Bath Praise

by Corina Copp

It rebegins quietly, with a line
    from Alain Robbe-Grillet
that announces itself from time to time:
    “And now, in this place, my life, once more. . .
louder
“And now, in this place, my life, once more. . .
LOUDER
(???) I look to my right. the only person I see to
    explore there is a small woman, with blonde
    curls tight to her face, and long lashes darting
    left to right and working together to avert the
    sunup rays, and a ceramic gas mask tight
    to her face refers
the blonde curls peeping up
Over its shiny sides, a creamy color with a glossy
    finish, you know the kind of viscous pot
    in camaraderie jealousy of values as the light
moves over it as if Well I’d be interested in Emotion
    over recall, some-
one appeared in. That ceramic gas mask
must have been expensive, I think.
So she hasn’t asked me to Louden.
And to my left are three mirrors mostly concerned
    with reflecting the goldfish pond.
. . .
I had a dream you were at the front of a Dynamic
    jet-black art-float made of a ship hull
and white feathers moving noiselessly
through the center of the city, designed by that
    Typography mn. your head was down
and your name was in lights but also in lights, it read
    that you’d be burned to death
as the gloaming keynote. an ocean-mist lavender
    spray of anxiety forthcoming fled
my bloodstream nearish the urethra and I coddled
    some edelweiss in waiting for this
“Later”: Your burning to death turned out a game,
    a competition if you like,
around a conference table
and all the young people were to swallow orange
    yogurts or consistencies
that were increasingly hotter by the mouthful and
    in disciplined variety
hotter than any food imaginable, so of course most
    of the contestants would die off and as they ate-drank
    the, my lust for you to burn in hell turned, as I
    remembered you had a great tolerance for spice
and actually liked it, So my interviews and
representations switch to include “I wanted you to
    WIN. . .” I used to want you to beat everyone so and
    so and I stood naturally in the corner. but quietly occu
    pying a state of demolish! yourself. but kill them! you
    were wearing nothing sacred, the sweatshirt in shade
    of rasp-orange sherbet and you felt me there,
    so whispered
as you took a spoonful
about a Band-Aid® you knew I knew about, so I moved
    him, a man who had soworn himself to me
earlier in the evening, and I love that <<if you don’t
    project a film, it’s simply not there; and I woke up
    in solidarity with a depiction of you dying by the taste
    of fire, and so
I woke up upset in this favour
my flora imbalance a page-spread
into a function of personhood if I had
an arm-
chair to wipe it on. Mahoghany in dill is all we
have left? Cerebral, innit
includes 1904 New York, seeing “an outbreak of
Candidamania.” Ultimately, Candida
must choose between two gentlemen.
She reasserts her preference for the “weaker
    of the two”
who, after a momentary uncertainty, turns out
    to be her husband
Morrell.
. . .
        “And now, in this place, my life, once more . . . ”
To my left, someone from “a collection.”
The man moves his chair noiselessly. ///
he approaches the other man.
I’m beat, I say.
my bonnie lies over the ocean.
my bonnie lies over the sea.

The men hear . . . fret. only their interior sympathies
    making their way across
a cool blade of grass waved out of the way in dew as
    their feet come down
and eyes meet or whatever informal
profile of troublemakers Found! not yet factioned!
    in childhood, or Lunch-
time in which blanks out. O Freiheit! all that follows
    my psyche
Possession: Hmm, I just feel an ugly self-betrayal.
Even from his last breath, the man thinks, <<I knew
    he was dying . . .
I knew . . . he Glid his hand over the man’s earthenware
    forehead,
the color of creamed, <<finally I knew I was
understanded.>> it’s how
he felt anytime anyone died, that he had an attitude
    problem.
how to fix it.
. . .
        “And now, in this place, my life, once more. . .
        LOUDER
ES IST ZU HELL
still I can’t see who wants
me to Louden
as if I’m suppressing a desire
to reach a potential Pitch but perfect
but I know he means hell on earthen
op cit. . . in which case?
Seargents foam at the mouth
lightly somewhere. I do not
advise that you take to heart
if he likes you 0 0- is so nice &
thinks your’re nice, you are in. . .carnation
     disbelief! Let me ingratiate
verdently, it does not mean there
are deep reserves of a similar
nice in you that only he can
recognize even though you
are cunt-oeuf rotting mess
ages in general blow-rolls. it means
well-meaning, that
yeah you’ll hurt-hun
dred docents, where’s hair-
tie it like it’s messy. in solitary we began
Litigious penetrating,
finally serf-ascends all the way home
98# predawn behind described
soldering, breadth-doubt
Breadth-doubt? Nope. Unh.
unh, uh, Thames, unh, Dreams
oh, Tennessee riot, ohhrb, Tenn-
essee Waltz, OHH NOTHANKYOU
I had–coff-ee alread-y - at the
martyr’s - market - when he - told me
he was–gonna - settle -UP but, unh
it was -all a –majestic perles du dragon
rainfall. . . made by. . . bionic ratchet. . .
rainfall-ing, made by buy-ing
Outside delay phase
I hold a sun-dawn
in my Pomme de Deadpan
<<I am confined by hideousness>>
       Leave her
Dear quaint form, let’s make you not kum-
quat soldierly, see Radical Withdrawal as less
institutional critique, more, oar for curse. hurts,
say bye-bye softly. I say
to the mythical baby I have a sister
I say to the baby-sister, I have a sister
in snapshots who ROAMS
(since the revolution
it’s been hard to write about having
an edge in different fashions.
Mere male-pattern over cosmic design,
My sister said, the spirit
is dumb in fact it drives regimes
she said maybe Kitty Wells wed to a concept
     of pleasure
fighting for her space before she heard
sisterhood she said SITTER, during
the early days we appeared eerie to technicity:
too constrained to ideas of being
good so They’d theorize to make my opinions
distant, or dream

REMINDER, the younger
of the girls who died while making
applesauce had a condition. She—like many of us—
was actually unfit to live in the world we try to keep
volumized until he discovers (???). She’s a warning,
     waxing

like the MOON in the darker moments of depression.
But she is giving herself as theoretically sound.
Rather than strictly a pathology to be treated.
I’m not going back there, to sit with him while he
. . . . . . . . .
in the WETLANDS!
It’s a real controversial painting. An absorbing,
controversial necking remaining in pain in some-
one else’s beds careful, the break would have
been too much of a shock ere, but now I’m used to Sit.
It took so long to get here, and now it’s over
Organ in flames to my center deliquesce,
do everything in deli- (???) to make it stay,
and I get dressed, I go out, I PUTT all the letters tow
a yellow bag, I get freesia, I got out, I put all the
in a canvas tote bag, I carried it to the museum, I am,
all the while, an, a self-
mythologizing frail to sleepened
but speech about speech
DEJA outside on ship stalled gruesome North,
flooded and sixteenth-note
by one of the little goat-milks. Do we like any
of this scrutiny on the gruesome North
county-tenor? I have a formal version of not
     apologizing. . .
it’s less accelerant, two waves beneath the sheets
and the sea. . .I’ll give you that, denial of. . .
atrributes of, of “Thing,” it’s not been. . .accomplished

And more is so neutral
Felt in a woman a memory of nothing
particularly memorable. . .perhaps that’s why I’d
rather view doubling as the central image. I want to
re-dream, rather than a pathology strictly
     to be treated.
<<What does the mouth of a poet taste like?>>
<<I Am Starving at ABBEY!>> May indication of
     chemicals
Throb your short-a emptor and cristcross Purr
pose: Everything one writes about
disappears by a strong-arm plunging a set
of tasks in a stream of vital belligerence
[smile] s o t h e s l o p e s are
deep, so they deepened, and everyone
continued to be referred to as Happier, and
happiness noiselly and in a Tanker
was complicated / by your sweet ears
of corn, pressure points that
pulsed light tones or am I act
ivated, a long-lens Robot Foto Star
when I think of you, who watches
the ceiling abuse at any sped
fan images of pressed light-
you now, crucial to attitude
adjustment and probably,
if Fate is Character.
And divine the articles we ROME
like JAMES nd cry
into Kleenex,® uninvented, run
in with shaving cream, run out
Into the night, into eyes, into
night, Heiligenanstalt afire like
mini-espionage spoons falsed
together in basil-ETHR idylls
Soon to cease to exist

 

Corina Copp’s first full-length collection, The Green Ray, is out this fall from Ugly Duckling Presse.

BOMB 129
Fall 2014
The cover of BOMB 129
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