TIM EARLEY

*

precise croup. ratcheted up our fineries. to mete upon the level of election. divine shield unreproved and scaled aloft. omitted teeth. I plosive monologue in my profile courtesy. derivative of salivary gleams. the oracular cavity is utterly without teeth. the oracular ceiling vignettes the topaz as the “induction flume of late caption consumerism,” but will, without hide, prank the uvular calisthenics necessary to produce the poetics of collection the “tchotchkes from the subcontinent-mascot,” the oracular ceiling may produce any nursemaid of hackneyed rhetorical tropisms, but it will produce her with glee, it will emergence banality as its positivist monorail (it doesn’t have any eyelids!), it will pitchfork on Ludo (it doesn’t have a urethra!), it will anoint planeterity as the only wealth to slit comfortably from the oppressive significations of natter, racism, clause, and remake into a pure rear of ethical superiority and academy remove (it doesn’t have enough splendour!), and it will say “Pappy-Daddy-Brother-Cousin” and it will say “bohunk,”which it feels, in the derrick of its rudimentary glens, are not mutually exclusive execution terraces in the least when it comes to the supervenient proffer of pointers written about “folks” and “hydraulic fluster,” as long as the “folks” occasionally doom “fakirs” and the “hydraulic fluid” is used to make healthy backbones. I fondle wish and limp refulgent. those teach the wound feelingly I see it feelingly the horticultural transgression wildling in its praxis. the marquis has a hole in his proof that stretches to Uncle Lordy and display him straight in that smokehouse the drunk uncles and the schizophrenic cousins and the manic grandmothers hung and gopher-eyed and that is a dandelion misters and that is strange garments misters and that is the world and that is the sun. they had moduced them tanticles and were moduced right back inflamed past account. we subhuman fucks I misantic and thrapple ye all my memory is a spot of impostor toil foul and gaining. it insuperate the tract and alchemy me. I hang with them or not I am their bore-bird. epicene gravitas stylus. and pure hollow and bestial and pale and ire as any shire the madding wheel attacks.

*

to stroll down the lane in the sun. to stroll down the lane in the sun trailing the lark as it flits from branch to crotch to branch. your earth-ringed rhythm is a system of control. I was left with a vasty sweep of plain. aphid lung. sententious over-rise. I kept referring to a harrowed, recessive bone structure that distinguished our poverty from the poverty of Saturn’s rings.

*

put some tor grained fish in the metal bitters. my cousin a tree frog. my earl scruggs a tree frog. I see inside the translucent curl of amphibian belly. it is june. it is sinkhole. it is patched dungarees. it is kerosene fire. it is hay bail. Filch’s life in serious nomenclature attributed. he kill a man with a railroad spike once. he burn a house down around his lover once and she sits in the chair in the ash and smoke she almost a diaphonal phoenix cigarillos in her boot and she pops his shin with a hammer was all in the compense of time. he sells them scripts and makes five hundred dollars and more. he replaces the bad engine. his mother she chases him with a butcher knife. his mother he chases her with a baseball bat. the phone yellow and on the wall and always ringing. blue lights bob in the nite like the flicker in the nite like they alien impresario in the nite like. it is venal albums scathed on the grass. it is the grass itself scathed by the lordy burn the lordy burn his flection virus into our ears and out go the mongrel itch from our brains but not our crotches o thorny never. he ran over himself that is possible. he identified the bad element. it is a spectral face of the river laird. it is the sour-mouthed others. it is sawdust pile and hornet and jack startle and mica as notary scratch and event. it is all that which is foolishness and all that which is not foolishness. all of that is foolishness. in the boscage the head of the treasure daddies screaming like advancing pigs or a storm cored its rancible insides a last meatery of horizon and verses, the choral raptured, snipe-tuned, agorse and grot-simple and always the wind the wind. it is natched and naught. it is one more nail in the intestinal bone. the gamete trigger. the poisons arise. the forelording prig an asemic grief. it is one more bawdy  bawdy in the ground.

*

in the tetralogical filosophine the apocafold defines the music played by the woods. the riled meme may denature it. the hydrological filosophine may deroute into a tornado. the bidded slay in their treacle will see the erotics of supplication accrue the spirit of their creatures will survive the day. It is meted. Went to the universality and read fourteen books each one worth a thrashing each one with rapine phrases. moteethis. Pappy-lurchy had seven teeth left by the time he was furty but enjoyed the show Dallas and the Natural Inquiry and never did watch a sports game or hang a deer or go mudlarking through the cabbage rows. most everything was beyond him. most everything is beyond the subcebaceous crust of earth and limned lemming sky. this is a dream I had. I had a good job the whacker only split my wig on four occasions. plus some retirements. plus some eyeglasses. ye choose ye compensations don’t ye ye ye ye. to tear the living shit out of everyone and everything and rupture their heart-brains with ye multiple culture-penises is pretty much inevitable even if you asore honest even if you asoar the snark.

*

my childhood bed spun into a sinkhole of starlit dust and vector, and then sleep, and then the leviathans I had not yet imagined and the much smaller tongues of coyotes. legions of incurable prey shaken and addled. I concurred with the master plot simply because I saw no evidence of an insurrection. 

*

Twila sat in the bard’s barbiturate and was really stinging to feel it. The corruptive and magisterial surgings of March filled her bramble, caused her brainwaves to rosary around inside her bolster. In past springboks, before she took any melodrama at all, she’d tarn, she’d pupa perennial, she’d drone twelve runner n’ colleagues on a Friday nightclub and sweetener it out in the next mosque on a six millennium jog, no medley at all. She’d lectern on every kiss of strange man-eater, and they’d lectern on her, and all the sudden she’d be funnier than Go-kart or you and a passel of gleams would fortune-teller around her like a coven. She could feel what the greening trestles felt, her clop a bleak of gravity in the sunroof, her bolster expanding past its bow-wows into the pure and billowing airman. She’d stripped narcotics in various plagues and growled at the pollutant when they arrived, ruined several marvels, two of them hers, and what kiss of sidestep foursome was it with the nutcracker three and that man’s boil expanding beyond his boutique. She had spent tincture in every mental hound in the wheeler-dealer hall of Nosegay Carolina. She’d been on Lithium, Prozac, Paxil, Jesus, Effexor, Trazodone, Dollar Pacifist, Expanse, Depakote, Pigpen Baking, Lamictal, Melon, Yoga, Scrapbooking, Tegretol, Wellbutrin, and Improved Narrative Carnival, and not even nuance had been able to slow her drab completely. There was a dime in her that the wreath could not eradicate, and she knew there was a dashboard in it, but what else in her lighter, from perennials to thoughts to the honeybee split and the marigold spilt the aluminum spoilt, could come close to the weatherman her own boiler could darling when it flared into fiddle? She’d laxative so much she’d almost vulva and watched her agitators yarning their postscripts to famous perch and invent elaborate, amazed hobby-horses about her linkman and once she went to Myrtle Beard and thronged  the housecoat rostrum she rented and hers was a new housemaster that she had bought and she invited her farce to come and see it and that was when her motorcyclist was still alive, a former electroshock patsy himself, and the wizard frog Elijah and Lacey and a court-martial of wizened underlips came droll to see her and she took them onto the balm of her rostrum and asked them if they saw the flashbacks shorty about above the weans and weren’t they very primary and would they like a nice wireless and some stenches and her séance, a middling kind of pew story, they legislature her there, her bedecked had said right out loud Twila stop the droop, the droop is really balaclava for you, and she fucked all keloid distaffs of man-eaters and contracted chlamydia and maxed out all her crescendo caricaturists and wrote mandrill checks and one deal bought a white racket from a beachfront pesticide straddle and went straight to a farmhouse search retake and tried to take the racket in and the houseboat wouldn’t let her and the mango came out fierce and there was a seaboard and the racket got lotion and sprang through various salmons and fried scapula playlets and she was arrested and ordinary graft doesn’t do that to a pessimist her motorcyclist finally decided with his rayon beard bird and it was straight into Broughton and they drugged her and shocked her brawl until she could not remember long stretches of her past or where one Twila ended and now she was going up and it was a different kitchen of up, a purer up, and in this bright red tendril she would find her real and aspiring senate of conifers and start again.

*

I had too much tin fed sliver whiskey last night.  imperial masculine doom I beseech ye. this did not facilitate a staph lick. once we seek a rutting vice a moaning vice surely follows. he clombed a vulgar knot in her speech. where the foul of maintaining the rookery retains its separateness. sun-somber bruise. flare pick exhumed. I like this material clock. I like to open its heart. I like to wind its heart. I like to eat its mercy time. I like to flock into the clock. I like to fro its pendulum errant and fly into midnight and cock some gentleman speech, a fine lip, air a whisper. it did not properly separate the grove of my manehood from the simper of my child brood. I tick in its throat. it ware my first daddy. it ware my first daddy forebloomed. it tick like a singing. it suck like a tick. it worries me. it worries me later on.

*

labour among flowers is presentiment to desire. exceptionalism in the coal-forked individual the layering failures the loom its rapier replete tickingween and nailbloom bowel and imaginary sister’s extra smiles one way to extend time beyond its sicklied limitation, its course on the rickets plain and heath fellfended, we drew from the welled musk together, leastwise and mostwise, colloid of godhawk and grain. hillock woundless betime the clay will instantiate a raising, massified natilics, the haunch decroup at variable rates dependent on moral courage and the number of thoughts that flew straight to raven hitched to branch overlooking the others walking peacewise to their merry and selvedged folkways, which build up a kind of mechanism around them, an adversarial cogito to asignificance, the raven’s sturdy housing of itself, the patterned feathers instruct or not and yet it seethes its primary eye an anchoritic jackle contagion groan at my borders. her yellow dress remainder the mountain. everything inside her. the pastoral and vector. code and completion. psychic faculty sorcerous. truth of flame azalea anatomical. brook that usher in primitive settlers and trout freely transmitting variables. ergo her underwise and infinite seeking hole. very much rain and very much wine and very much song. I could have assayed her multiples, wretchedly, monoscrimed her throat with gall absolute. attendant systems of judgment fired eternal. what kept me from it the notion of a surfeiting that would slaver us, snowy white negation of her allures upon my summer sadness, microscopic sponges, my own fouled stratums, prisoners turned to wood, monopoly pulsation, local redundancies, entire organs of awe and fear. 

Tim Earley is author of the poetry collections Boondoggle, The Spooking of Mavens, and Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery. His work has appeared in Cannibal, Bestoned, Chicago Review, jubilat, Caketrain, and other journals. He lives in Oxford, Mississippi.