Lisa Robertson's Magenta Soul Whip. Lisa Robertson

of errors as I died upwards towards you, vita mea, like a magnet, sure, like girls die of fierce love and friezes commemorate the fierce cords of light that are their souls and soldiers eat sponge cake and I don’t love you and I fornicate towards you singing down down and it is the solemn world I pull against my tummy, down down and no fierce extreme sedates me no sequence of the lips and teeth.

      say nothing of the soul that flutters its sleeve dictating not this not that not this muddled doctrine. I’ll not name each oblivion each venal carthage each dumb rut written up in verse. dominant my ink’s not diligent like yours. I simply tug and vend and strum at pacts secundum signa quibbling litteris in commodo. sit poetica stupid with words past their sweet-arsed date.

      it is the difficult tally of my tongue to admit that such songs and those of puerile docents stroked my milky ego.

      VII

      dominant may I call you rex now and feed you tidbits? my heart calls you rex because you’re my first part, as rex I’ll serve you what are called tidbits and each locution and scribble and number just adores you rex what is vanity is really your discipline for vanis peccata delectum multa for the rest of my life to please you I won’t fib rex, I promise.

      and towards what illusion my little rex do I tighten the cord that is my ink and adulate everything sentient. rex my pet what is suspended between us is sewn of figura.

      who can resist a Human? who doesn’t finger lies?

      VIII

      a word’s a precious vase to sip from, an illicit verb. both kids and scholars sip there the sweet lubricity spilling over tongue and rex I sipped also I can safely say this now since I sip from you no other figment no other persona no other sentence rex what is suspended between us

      the soldier reaches from behind the falling man’s neck to grasp his snout; he is becoming a horned animal.

      The Story

      On the eastern sky, fingers of pink light.

      Facing the sun we left town and drove, fresh

      light on our arms. A young girl slept under

      the opening fingers. But what can we

      keep. All night they sleep. We launch into rest

      and the flames burn through

      alone in its clearing. The brave thing would be

      to sleep in a hut again, dawn to nervy

      dark, studying

      the ground. A covey of women got out

      worn and tough. So much for that.

      And all night long the truck sheared through the

      night into the dawn. And the sun went down

      and all the roads grew dark. And here I lay

      in ambush all night. In quiet Sleep my

      eyes shut. I lay down and slept

      in luxury. I went to Sleep above

      the wash of ripples. Dawn came. By night we

      ran onward. Nine days I drifted. Sleep weighed

      on my eyes. And I went to rest out of

      the wind. I slept on duty. Day waned.

      All the roads grew dark. I cut, I died, I

      fell, I dove, I ate, I fell, I fed, I

      felt, and there I lay in ambush. I fought

      I found, I fled, I flung, I flew, I fore

      bore, I forbade, I forgot and my eyes

      my eyes shut. I lay down and

      shut. I forgave, I forsook, I got, I

      lay down and slept in luxury. I hid

      in luxury. I went to Sleep before

      I hurt. I kept, I knew, I laid.

      I left, and went to Sleep above

      the wash of ripples. I lent, I let

      the wash of ripples. Dawn came. By night we

      lay. I lost, I made, I met, I over

      came, I overdid, and dawn came

      above the wash of ripples

      ran onward. Nine days I drifted. Sleep weighed,

      ran onward. I ran, I said, I saw, I

      sought, I sold, I sent, I set, I shook, and

      on my eyes nine days drifted.

      I shut, I sang, and Sleep weighed on my eyes.

      I went to rest out of the wind. Into the dawn

      I thrust. Day waned. I sunk, I sat

      I slew, I slept, I slid into evening

      to rest out of the wind. I spent, I span

      I wept until Sleep came. And

      I stunk. And I slept on duty. I struck

      hid in darkness, dropped

      my eyes and nodded, overcome.

      I swore, I took, I taught, I tore, I told

      I wrote. Day waned into evening.

      Burnt, I burst, I cast, I chid day, waned

      into evening. I crept, I crept, I

      dared, I dug, I dipt, I drew, I dreamt

      two hours had disappeared.

      I dwelt, I wept until Sleep came. I froze.

      I gelt, I girt, I grew, I hung, I helpt

      I hewed, I knelt and I resumed.

      And all the roads grew dark

      with my longing and my tears. It snowed

      in darkness. I strewed, I strove, I swelled all night.

      The truck sheared through the Night.

      A Hotel

       (after Oscar Niemeyer)

      I will take my suitcase into a hotel and

      Become a voice

      By studying stillness and curtains

      I will take my stillness into a hotel

      Careening, not flowing, through

      Cities become his voice

      Into a hotel I will take my city

      And roads

      And the entire moving skin of history

      Utopia is so emotional.

      I’m speaking of the pure sexual curves

      Of utopia, the rotation

      Of its shadows against the blundering

      In civitas. History does not respond

      To this project – History, who has disappeared into

      Architecture and into the

      Generosity of the dead. This states

      The big problem of poetry. Who could

      Speak for the buildings, for the future of the dead

      The dead who are implicated in all

      I can say? On this very beautiful surface

      Where I want to live

      I play with my friends

      Like they do down there.

      I don’t understand what I adore.

      I think of my