Forfatterskab

Danish: pen name, heteronym

Should I, the onely lone of many, talk volumely

as if my life dependulumed upon donnish pastries,

words so cruden direact like a lent sermon?

Or am I in direlock with the many in one I transport

through rained-on streets toward the soulitairy coup of coffee?

Where I can be Cats Pyjamas to argue for sleeping life offt,

Anti-Metropolis aghahnst the baloof that dreams are our dearth,

Graffiti Head self-commissionarating the collected sprayings.

At times it is He Heeded who becomes my most ornate passage,

honest as the long is day, as though in this very farisee

He is my better half and everything other leave it out:

asks, have I changed my life, have I changed yet?

Life is living, aspired a spare it wholly averse to doctorin,

says He in bemeantime impersonaely, to me. Right it!

Then in my empty square under soakra trees a new voice

prays for attendsum, this time as if I knew nothing,

my schooling a skite to impress the geograhistarithmetician

I later learnit want home each night to feed his mutter.

And this could be the noisery, one with blocks and rocking horse

watching adults play at their crosis of converse and inverse;

adolts, like murther dear and fader face

togather twins in my glass of for-die odd years,

quarantime enough for these mine wrung selves.

I had no idea it was he who spoke for you

nor that we are the sum total they have claim to of me

and it was when you and they were we.

Only let me communigate this guilt trip to West Jutland,

be it tongues of mean and angles as allowed, almost

requested. Forgive may! But for the motive, can any author

explain the order, the final product complete defiled,

placed under clusterfication gnombers in liberies.

Inkjet print upon rustling surfaces rust into trust.

Lead pencil cursives up on the line, down into a corner:

the anno tatians sprouting daisy-like from word gardens.

And in a hundread years will one person, upon this,

follow his gaze beyond mine taxt and into my names.

Shall any name like be unto no other?

Or are all numens one numb in the cartalog,

where it martyrs not who is puritan and who catholic,

ranging as they do their fine-all phrases into deity,

breath real for them alive as the reader of these lines?

Where our simple sounds rest strewn and holey,

meaning and mimicryonix permanently pitched,

sighns in the wait for age of an ancient dictionhoary.

Forfatterskab, by Philip Harvey

from Wake Up