Poetry
Three Poems
If effort could talk
well hid spoils node ads
cross out trill fingered by lament touch
amiss, as is somebody were
the house peeper, a wholesomely clandestine interval
a threat startling in its known
eraser bathos: can a turn burn? —
real queasy glitters silence more delinquent
heat made uniforms from skin
congeal teeth skull as lyric a flame overindebted
poke taut risk scald egregious butter
an exploding since
whining boring spasm overspills
bows on an overhead sacrosanct bereaving
Bruce Andrews
Wind me up unknowing, a steady nocturnal
you’re in danger of the worrying never makes
a noise speculative to touch
a sort of poetic radiator
sacked by flesh the memories could go on
vacation & I identify with myself first —
your snapshots were my belt limbed
the usually tongue-tied tactics
for queasiness you never look forward to
seeing me when you’re with me
you’re pretty inconsiderable
not begs to differ, something emotional could
insist defeat in a mention your blustering
about immediacy, smug my shield
raped by unknown all itch
dizzy night without reward into conversation
I’m not sure the writer has a way with
words, misgivings, misperceivings
pressure felt sorry even desire is undesirable —
can the small head be bedrest
too willfully peppered I relax to feed
deserted mouthpiece who said history has nudity
picked out with real virgins
Bruce Andrews
Rhythm is a vacuum
bruises are weapons
the bookshops haven’t the heart
gasp antibodies moved by facts or moved by pictures? —
systole me some husbandry in stucco savvy
provoke the passion between objects in design
immanent allowanceable deception howls enough
opining a head pump nouned on you
release the pressure on your grudge
recursively speaking, sudden or sullen? —
only triggers can be awkward, only
certainty is vintage: be glad
your internal children die, a private reference fairground
to invent appropriate developments in your past:
no wheelchair could insure you I’ll be
a monk on your mobile diffidence with the territory —
a union of nothing special
cussing threshold you’re so hostile now
to the non-rational grows no more choice
if quality had anniversaries to flatter
by information my generosity cannot keep
the book propped open feigned ensconcing
shudders to short-cut non-living circumstance
careful not to be an example of
the perfect slurpie pedigree curtails —
can you mother alone?
Bruce Andrews is "a performance artist and poet whose texts are some of the most radical of the Language school; his poetry tries to cast doubt on each and every ‘natural’ construction of language" (The Oxford Companion to Twentieth Century Literature in English). Andrews is a founding editor of the legendary journal L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E, which catalyzed the eponymous poetry movement that emerged in the 1970s and ’80s. His many books include Lip Service, Give ’Em Enough Rope, Designated Heartbeat, Ex Why Zee, Tizzy Boost, and I Don’t Have Any Paper So Shut Up (or, Social Romanticism).
Contributor
Bruce AndrewsAndrews is an American poet and a key figure associated with the L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poets.
RECOMMENDED ARTICLES
Bruce Nauman: His Mark
By Charles SchultzDEC 21-JAN 22 | ArtSeen
Brown spots spread across the blue veins and red knuckles of the artist’s hands, telling their own story of age and effort. These hands are the hands of a creator; these hands have made artworks that have affected the lives of people the artist loves and the lives of people he will never know.
Schnabel
By William CorwinMAY 2021 | Art Books
Part of a series of limited-edition monographs of the work of living artists, the oversized monograph demands care and attention and effort on the part of the reader. The reproductions allow the viewer to become absorbed, and the artist’s oeuvre—which has always veered towards the grand—benefits well from this.
Frankie Alduino’s Vertical Village
By Jonah Goldman KayJUNE 2021 | Art Books
When Westbeth Artists Housing opened in 1970, it was a radical model for communal living in a city that was increasingly unaffordable for most artists. The photobook is an attempt to celebrate this colorful community and a last-ditch effort at preserving this fading element of the city’s cultural heritage.
My Beautiful City
By Thomas HeiseMARCH 2021 | Field Notes
In the spring of 2020, as the plague was sweeping the city, I found myself several times a day staring at an Instagram page dedicated to the furniture and household goods New Yorkers were tossing to the curb. Amongst the flotsam and jetsam were steamer trunks, benches of reclaimed lumber, numerous upright pianos, boxes upon boxes of books, a fainting couch with flower upholstery, glass vanities, bar stools, two Noguchi coffee tables, stand-up globes (I counted at least three) that hatched open at the meridian so you could store liquor inside, seemingly every fiddle leaf fig tree in the five boroughs, and other bric-a-brac and impedimenta and whatever else could be quickly discarded in a desperate effort to get out of New York as fast as possible.
