John Ashbery

September 23, 2007 8:14 PM

John Ash bery Wakefulness An immodest little white wine, some scattered seraphs, recollections of the Fall--tell me, has anyone made a spongier representation, chased fewer demons out of the parking lot where we all held hands? Little by little the idea of the true way returned to me. I was touched by your care, reduced to fawning excuses. Everything was spotless in the little house of our desire, the clock ticked on and on, happy about being apprenticed to eternity. A gavotte of dust motes came to replace my seeing. Everything was as though it had happened long ago in ancient peach colored funny papers wherein the law of true opposites was ordained casually. Then the book opened by itself and read to us: "You pack of liars, of course tempted by the crossroads, but I like each and every one of you with a peculiar sapphire intensity. Look, here is where I failed at first. The client leaves. History natters on, rolling distractedly on these shores. Each day a dawn condenses like a very large star, bakes no bread, shoes the faithless. How convenient if it's a dream." In the next sleeping car was madness. An urgent languor instilled itself as far as the cabbage-hemmed horizons. And if I put a little bit of myself in this time, stoppered the liquor that is our selves’ truant exchanges, brandished my intentions for once? But only I get something out of this memory. A kindly gnome of fear perched on my dashboard once, but we had all been instructed to ignore the conditions of the chase. Here, it seems to grow lighter with each passing century. No matter how you twist it, life stays frozen in the headlights. Funny, none of us heard the roar.

Wakefulness

An immodest little white wine, some scattered seraphs,
recollections of the Fall--tell me,
has anyone made a spongier representation, chased
fewer demons out of the parking lot
where we all held hands?

Little by little the idea of the true way returned to me.
I was touched by your care,
reduced to fawning excuses.
Everything was spotless in the little house of our desire,
the clock ticked on and on, happy about
being apprenticed to eternity. A gavotte of dust motes
came to replace my seeing. Everything was as though
it had happened long ago
in ancient peach colored funny papers
wherein the law of true opposites was ordained
casually. Then the book opened by itself
and read to us: "You pack of liars,
of course tempted by the crossroads, but I like each and every one of you with a peculiar sapphire intensity.
Look, here is where I failed at first.
The client leaves. History natters on,
rolling distractedly on these shores. Each day a dawn condenses like a very large star, bakes no bread,
shoes the faithless. How convenient if it's a dream."

In the next sleeping car was madness.
An urgent languor instilled itself
as far as the cabbage-hemmed horizons. And if I put a little
bit of myself in this time, stoppered the liquor that is our selves’
truant exchanges, brandished my intentions
for once? But only I get
something out of this memory.
A kindly gnome
of fear perched on my dashboard once, but we had all
been instructed
to ignore the conditions of the chase. Here, it
seems to grow lighter with each passing century. No matter
how you twist it,
life stays frozen in the headlights.
Funny, none of us heard the roar.

j.a.

posted by vronsky (3 comments total)

I'm kind of confused.
posted by empyrean at 8:19 PM on September 23, 2007 [1 favorite]

Ouch! Someone get the license plate number of that wall of text!
posted by spiderwire at 8:19 PM on September 23, 2007

Ok, who gave the bad acid to vronsky?

This will not endme.
But it will end quickly.
posted by wendell at 8:24 PM on September 23, 2007