the poetry that matters

D. C. Lynn

D.C. Lynn is an American university lecturer who has lived abroad for many years. He attended the University of Southern California and holds degrees from Auburn and Pepperdine. His work has appeared in Quiddity, Hawai’i Review, Chiron Review, Foliate Oak, Skive, The Storyteller, and other print and digital literary journals in the UK, Australia, and the USA. His eChapbook, Jackson Street, has been published by The Dead Mule of Southern Literature.


Beauties, Elegant Extracts and Anas

                                                            eating unripe fruit, gazing on the clouds…on movable
things suspended in the air…we are restless because invisible things
                                                            are not the  objects of vision

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The downstairs bathroom faucet drips with Essene onomatopoeia into labyrinths of  
  sleepless memory.
    Dripping in the darkness.
      Dripping into my grey matter.
        Dripping into the essence of insomnia.

Dripping onto the miracles of the Watchers.
  Splattering on the emptiness of Azazel’s relentless desert…
    Onto the final chapter…the final verse of the Book of Enoch.

  disgorging tiny unrepentant teardrops of the weight of the world
  in antediluvian Amharic
    Ge’ez or some other godforsaken
                      vernacular of a long forgotten prosaic dispensation.

Dripping in relentless pentameter.
Dripping out-damned-spots onto Prometheus’s agony.
Dripping dactylic hexameter on anything epic.

Dropping. Onward it comes.
All of it unremitting.
                Falling into the outstretched hands of the Oneiroi.

And I remain one of the nine-tenths of species trapped in Zion.
  Somnambulant in kill-time, still believing in the Prophesy.
    Unmoved in delirium’s vision…
             dead mountain dreams
                        of mouths replete with carious teeth which cannot spit.
Afraid of taking the red pill and discovering that I’m not really Neo…
                                    I’m not the one…that the child really isn’t the father of the man…
             that the Matrix is but a postmodern celluloid avatar of all that’s
                                                      right with the world.    
And sweet allusive sleep is but the remnant of unvanquished tears in the eyes of


Sihanoukville, after all that…all this 

                                                                                        What is a loving tongue and pepper 
                                                                                         and more fish than there is when tears 
                                                                                         many tears are necessary…
The tongue and the salmon, there is not salmon
                                                                         when brown is a color

Gertrude Stein

After all this…
you didn’t come over

The satire’d street felt no pain no marmite of tiny footsteps on the dark and bloody ground
on the earth decked-out pasta with Daniel Boone’s organic Kaintuck pathways leading westward
to the banished joy of perusing the forbidden fruit hanging caustic & stalactite ‘neath
faded portraits of forgotten martyrs pierced by the silhouette of obsidian fishhooks

Yearnings which crossed the divide of Sunday’s repast & mislaid conjecture

After this…
you ordered the meatloaf special & a pint of Laphroaig past god knows how many derelict Alfa Romeos  we’d already devoured in futile haggis-recognition of lilac condoms on truncated wing-nuts

All that after…
slogging-up our ransomed staircase hand-in-hand to share the smell of oceans
with gilded trumpets blowing the sea breeze swoon at random
as our eyes sucked-out dreams of conquest & the subjugation of tongue-less fireflies

All this…
after not finding the toilet roll sanctity of mouth cum nor
September’s merchant seamen steaming to a potter’s field supper of dragnet destiny
flush with vegetarian cruise ships & a smashed-avocado weary pilgrim in lavender

All this…
extolling derelict amethyst walls
walls tinted with Marie Menken’s meat-hook brush strokes
walls which take the very name of your padded-bra artichoke heart in vain

All that…& I was less than two-blocks away from cunt haired exegesis strega & glasses filled to the brimming sum-total of aspic & Pomeral furtively hanged by the neck ‘til life detached its essence from the corn and cursed the night’s derision

All this…& April’s still the cruelest month when
the retina of your partner’s tomorrow refuses to blow shaved ice & lick the marrow of yesterday’s date palm

All that…& you ask me to go walk-about ‘midst cheeky forests of chestnut & beech
graced by the crystalline water of a Khmer Rouge sidecar in a napalmed orphan’s Pastis syllogism scrawled in listless Trocchi free verse on the purloined soul of tortured rice paper


Azathoth’s Flight in Dream-Quest of the Reprize Kadath

All the young dudes carry straight-razors in the tops of their brothel creepers…
as Estragon waits to hear a politically incorrect joke about Vladimir’s sister
  (a has-been vestal virgin waiting for a train outside a nickel-dime cherry patch)
  somewhere down on Highway 61) .

She has the penchant for reading Through the Gates of the Silver Key in derelict Amtrak depots
but she lost her drugstore reading glasses
(long since gone in condom-less disarray)
so now she merely sits across the street in front of the One Piece at a Time bordello
dreaming of Tatsumi Hijikata and the forbidden colors…
gawking viaticum
black and white
Sweet Jesus carneys of a Gustave Doré wrestling match “coming attraction.”

The act of which suddenly reminds her she needs to send a Hallmark card
to her step-brother Esau…
  (the intermittent ruler of Dead Head Edom)
  on the occasion of his common law marriage to Judith his flautist
  and Basemath who plays second fiddle and a coffin bass.

Her parents are sorely pressed
  not so much about modern-day Jerry Garcia bigamy
  as they are with the butoh insurgents which haunt all the
  dilapidated railway stations and the smutty little Jean Genet paperbacks they peddle…
  (which sister says is much ado about nothing)
  ‘cause now she listens to The Cramps every 28 days without fail
  ever since she gave-up the morning-after suppository
  for the less-costly generic dispensation.

The dudes and daddy-o’s side-winder the sidewalks in front of sister
(dreaming of Pozzo hitting on feckless Lucky)
as he’s finally being held down to vinyl
by a free-lance private security guard - or two - of the Tiger Army…
     impaled in ecstasy by hapless pickets who cringe in recoiled threat
     to the mind-cum lunacy of absurdist parental guidance.


If You Become Naked Jude…Backmask Reprise

Take him home, take him out
  take it all home, take it all out
                                                it was a fake moustache
                                                it was a fake moustache
A rap thinking moose really pull neck
Egg saw you off the tipsy knee step
I am the egg I am the douche
 show off the moo wow
                                                i will not be Maggie’s super-baby
                                                i will not be Maggie’s super-baby
Douche, oh the fairy man
                                                believe my oak
 we are the moose
 we are the douche
All thought backmask
 (all life he washing me)

Discontinue rare life Louise there were this other mother heart, that was my old one
 ah douche
 ah douche
                                                believe my oak
Speaking til who not speaking
dreaming til who not dreaming
A rare Louie
A nauseous circuit, tiny loop this is Gemma
A pregnant woman make me pull neck
Pigs in the mood
                                                all the sorrow’s all forgotten
Pigs in the mood
                                                all the sorrow’s all forgotten
A  mammy
a rap freakin nap see the muscle
 make me douche
                                                your boy is a sleeping embryo, a demon idol
                                                (thank the smoke), worst of all he’s in the dark chills
                                                remember this please
A rare rare Louie I’m working out with olives, mushrooms
A rap thinking man, who’s the snacks we stay out of
Ah douche…farmer for a little graph
Ah douche…farmer for a little love
Let’s eat up more snow
 let’s eat up more speed
Ah, it’s not real…help me, help me…
            turn me on dead men, turn me on dead men


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                                                                                                            October 14, 2012