靚女

Two Poems
靚女

C(H)ARNEL

let’s shoot horses to the
scene where some one’s
slow dancing to bossa
nova. at half speed i
think too fast for some one

with a lot of things
on her mind and not
enough clothes for this
thoroughbred nakedness.
(it is often) (it is hard) to catch

up with my self i have
rain hands for your
EE Cummings and your
gauche kitchen tricks. my
god is not pronounceable

my god does not fit in a
mouth. my god apophatic
in the breathless in the
windless in the carcass
blown dry and torn clean

across the ecotheory hunt
for my scavenger. it sky
dances, it ravages, it is
undeniable cerulean slit
it promises the flesh rite to
manifest dissolution.

SOFTWARE

it hurt once to let
it hurt again meant
repeating the recipe
for disaster in cool
hardy
calamity.

i do not open at the
parts that clam shut
reveal a pearl of
hard-won wisdom
for the fool with the
sharp hands and saliva
glands swollen.

speak, now my memory
evades nabokovian
tendencies for rose-tinted
hitchcockian rear-ended
windows. my
soleless
bottomless
stare
needs a point to make
sense from all this
bright nothing.

at sixteen i learnt the word for
pain. i can wield like the worst
of them, hurting
no body but
my self.

body it remembers
to forget
i suppose i forget to remember
my body isn’t separate.

i divide my self
into serial you’s
mistaking the distance
i and you argue over
the same wants
the same displeasures
ricochet requires
plurality so i give us
all these bottomless
eyes with no
point.


靚女 is not a waxlipped orchid and her blossoms do not last. At this stage, she prefers her biography to be written and read apophatically on oracle bones. Like breathing, or a well wrought metaphor, it’s an unspoken pleasure to speculate in silence, she thinks.