Are we not drawn onward, we few, drawn onward to new era?
Marge, let’s send a sadness telegram.
I roamed under it as a tired, nude Maori.
No trace, not one carton.
Kay, a red nude, peeped under a yak.
Was it a car or a cat I saw?
Amen, icy cinema.
Nurse, I spy gypsies. Run.
No, I tan at a nation.
Flee to me, remote elf.
Eva, can I stab bats in a cave?
Oozy rat in a sanitary zoo
Loops at a spool.
Martedi Grasso 1. An infant left unexposed to linguistic stimulus will automatically begin to speak Enochian, the language of the angels. Black and white, boy and girl operate in this language together. One cries, “Let this length therefore be called the Standard; let one Tenth of it be called a Foot; one Tenth of a Foot an Inch; one Tenth of an Inch a Line.” Under this, gently: “un mecanismo arbitrario de gruñidos y de chillidos, so uncommon in its failure 2. angels in their tens of thousands encircled the throne, whispering telocvovim.” Soon, flames lamb ent wrapped round Tottenham and wrapped round Clapham. Before this: “The restra ints imposed by a mercantile culture, ruinous in effects up on many who comprised the crowd, encouraged rapid volatility”. (A doctor co unted very able / designes that all Mankynd converse shall.) Everything m 3. anifesting its own version of fullness: “Infra thin separation betwe en / the detonation noise of a gun / (very close) and the apparition of the bullet / hole in the target.” There should be a word that can only be spoken if one does not know what it means. And these signs shall follow them that believe: (under breath) they shall cast out devils in my name; they shall speak with new tongues…
OLI HAZZARD was born in Bristol in 1986, and studied English at University College London and the University of Bristol. He is currently researching John Ashbery’s poetry at the University of Oxford. These two poems appear in his first collection, Between Two Windows, published by Carcanet.
Read more by Oli Hazzard:
Poem in The Guardian