Can't.
hours. Viscous. Go on, you can tell me, you said. What’s unspoken:
I’ll lick yours if you lick mine. Your sister’s murder
in Melton School cornfield :: the button pop
before he bored into me. No matter which way
you stick it, it’s still a cunt, you said. No. This
rip is riper than whatever you’ve never had.
Forgive me an example: My ex-girlfriend.
She used to tell me, Whenever I get close
to coming I see a white-tailed doe bleating
by the side of the highway, a whip of magnolias
browning. I begged her, Pare it back. There’s promise
in the act. I’m scared of everything
bigger than me. How the boys
write their biology under Dalton bridge.
straight outta the socket.
Still I know the thickest bone, the weightiest fleshblanket
is what can throb me through. Cover, cover,
I need the hair on your knuckles.
I need your mouth. I need
your every rotting ounce. Fuck, I know
the feel of it but I’ve never felt the fit.
Kate-
ReplyDeleteI think this might be my favorite of yours, in that while it is a wee bit inaccessible, it’s also got hooks a’plenty. Your wordplay here seems to be in service of something new. “the hour growing / hours. Viscous.” is so good.
Other things to love: from “I need / your every rotting ounce” on till the end is crazy good. I’m a big fan of the “How to rip a finger” stanza. Also, I don’t know the context, and it seemed like an authorial intrusion, but “I begged her, Pare it back” was real real good for me. “How the boys / write their biology under Dalton bridge” is real good too.
But I haven’t the foggiest what’s happening here, or even what I’m supposed to be leaving this with. It seems to be about sex, and sensuality, but there’s murders, some pretty dark abusive sounding shit, necrophilia, psychological torment, and also that it’s submitted for the political assignment. I love poems that try to do a lot, and I love the drive of all of this, but it’s not even inaccessible, it feels almost entirely inside itself. This could very well be my failures as a smart person, but you lose me at “What’s unspoken” and I start to get back around “I begged her.” I love the rest of the poem, but that long sorta-mid section, I’m hanging on for dear life on a horse that doesn’t want me on it.
Also, “the weightiest fleshblanket” is real kinda gross. Maybe too gross. I don’t know that “fleshblanket” needs to be one word.
man, that last line is a fucking knock out. I think I just need a smidgen of clarity to figure this out, or maybe I’m just not really thinking correctly. I have been looking up everything I could think of as a possible reference for about an hour, and I’m stumped. But I am a fan of the poem, and it’s got some incredible lines.
cheers.
jon
"the hour / growing hours." -Fucking brilliant.
ReplyDelete"no matter which way / you stick it, it's still a cunt..." Again, brilliant. I think the line break there could be a little cleaner, but I'm not 100% sure about it. The sentence is powerful, evocative, speaks to the heart of the poem in a direct, yet spare way. But the line could perhaps be worked somewhat.
The violence of the sexuality in the poem, the uncertainty, the monstrosity. It's amazing, and frightening. I think only you could write this poem, Kate. It's unflinching, but full of doubt. To me it has two faces, if that makes any sense.
The last two lines are delicious. My one small suggestion is that the last line is a bit reminiscent of the earlier line: "This / rip is riper..." echoes the kind of wordplay of "feel" / "felt" / "fit" and I think lessens some of the impact of the last line. Could be I'm just over sensitive to it, but give it a look-see and maybe you'll find something there.
Long story truncated. I dig the poem. I wish I could speak about it a little more elegantly about it and I'm sorry it took me so fucking long to get these comments to you. Much love, regardless.
Besos, love
-B.