And We Made Them Kings?

II

A parlor, any parlor, a throne sits directly in the middle. A man and woman are heard talking.

[Vela and Pavo pace around the throne]

Pavo:

So you heard then?

The knocking alongside my walls,

the drumming of my own,

[Pavo sits, Vela stops and stands behind Pavo]

 flesh upon blood,

upon bone,

upon flesh.

Vela:

Yes I heard,

I heard the then sound

rattling from the bottom of your…. excellence.

[Vela begins pacing clockwise around the throne]

 It sublimated these metal teeth at the heart,

which sunk into a spinning mess around my guts.

Casting this surreptitious light all over you…

 and me into anger all at once.

Yet, still there are  no tears,

Just, this heavy stare into hands

that wish themselves more muscle,

more avarice or brawn…

[Pavo stands looking ashamed/bewildered, Vela sits in the throne looking to her far right, while Pavo begins pacing around the throne counter-clock wise]

 Just, this reflection upon glass

longing to be repeated.

To be held by something of fidelity….

Something with a brawn of its own…

that I may be tempted to call into myself…

as you have.

And that nagging why that has been knifed between my breasts

still begs the question.

Pavo:

See, you begin with a spasm/a squirm,

just after sighting a bead of sweat

threading down

 the oblique of a man

during an outing/ a footrace.

Then you have a what-if/ a wonder,

which sparks the skin into a frenzy,

and bodies follow,

[Vela stands, Pavo sits down and begins having visions]

 to be thronged all over the axis of the man

 bending into you. It kills

 to sway the hunger

of the perineum….

Damn that Tiresias

Always right, always

 In seeing,

the pleasure in reception/ in the permeation of

in seeing

the unclenching of heavens

with a pulsed

(breathing heavy)

repeating of

(feeling over his body with his own hands)

resting after, in seeing

your perched mouth

rimmed across the edge of an obelisk

In seeing, how man is always

One part of a tenth….

  

Vela:

You DIGRESS!

[Pavo stands up startled, hardly amused. Vela sits down with a brazen look on her face]

 Surely,

U do not need to give circularity

to your actions

I ASKED WHY?!?!

why give chase

when you knew I could

never be of any resolve

Never prod you the way

you so wantonly hoped for…

And you dare sit here fantasizing

over the flagrant tastes of your own shame

you licentious fool!

Pavo:

LICENTIOUS?!?!?

You cur!

How dare you cast these shadows

About my discrepancies…

When you, YOU,

sucked the flesh of the very

being that strung himself

Out of your womb!

Gave this this antecedent child

The same lips that once pursed over my own

edifice

and you, gave your face

to be a canvas for his smatterings

taking his prana

back into your pores

you, you cur, you

whorish beast

with that diseased thing

 carrion you keep

between your thighs,

You will know,

That with all the vengeance

That keep within My eyes,

Will befall you and that foul

Incessant spawn of your laboring

But first tell me…. My sweet

Lascivious Vela….

Does the boy know of his real father? 

And We Made Them Kings?

I

Scene: A parlor. There is a floor, a floor covered with alternating squares. Two men face each other.

Equuleus: (stepping forward) Check!

Pavo: On what grounds?

Equuleus: She heard the knocking. Heard the thrum alongside your walls. Bricked into a castle before you had yet arrived.

Pavo :(about face, stepping left diagonally) As if curiosity fashioned itself a necklace, an aria of flesh, was strung, heavily down my throat… 

Equuleus: Heard the dribble on your bottom lip…

Pavo: Until teeth found hold of his belt…

Equuleus: She gave supplication.

Pavo: Knotted in tongues. I found atman.

Equuleus: And I… gave her prana…

Pavo: And when my oblation was done, I lamented the dew, spilling off, from his tongue.

Equuleus: … and comfort, speckled against her face like the yearlings of a shooting star.

Pavo: (tilting head skyward) Orion…

Equuleus: (looking down, eyeing over his own crotch) Said I was more gigantesque…

Pavo: (Looking to the left) Horologium…

Equuleus: (returning head forward) …slightly

Pavo: (stepping to the right, with a smirk) Then, maybe her lips are now as loosened as the muscle you waxed over her brow.

Equuleus: Yet I did not pray it to be. Was just abundance before the asking.

 Pavo: A coronation?

Equuleus: (hanging head) A plunging betrayal…

Pavo: (angrily)A split atom driving the moon!

Together: A coronation.

Equuleus: (about face, stepping forward, slyly) Yes. And She. Fucking. Wanted it. Down to her bones!

Pavo: (interjection) Down to your bone!.... (stepping to the right)Check!

Equuleus: (natural, defiant, and exuberant) And the sun rose on the 4th door of her labyrinth. The light, gnashed at her necrotic. The remedy, the exhumation, the wicked system of things, her womb, a baptismal shower, and to her I am king, I am, her promethean god, and when you beg back on your knees, ask her, does she forsake all others. And she will nod an open mouth, (bobbing head very slowly) and give you lips akin to orchids in return. She will sing harmonies in affirmation, and yet, crack her open and her heart shall beat in unison with mine.

Pavo: (pissed and proud, turning to face Equuleus) And yet!? You still feast upon the my proverbial,  My throne, you cur, vis a vis, you antecedent, you brother to the night, the fledged beast lapping at my palm, and you, the child of my own rumination, the spawn of my inculcating, my dredging, my reverent tone, beating, betwixt her spring and breasts, I have laid whispers, unequivocal to rhymes of which you can never fathom, with a supple thumb, you will never find all the creases that I have ironed in her valleys. And yet, you who have created this atrocious monster, this abomination unto Venus, to you and her be the wretched kind …. surely Equuleus, even I, won’t save you from those damned starving mouths …

As If. They Came Out. Of Birth. (Deconstructing Churchill)

Act 1

And this would be my personal and unabashed thoughts on the Caryl Churchill drama Far Away. As if I haven't said enough in class, right? Maybe I haven't. However, still, I have this suspicion that there is something rotten in Denmark. As if we have been lured away from the “real” truth that our auteur is wilier than we originally thought. This is to say that we have been led astray by the language, and baroque hats, and the language. The language seems to clue us toward the notion that there is a lot being concealed from Joan, and I’m beginning to wonder, has the language also clued us in on the fact that there is a lot being concealed from us; the reader?

Act 2

“We are far too trained? Have our noses turned up, to be hooked? Pulled? Are we the alchemists that our fathers warned us about?” By abusing the products of our knowledge, Churchill has reassured us that we can still construct full-fledged narratives from thinning mechanisms. I don’t know if I’m sold on seeing the apparent connective tissues that bind these three acts. Besides the dramatic schemas insisted on by Churchill, this work does not ensure a proper elucidation of how one should exactly understand what is happening in the text. Aside: From the normative aesthetics of the dramatic form, Churchill does not wish to explicate any single dramatic narrative. Yet, by being exposed to redundancy, we have constructed one. We are too gestalt for our own good?"

Act 3

Though we insist on confabulating notions that have not even insisted themselves, I think it would be rewarding to begin to see, that what is before your face lies, a simulacrum. As if some dream within a dream within a dream has given you enough cognitive information, to realize that they are indeed related. As if Joan is the same Joan, as if Harper and Todd are the same Harper and Todd. As if we are all Joans, who has had the world told to them, even though nothing adds up, yet and still, somehow we have managed to make a hat. As if we have been lured away from the real truth that our auteur is wilier than we originally thought. And perhaps somewhere in the meta-narrative we can find the differences or maybe the différance(s).

Four Saints in Five Voices

*it is as if, saints could could be coming again. 
as if it is us, us saints, all saints 
could be less, 
"less of the least"
and lo, us, less and less sanctus than 
(then) these saints 
are all going to fall.


*then let them box 
with themselves
in the shadows, and find 
more a saint than those 
who cast their robes and habits 
to the furnace




* for who has has eaten 
the least of their piety cast 
cast the first fork to the floor!
and feed the saints a bit of
grass and snail 
with a chuckle to their ribs!


*and lo, the seemingly unseemly 
veneration of spirit and flesh holy 
enough for the whole, Lot
and company and company,
and company have not 
at all become what wasn't 
our song, our song of denigration
for the saints!


*and yet, yet we all know that 
nothing, of nothing when we speak 
of it, as if, it is
is only yet
those saints, who have had 
not yet a tête-à-tête
with God

Parenthetical Aside: Jonah D. Mixon-Webster??

Yea, I'm one of those people. One of those people who take way too much time thinking about themselves, their reason on Earth, and the significance/insignificance of their own name. On top of all of this, I have the audacity to write poetry. So in a sense, I'm the quintessential post-modern poet (or at least I think I am). When it comes to poetry I try to be as experimental as I can. I like to blood-up the page in unconventional ways. I like abusing language by making it eat itself. In addition, I love learning new and different styles or poetry so I can synthesize them all into other new and different styles. Ultimately (if not hopefully), this will one day help me to help others who have the wonderful burden of wanting to write poetry.