Connie Beauchamp, The Incomprehensible Game

THE INCOMPREHENSIBLE GAME

Connie Beauchamp

© C Beauchamp, 2008

All that rubbish

(I remember dustbunnies [despite myself]) Deltas splayed & irregular This much I am beginning to pick up on: The mountains, glaciers & clouds gravel It smells of cat pee It was a fortress (work on back up the web right up to Mars which way? is forwards suddenly the margin holds really, really interesting

Sounds like lights Light like a low hum Like like a nasty glue

glaciers polar bears forces these deep creation myths oh, archetypes! how much you have cost us! aeroplanes words always like aeroplanes high up above & around oh, and that deep hum heavy resonance funerals, processions what dies when a poem is written?

Half of poetry smells like cat pee Most heaps of gravel words etc break your teeth infect your blood Occasion burst out various and rich oh critic do you know like light like dark like thunder aeroplanes mumbling inside whose voices that pow erful suddenly? Rich deep despite

Late rare similes for addictions mimic those for pleasures all needs

the drop of words like the drop of gravel one at a time on a metal plate bouncing up and off arranged outside like an audience perception leads out perceptions lead in just a bit of tidiness and order each thing in its proper word sexual oh that need

Blood into the brain open: There are so many roles I love all of them [MISTAKE] grinding across flare & stench Live with it yet! Into such a void meaning pours powers proves like loves play ah! the ease

Gentle rain A slight tiredness The mistakes Are what doesn’t happen

Con centrate is my name on gold glimmering under lindens It is early may Ahhhhhhhhh! The smell of youth Unceasingly sexual and fresh Like the new leaves Like the washed dirt Sparkling and exhaling not dust or dreck fertile and plastic fit to mould humanity Old flawed creator god! shine your torch down here! these sparks of light flock and flourish this too we breathe in to our green flesh as paradise Concentrate!

Air heavy with May slightly stifling as if fetid locked in a deathroom who died where you fuck?

The May knows oh green goddess with what euphemism we approach your old greed your utter possession

carved out of our wombs you pluck out children spiteful switchings

What is really going on here? An English spring released to its violent ends

Inside there are lots of nothings out of these spring fully-formed all the powers and divinities too many to tell Like packets of light these are also all one bathing us in the waves of their radiance The void itself then hollowed out like a womb nurturing oh, in love or in hate in sustained rational indifference playing out this incomprehensible game the void wins

Lonely and empty like on top of a mountain oh what rubbish! floating in the eddies like the eggs of the gods hatching their filthy faces

nibbling insect mouths desires crazed hydraulic forces repetitive drives The dreck crawls It isn’t lonely Not at all here so many of them now

I am a Circassian beauty

I am the last polar bear I am written one of these terms will one day be free

The lady

oh, does this – like this

such expressive poetry gestures off here in this crowded marketplace Brighton is an oriental city its pleasure domes its burntout sites Impenetrable social systems corrupt governors hiding amongst the stones

vanishes suddenly into a lane the shops sell fairies artefacts for goddess-worship plastic underwear I renounce freely this world I renounce I renounce

The occasions for what we are nestled like slugs within our foliage wet white bodies like soft gravel

speaks to me & she invokes now what we are

shining wet washed

as it approached the ideal it collapsed inside at a strange boundary passed into the other

what is it here what is this hard dirt we crawl upon?

A chalk enclosure The safety within it Fantastic as any secrets Hope & clear perceptions just briefly The disgusting children fathered on us by demons Their insect heads

In cool light in hot flesh in low words in music

Filth crawling crazily around Needing us to be suckled the black fat stained from their mandibles they don’t exist except these words let them in

The self-satisfaction of these gentlemen – I’ll cut it out of their bellies pull out the dreck red & horrible ill-tempered would you say aggression? survival in the face of remorseless predation

a little sharp knife cuts the air cuts the very wind severs souls something silver spilt like blood sublimes at once they shall be lost as they are

Who are all these poets then? Like slamming doors drunken rages football Indistinguishable I summon My Mother Maia the darkness in this light blot their names out! blot their words out! blot their lives off the books of the living This isn’t trivial warfare against the enemies the controllers the unreally there Shatter them into rubbish dreck, dirt detritus raining around

Oh you gentlemen!

Don’t you assume it’s just these poets power itself suited & quietly priapic that solemn game you play with us as if it were written when all that is you occupy & lock Unpick & open them! Their games teeter into mania The suits ahh! grey black & blue rigid with haematoma decaying dreck

Don’t assume anything who the father is? no one cares end of the line kid no more movement possible see? it’s really all remarkably easy the lady vanishes the old order more like slowly crumbles right down into a gritty paste like rock flour like rubbish drifting in the doorways of Spitalfields broken glass & diamonds don’t assume OK?

Transgressive? 3-ways:

• aggression • recuperation • absolute delight

Pick the which:

at the centre

–

what isn’t accepted challenges power’s inertia

I could really hold onto that through all occasions a hard dirt diamond dust crunching as it all wears down oh, not us not us

I will not be put off & abjected no matter what my need or yours

At the bottom of the political urges of domination and the rest

oh, Goddess in what world do we join as equal beings? or play fully parts that don’t fixate & fix us? perceptions lead in to compose us channels eroded in our dirt

Hit it kid! All wrapped up in this OK something silly smile and aggressive smile again also sudden a seizure high up above the dreck shining in the midst completely complicit amongst the dark moist mess I could forgive at this the rotten old men and all their power but won’t it would not benefit what comes next

This is performative poetry because I say it is

–

OK? something like magic or lawful healing

Let’s make it really simple here: I declare this poem

a poem

Little red lights glow & a low hum a soft vibrating tone, like a cat’s flank as it purrs. This is what this poem is isn’t it? Look. Here is Maia. She is now leaving us Not yet

–

she clutches the bleeding hearts of a range of cruel & ignorant men

Don’t worry. None of them were poets. And look: here on the ground is that frozen snow yellowing accumulations of crystallised language

Pain in the head Can you tell it from love?

Oh, don’t perform this seigneur it will reflect upon you badly

Can you see where we are now?

The diamond dust scintillates the words written almost glow don’t they now

Never trust a nobleman or one who claims descent from such You buy power by lying that is: staining your own immutable soul You didn’t expect that but it is true

At the end

a few words

I do mean what I say when I say it

sparseness tonight too

crisp ness

like a line fine drawn darkest grey very fine unbroken until it vanishes