Twelve-Point, Broken Arms; A Brooding Duke To Me — Sightseer’s Poems
I eye myself to the stance of this thinning duke — armed, and awaiting in his kil; I march to that fine posture he so presents, but all fooling is knocked over when I am a seer to it.
Seer begins — Duke stands aside
Why is this settled, she retorts, to the man without shield — You don’t care for that, do you? Much at all, seems like much too much! — I arm and I ensnarl To deem it all untangled? Why is this thus and what is the nature of this thusness —
A law that cannot be abided by — Therefrom lasting, there-out fading
Ever fearful, it is him, The falling of man to the great flesh machine — Of State ensnaring all to her tightening sagacity In his brutal heart —
It’s too late to be hateful, Refine’s Duke spouts to me. Headed and unhinged by his waistcoat and back — The tightening belly of his sex, thin by his rib cage, The belly again, of his posture, assures him by rich clothes —
The tight figure slips me to my painted form, thus comes the first utterances of me in passing the becoming of ye-yonder. The Jew spiral he viciously insights to me — Till his notions of death are found by organized-murder-amassed.
Twelve-Point, and All Broken Arms ‘Twill certain envy out his petal’s rages He flexed me out passively upon the ire of the stairs; Pain and full hammering fury — He still spouts to me; Tho’ I speak of this man’s inscrutability:
Magic to transpose; Ensnaring the witless and stupid untamed within me, By the lucky thirteenth of the day, by the lucky framing of a day of mine — He commences to me, Reading a whole card ’tis he, A stark man always down to me friendly,
Twelve-Point, and All Broken Arms ‘Twill certain envy out his petal’s rages He flexed me out passively upon the ire of the stairs; Pain and full hammering fury — He still spouts to me:
Bemused refined — regeneration dined, Robs lost in the Asian he says to me —
Bemused refined — it is our trip. That reckoning of the muse —
It is a Man — might it be a woman, Cladded in his disguise, By fatal arms and iron-mongering — Who then dares say?:
Duke takes the scene
A clambering is done, To figure out, The bode state of an isolar. To dance well, Climb onto Tomorrow Mensch!
Fashions, he doeth — he sniggers: WHo is the nature of the being I’m closeted into? WHo is the nudeness, pressed under drapes and skin? WHo is the rack of pinions, in this clustering bell That seethes the grand tapestry of life — it so seems.
Refraining, I say of this anecdote — For he is a man deserving of the inscrutability of facing time; He is a man with the conviction of a party, yet he isn’t the face Imagined on all of them as the uniformed; He is one yet within them all — that is his queer flux I speak of:
A thinning duke of all assortments. A body clambered in wrought-steel, Lubricated into a Dearlove, Dutch do well, For his God — Refined fabrics, contradicting styles. That taught ironmongery is the staple of his heart:
— God does it well, better than most —
Especially for the ridden man, Caught in an armored suit, beading The rooster evermore; Panther steel — The State has done its sinuous seduction on him —
He shuts and pushes — He tassels and enfolds — Enthused he became to be — He became to me, he became to speak Ride onto Tomorrow!
I’m supposed to not feel this way, by the amendments of the group To my prior thoughts, inhabiting gold! Riding for misery, all bout to days
I’ve twisted and mauled my arm In many, unkind ways — Swaying the method, until the point; Like the grasping of a newborn lamb before The morn’s letting of blood; Swaying the method comes by the point, Wherein it has clinked and popped underways — To reach a sight or shelf Under the wet sand, or, If one deserves to mention Preferences, The wanton sea, Gainly shallowing all up —
He battles — he snickers: WHom shalt it concern, whence all lights have obeyed their final design — WHom shalt it be, when you’re flayed, whiskey, jutted to be — WHom shalt the shame fall upon, the subbing out of your life; Gay goes the half-pint of well-remembered toying:
Seer returns to the scene
Twelve-Point, and All Broken Arms ‘Twill certain envy out his petal’s rages He flexed me out passively upon the ire of the stairs; Pain and full hammering fury — Beats him, yet still harangues to me:
It is him, the man with the board-shot, bY armature, bY the visage of wanton wherewithal — That is his crux, that is his eager arms, To ply, and ply once again,
That is his State — that is his canon, That is deeming design:
To easily assure me, but I wasn’t assured by him; Him who is so commenced to the totalist state; I cannot abide him, Yet I am beginning to become law unabiding myself — That is my lifting shame; I must leave him hither — all pronounced with the favor Of the Dutch in mind. Spilled and shattered, I come down chanting so, To rest here on my beady words thereafter:
A law that cannot be abided by — Therefrom lasting, there-out fading
Twelve-Point, and All Broken Arms ‘Twill certain envy out his petal’s rages He flexed me out passively upon the ire of the stairs; Pain and full hammering fury — He spouts to me so, still — lasting onto tomorrow.
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