Poetry Archives‎ > ‎

Going to Old Port Moody (1998)

(Tu et
moi aussi)
You exotic concubine --
Your sexual turbines
are turning me on
heating me up
for a parallel kiss.

exist
EXIST!

Not too verbal
until the show
exposes moods
like an onion skin:
thin dictionaries
sizzle
within
crazy phases
of a lazy moon.

Speaking as a sort of mystic,
I recall
engram RNA
and cellular machinery
pumping
finely
through
the you
in me.

To grasp messages --
telepathic nonsense --
mesenteric vibrations
eliciting borderline responses:
Very much his
(not mine, dear),
you see
we, just us alone, simulate
allegoric perpetuity,
can't you see
keep it simple
We are all just
organically grown
imbecilic rogues -
soft
bubbles
of
matter.

May peace be with you,
and you
and you
and you, too,

Imagine all that
crookedness
being only a kind
of decomposing
elastic bands
inside some circles
make things seem grand,

Coats of putty
retard the explosive
thunderbolts of time
(not feeling
as well as it should).
Let's leave right now
to a cemetery
within the confines
of a parkland
somewhere in the vicinity
of old
Port Moody.

We’ll say just the things
we know we should
Can't you see
miserable business
won't allow
inner journeys
through the earth?

Isn't it alarming
how far we'll go
and to what ends
division zones
meet so soon inside
thoughts we want to share.

The bursting
totality of information,

(Furiously expelling
then nicely retracting
old talented antennae
fitting within the shell)
A gastropod
going slowly,
knows not the bounds
of human strife;
just searches for
a gastropodic wife,

Survive!
she said,
you nincompoop
and stop this
useless argument
insidiously intending
to divert intentions
of the Planner
who,
(fingers rolling
and thumbs drumming,
drumming, drumming),
sits still upon
some park bench
within the vicinity
of old
Port
Moody.



Glen Wheeler
Vancouver, 1998


Comments