JP's attempt at assignment 10
Infinitive
1. past
Joe and Shari fuck in the back
of a Boston Market. They go
there for the roasting smell,
that chicken all-spice. He rub his hands
on the inside of those ’92 jeans – bedazzle,
puffy paint trip his fingers, a tone-arm dig
and skip. Hands stuff into stuffing, into
buttery hips. Insertion quick, smooth,
cold steel pressing perineum, thrusts
segment quads with wide chill lines. Hot
chicken cook on thick rods
like pyres, altars, meat-scented candles
pipe mood. Nirvana play
on the Discman, treble shrieks.
Shoulder blade on Tupperware, jagged little
growth mark near his pubis. She touch
it, squeeze it, press it, pick it. It go nowhere.
They go nowhere. Later, they take the chicken
scraps outside. The cats let it rot.
2. present
The second gyration elicit a hot
flash. He hide the Viagra.
He don’t take it – it be the loosening,
the slackening, of things inside him
and inside her. He spend too much time
think about the record store clerk
in Toronto, tattoos and cords under
giant neon vinyl. Roast peanuts
on Dundas. His tongue press against
leather pants. The dream of intimate
moments not commit. The clock
strike make his dick grow limp, the sudden
suspension of silence. She pinch
his nipples, he groan. Joe stick
his leg outside the blankets,
lets that air breeze over puffy ankles,
Shari dream of things cold, ice cream,
vodka tonic, steel counters against
the small of her back, press
orange from the fridge.
Joe clench his ass muscles,
force a stiffy, pray for release.
3. future
They be old, infirm, form
from masses of wrinkles, blemishes,
loose skin. They lock together like
suction cups, dimples fit jut bones.
They bite pillow, elbow, anything chewy.
When Joe’s balls touch the examination
table, they retract inside, engage in contrary
motion. They press into the stuffing
of the other, birthmarks meet birthmarks.
Shari play the records from when she work
at the store – Bush, Silverchair, Sponge,
Soundgarden – dated things, bring with them,
nothing tense, nothing defined,
not passive or active but irregular at last.
1. past
Joe and Shari fuck in the back
of a Boston Market. They go
there for the roasting smell,
that chicken all-spice. He rub his hands
on the inside of those ’92 jeans – bedazzle,
puffy paint trip his fingers, a tone-arm dig
and skip. Hands stuff into stuffing, into
buttery hips. Insertion quick, smooth,
cold steel pressing perineum, thrusts
segment quads with wide chill lines. Hot
chicken cook on thick rods
like pyres, altars, meat-scented candles
pipe mood. Nirvana play
on the Discman, treble shrieks.
Shoulder blade on Tupperware, jagged little
growth mark near his pubis. She touch
it, squeeze it, press it, pick it. It go nowhere.
They go nowhere. Later, they take the chicken
scraps outside. The cats let it rot.
2. present
The second gyration elicit a hot
flash. He hide the Viagra.
He don’t take it – it be the loosening,
the slackening, of things inside him
and inside her. He spend too much time
think about the record store clerk
in Toronto, tattoos and cords under
giant neon vinyl. Roast peanuts
on Dundas. His tongue press against
leather pants. The dream of intimate
moments not commit. The clock
strike make his dick grow limp, the sudden
suspension of silence. She pinch
his nipples, he groan. Joe stick
his leg outside the blankets,
lets that air breeze over puffy ankles,
Shari dream of things cold, ice cream,
vodka tonic, steel counters against
the small of her back, press
orange from the fridge.
Joe clench his ass muscles,
force a stiffy, pray for release.
3. future
They be old, infirm, form
from masses of wrinkles, blemishes,
loose skin. They lock together like
suction cups, dimples fit jut bones.
They bite pillow, elbow, anything chewy.
When Joe’s balls touch the examination
table, they retract inside, engage in contrary
motion. They press into the stuffing
of the other, birthmarks meet birthmarks.
Shari play the records from when she work
at the store – Bush, Silverchair, Sponge,
Soundgarden – dated things, bring with them,
nothing tense, nothing defined,
not passive or active but irregular at last.
KILL KILL, FASTER FASTER!
ReplyDeleteJP, this is spectacular, I really enjoy the presentism of old people listening to 90's alternative rock, amazing!
thanks man!
ReplyDeleteThis is very curious.
ReplyDeleteThe more I read it the weirder it gets. The infinitives, especially the use of the verb 'to be' makes it sound kind of icky - like stereotypical early 20th century black speech. I'm not accusing you of writing that way, of course, but the echoes of it are...curious.
I don't necessarily know that the experiment yields particularly interesting language either. There are exceptions though: "...it go nowhere. / They go nowhere" is interesting when you consider how the mechanics of the project wrought that reflected statement. And "the clock / strike make his dick go limp" I think asks you to pluralize strike to strikes in order to make it work and that impulse is interesting.
To me the places where the poem is most effective are the places where the infinitive experiment either completely works or completely doesn't work.
And one more little comment. The "she touch it..." like up til' "...nowhere" is great. I just realized that, because your repetition almost makes me forget the grammatic weirdness for a time. So that's excellent. It's also a very strong set of verbs.
Lastly, the narrative at heart is interesting the relationship is compelling.
I hope this all makes sense.