Tim VanDyke

Tim_VanDyke_ForWeb

from Lovers in the Marquetalla Republic

I.
Let lament
be a host of hymnals
in this place
                           jubilant
                           &
spilling out

spilling tinsel
                           from each cell

let it open up

be theatre

a boil erupting

as if in orgasm

as if in pain

as if in love
                           with the madrigal
                                                       your blood splatters

as if with music
                           that would deign
                                                       to touch your face

and find on it
                           splotches
                                                       of an ingested
                                                       birdsong—

II.
The work
                           of my eyes
                                                       in this place

when it is said
                           there is a boundary
                                                       to looking—

the aperture
open wide
to the constellations
of this place—

The angel comes
to Lament and Love
all over this invincible
landscape

all over
                                                       the startled
                                                        music
                           of it

                           let love
                           be fitted
as one fits
a harness
to a horse—

the ferocity
                           of its release
                                                       may give to itself
the color
                           of an ekstatic
ambush
                           in the dark

III.
                           Better
                           that (I) live fully aware
                           in the Terror of its Stars—

better
that I sing
                           jump in
                           and pull you down

better the blood
that falls from your hair
to your vulva
                           &
                           I
in all amazement
                           find fault
                           in the crease at my eye

remember
                           when last we saw
                           a tenderness
                           in those perceptions
                           tied to the dove’s neck

                           the sight of your legs
                           walking away
                           from the explosions

                           a lullaby
tossing bombs
into the night—

IV.
Haggard in the mud
beneath heel prints—

a murderer’s song
                           a knife
with which to cut
the species
down to size

as though whittling
                           the genes
                           right out of
                           the spermatozoa—

noise to melody to further noise

                           slapping at the foreskin
                           as on a drum—

                           a Botero
                           nude
                                                       squeezing her gams together
                           under pressure from
                           the soldiers’ fingers

                           gams full of the squelch
                                                       of apology
                           for waking them so early

                           gams blistered
                           by their hot breath

                           gams sparkling
                           full of candy

                           the stench
                           of a silent retreat
                           into unsayable transfigurations

                           gams molded
                                                                                   by the steady scream
                                                                                   of your phosphorescent heart—

V.
The Terror of its Stars—

Terror in the crush
                           of gods
present at
                           the procession
of their pure love—

this is what they say
                           at the sun’s terminus
upon its exit
                           from the underground—

terror
                           that brings the sun
onto the land

that burns down
                           the delicate flora
                                                       of your skin

chewed up into thick
                           paste
                                                       pressed
                           into the dirt—

hinged maw
                           of a conscious desire
extrapolated into
                           a solemn trajectory—

That I live fully aware
                           in terror

the prospect
                           possessing my flesh
in an incestuous rite—

O twin
of my twin—

my self demarcated

evaporating into the sea—

O flash on my flesh—
                           better that I call you
                           a sepulcher of blood—

for I will remain
                           inanimate
                                                       bombarded by lactic blood
                           &
refusing the sap
rising from the dissolution
of a nascent black tongue
                           baring itself in revolt—


Tim VanDyke  grew up in Colombia, South America, until guerilla warfare forced him back to the United States. Since then, he has worked in several insane asylums. His books include Topographies Drawn with a Divine Chain of Birds (Lavender Ink, 2011), Fugue Engine (Cannibal Books, 2012), and Light on the Lion’s Face: A Reading of Baudrillard’s Seduction (Argotist, 2012). His work has most recently appeared in Typo, Drunken Boat, The Brooklyn Rail, and elsewhere.

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