| BY
EMILY RABKIN
To the childhood of the human race
he has brought:
oil paints,
canvas,
stretchers,
brushes,
leather,
syphilis,
a few thousand francs,
and no return ticket.
--
Oyez, those lips!
Are those yours?
Are they mine?
They are his, I hear.
Every woman he kisses,
branded with these same lips.
What marks he must have left
elsewhere.
In the old woman’s hut:
Inquiries towards
the neatly preserved
cannibal rows of teeth,
were cut short.
What to paint today, Monsieur?
Breasts or trees like breasts?
Both!
Smoke curls distant
woman standing on the roof
fizzle into dusk.
--
From the treetops,
the Maori boys watch
the foreigner pace upon the sand.
One throws a fruit at his head.
He hears clapping in the branches.
--
He has traveled all this way to paint us?
He says he is the greatest painter
in the civilized world.
What I would like to know,
will he take a wife?
--
I have taught her to say “fuck.”
Also “flower.”
In the afternoon,
she pressed against my loins,
whispered “flower” into my eyes,
and gave me no time to correct her.
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The Dead King’s Mourners
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Sang dirges of grief,
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Donned mourner’s costume.
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Stamped the dust.
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Dark spots in the mountains.
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The mourners run,
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as melting streams.
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Often they run until they fall
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forward. Then they roll as stones,
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the savages.
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The orange ocean for two days.
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Then it was only one king less.
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Civilization, alas!
--
Where do we come from?
What are we?
Where are we going?
Where from?
What are?
Where going?
From?
Are?
Going?
?
?
?
--
The year of my death
painted the lips of all Parisians
blue with my name.
My wives collected and framed
in the Salon Autumne.
I rest in the House of Death and Pleasure.
For all my doubts have vanished.
I am, and always will be,
a savage.
|
BY
EMILY RABKIN
1.
Stalemate,
am not
well.
Hold
my waist
away.
For soon
Fall men
unwed.
If trends
persist,
I’ll never make it.
2.
The precursor
of books:
billows untold.
Mentioned that
which made no difference.
The unripe
glow dulls
with time.
My mother
pressed ear to wall,
antemortem.
3.
Torrential fathers,
back from the stables.
Substance takes
no maker.
My faltering,
towards beds.
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