dr. Kane X. Faucher

Assistant Professor - Media, Information and Technoculture (MIT)

Faculty of Information and Media Studies

The University of Western Ontario

Website: http://kanexfaucher.weebly.com/