rotten oasis by Judith Goldman

Discussion in 'Audio Poem of the Day' started by FlamingFeenix, Apr 24, 2012.

  1. FlamingFeenix

    FlamingFeenix
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    [mp3=http://jpicforum.info/audio-poem-of-the-day/judith-goldman_rotten-oasis.mp3]rotten oasis by Judith Goldman[/mp3]

    [fieldset=rotten oasis by Judith Goldman]Treachery abounds, look
    inwards! Your bird jangles its small
    swing. You’re getting sleepy, very
    sleepy. In a vulnerable tyranny.
    Leave for now the marksmen to
    their desolations, they ruin everyday
    life. & luck can’t do anything
    about the undying devotion of
    the undead, putting their backs
    to the bus shelter while
    crumbs still stick to the dishes.
    I guess someone is a king of France & apart
    from whom nobody is a king of France. Same
    rockstar, different poem. I like icons
    & the toxic halos of figureheads, I like
    to beat people up & rehash among the swan.
    I was born in captivity, having
    fucked the right people, thick
    in the France of it. The uniform you
    design may still be stripped & not in
    some pleasant mannerism. I guess treachery
    abounds & scruple keys the addresses
    out of their shining wrappers. I guess gin
    relieves the need for whiskey, I guess I
    can think as well as talk. Come to
    think of it, I spoke to your exo-
    skeleton. It had been
    sacked for cribbing a back salary
    from your stunt double. I watched
    you chewing & the human body
    is a great mystery. Sun, look out for yourself.
    Embody your own adaptation.
    You’ve got no corner on fire
    & marauders upbraid those
    vehicles invisible to them.
    Nobody is a king of France, licked
    all over like a stamp, my every garbage at
    the actual border,
    making it, making it over, taking up the slack.
    The bottle broke in your bag & you’re
    getting flammable, very flammable. Luck
    knows nothing, peels down
    like a stocking & I
    thought, why wait any longer,
    & found myself caught in
    the breast of the beast
    as it staggered to carry
    me up the stairs. His clothes are
    dirty, but his hands are a sumptuous pyre.
    What’s so perfect about a stranger,
    the greasy smoke of being
    swallowed up or disappearing.
    I can’t carry the remainder.[/fieldset]


    -------------------------
    Judith Goldman, “rotten oasis” from Vocoder. Copyright © 2001 by Judith Goldman. Reprinted by permission of Roof Books.

    Source: Vocoder (Roof Books, 2001)
     
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