Mallarme Died Today
by Scott Keeney
Mallarmé died today (in 1898). Spume to many sirens, we prowl the seasons to fearless solitude, salute whatever concern saddens dreams and flowers sobs. Blessed torment, deep regret, the pavement in your hair—the evening I thought sleeps down eyes, evoking soot. Pierced swimmer, denying wave, the thousand fists of the sun. Mother of skin, of water, of veils. Bored man and stones, white hair, windows on youthful ago. Warm oils, clocks, cough evening light—river cradling swans, rich memories filled with hungering, stubborn offspring. Cling to dewdrops and scorn angel art. Be previous. The still compels a way. Hold the crystal flight at the risk of beast root. Hovering storm kiss of nothingness, gnawing sterility of stone. Exhausted, haunted—tooth of alone.
—•—
Weary charm, sevenfold rose, dig the cold with pity. Ashen dawn over graveyard lands, genius reprimands delicate ecstasy—agony moon, constantly he, blue sage's evergreen paint. Signify a cloud in tranquil eyelashes. Like poet wilderness with the soul on fogs, them rags of autumn emerge through birds. Flues smoke in yellow sky. Forgetfulness of straw on which at last lying art triumphs.
—•—
To yawn in bells and springs of the fog, agony in the sky. No more birds, strange nothing. Sea nights on her swaying wilderness. Tedium fluttering, may that wind scatter the blue yellow leaves crawl in.
—•—
Shadow fingers walk back, immaculate bathing light. A kiss not by what forgotten. Distance ever in from doomed perfume, what petals welcome within. Fragments reverie, lion's gaze, shivering robes resembling manes. Nonchalant comb, bottles of roses, will you virtue. Leave me—nurse my drunken hair. Human aromatics, cruel conforming jewels, vessels, my dark enough mirror. Mirror framed by hours, memories like leaves, distant evenings, nakedness. Am I a falling tree? And that kiss that will not end, that hand: sinister day? My blood may wander into you, immortal horror, as yet I serve the silent stars. Obscure treasure of being that grows in response to destiny like breast milk, endlessly concealed like primeval sleep, melodious stone of evil times, calyx of caverns and azure veils, inviolate light of icicles and snow and lonely hearts. Last, soon, ancient calm—window's blue shutters. Waves know the sky burns to go where light sleeps. And then—what else? Goodbye flower lips. Unknown cries. Utter feels. Apart.
—•—
Clear air encumbers doubt. Woods that roses malign—fable error. Blue compare sighs through morning murmurs, wind quick to rain, nothing visible sky. Shores of sunlight—hollow gold foliage—animal born of dives. Hour wiles—musical awake— light by lips that kiss. Untouched teeth—reeds that speak—endless around. Song of contours, love of line.
—•—
Instrument of lakes, speak more of grapes to regret, empty wild night, inflate the forest of precious feet in which my gaze lingers, and let me embrace the day's shadow roses and savage thorns. Lightning kisses curves, writhes the flesh, tears color from the sky, drunken prey. Horns on passion, hum-enamored desire, ash of leaves touching the feet, the words, too, must open to you.
—•—
The sandal glittering with sand. The pouring rain glazing the angel statue. Evening's fingers stroking the shoreline. Ephemeral percussions of eternity.
—•—
That pure lie in twilight, with caged thrusts. Shivering kiss which cannot feel a corner, fold pink eves, pose fire, shadow desire beneath your wing. To writhe in the eyes in darkness like boredom in a child, a star in space. Alive of the forgotten long ago, doomed to sing when the dream inflicts its horror down the neck. From blood laughing absent shred, midnight treasure torch. Vanished hairstyles, nails fall like pillows past midnight. Many ashes, only credence. Mirror, dip of oblivion. Gold scintilla, extinct expires.
—•—
Into the known voice of the angel, the future drools.
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