Alan Botsford – Ⅰ

a mamaist earth of heart

 

 

 

 

Hey, pain boy.

You artsy satyr, you pilar of April, you charm of March,

Begin this binge

of being

Alive…

In an integral of relating

Ashes to ashes,

Evilly as he-ass…

Let this be

Salve of slave.

For these are

Ties that bind

Up the wounds…

What’s the worst

That can happen?

You break open

And find tears

Made of gold?

 

 

Yes, you amigo of imago (no scold of clods)—

Sing out your amens of names

With booms of bosom borne of boner,

With mania of anima under a cloud of could!

Armed of dream, take your moods of dooms,

Your sword of words, and befriend the devil of lived!

Feel how the growns of wrongs taste of teats;

How a thing of night becomes an overt of trove!

O rowdy of wordy, by your nerve of never

Let heaps of shape and deeps of speed be

The crude of cured—for this feast of feats

By its snare of nears in Edens of dense

Is a genre of green bound by the girth of right.

No haste of hates, no bunks of knubs wearing

The mantle of lament can stifle of itself

Your volley of lovely, your nectar of trance.

 

 

But don’t try to take the stink of knits out of

The shell of hells, you earth of heart.

Herein of inhere is the listen of silent,

And by the surge of urges of throes of others will you,

A solver of lovers, a shaman of ashman,

Take these impels of simple and, with

The energy of greeny and the hustle of sleuth,

Turn golden of longed into the flower of reflow,

No more fleeing of feeling the enigmas of seaming.

 

 

When called to be the sifter of strife in a garden of danger

Where the serpent of present—that uprose of poseur—

Climbs like a spider of prides all over the succor of crocus,

Become not fluent of unfelt; pay no heed to earfuls of refusal.

But, with the paltry of partly, take your reading of grained

–howsoever of whosoever– to the highest of heights

For the amending of meaning.

For by this process of corpse comes your slough of ghouls

Who, by their ringside of desiring, will be a genesis of seeings.

 

 

Yes O savior of various, O margined of dreaming!

What sortment of torments there be now, learn

Therein of neither the underflow of wonderful

By twisting of wittings in the lighted of delight!

And when facing the censor of crones fall not prey

To the tenser of resent, for you’re a pearly of player

Beyond the re-echo of cohere, beyond the re-give of grieve.

Your satiny of sanity will lead you past this stage of gates

To the safer of fears, dying of dingy in the bowel of below.

(Alert of later: avoid the shack of hacks where the maids of Midas

Spin the lotus of louts, for instead of sainted you’d stay sprout

of stupor,

Elating of genital with no dignity of tidying.)

 

 

And, with your traits of artist and your rawness of answers,

You’ll soon see the coming of gnomic as the cosmic of comics

Whose course of source leads inward of Darwin, past

The domain of daimon, all the way to dances of ascend!

Yes, you, an earner of nearer,

Like an enrapt of parent who’s been a roared of adorer—no

WASPy of yawps—

Shall, in the elapsed of pleased, remind the enlisted of listener

Of the manger of ragman, and with each seraph of phrase

From the region of ignore, shall make

Of your vessel of selves a tooler of looter

And–presto of tropes!—in your relation of Oriental

Among the peerless of sleepers, will be a true heister of eithers.

And though your heart be a bruise of rubies

You, ruthlessly of hurtlessly, shall take the world’s thrust

Of truths to the gleaner of enlarge

For the sake, always, of the repairs of praiser and the rearmed of dreamer.

Until once again you’re an instrument of nutrients for

The earthiness of heartiness, or are, like a hidden tea-urn of nature,

A friend of re-find.