Recovery

(A SERIES OF POEM’S INSPIRED BY THE RUSSIAN FILM IVAN’S CHILDHOOD)

A Letter From Tarkovsky

Massacre

is all

about

face.

It is

naught

without

analytical

horror

and may

only

reflect

fiction.

In turn,

a mock

life is

unwritten

for.

—–

Soma Sema” (“The Body is a tomb.”)

I invented

a liar–

ragged

limbed.

Little

Ivan.

My torso,

chine,

the

gross

of this

body.

—–

Attack

1.

The sun is

German

wood,

slivered

inflexible

in bulk

in a book.

Ivan is a

Russian

page who

can be

flipped

immovably.

His point

is made

for him

under

static

atmosphere.

His brain

dangles

from it

in a

dead of day

gully.

2.

Somewhere else,

as if

an old man,

he sits

at a

wriggly

writing desk.

He invents

the integrity

of the moon.

3.

Somewhere

the moon

makes

its own

brains

makes

its own

middle

makes

its own

sun.

Somewhere

the moon

moves

the sun

like

Ouija.

Somewhere

the moon

moves

Ivan

like

evening.

A War Film on Gramophone

We are candid

as mannequins,

Glastev and me,

stiffing up in

our sleeves.

It is always

soforeal

in these ravines.

I think I’m

Ivan

welcoming me,

and I will

make it,

and he will

make it,

oh, to the top

of Age 19,

where the bells

will randomly

ring out

this lightlessness

mindfully.

No, we can’t

stay awake

slumbering.

We can’t stay

in between

the rubble and

this seismic breeze.

We can’t stay

to see whose skinny

hanging trees

are these.

This will only be

our unimplied

reliable

brutality.

—–

Ivan’s Knife

This new

Germany

night sky is

mimicking

life–electric.

Ivan is as

automatic as

an animal,

silently

cutting up

the pulpy

rubbish

amongst

the wet

quiet

chaos.

His knife is

with him–

immensely

all of him.

It is his

steel

proboscis.

He smells

restfulness

then undulating,

calculating

splashes

all over

him.

Germany is

heedlessly

here.

Here enough

to tear.

—-

Ivan the Magician’s Soundstage Daydream

1.

On these

very old

motor bikes,

Ivan

imitates

like he

animates.

He plays it

like he

never was–

ambulant

with

amulets and

apples.

He nearly

organically

depraves

his face in

the face

of negative.

He modifies

horse

into

sister

into

antonym.

He chortles

uncontrollably

in a

misty

imitation

rain.

He ruptures

the rest of

the set–

of what he

never

meant.

2.

Sister remains

seated.

She reaches him

deep

into a

dainty

histology.

She reaches him,

stays asleep

for him,

can’t stand

to see

he isn’t

really

playing

only

jolt

awakening

and not

really him.

—-

Ivan’s Father

old man’s

armless

carcass

on a beach

grit

cannot

reremember

him from it

fawn

insides

all over me

—-

Recovery

Ivan is on

something

tonight–

maybe

a radio

commercial

for a

postwar

film.

He is

muted

refuse

heaped

reel to reel,

an enormous

memoir,

hugging

the undergarment

of anybody’s

mother.

His bedtime

is bumped

from the

bedroom,

an emblem of

being

twelve,

to the

archives of

inauthentic

night.

He sleeps in

a mountain

of girth–

a human

riddle

abandoned

by many

humans–

a self-

indulgent

hill

of smelting

snow.

He sleeps

on the water

of the moon–

a pellet

big, black

and humane.

He sleeps as

a sun

he cannot

recognize.

—-

Mugshot

Ivan is

removed

from his

features.

His

likeness is

unchaste,

a snowflake

puddled in

secondhand

flesh,

a simile

that

dissolves

itself

from

itself.

A vast

glint

dismiss.

—-

Glastev’s Art Album/Fatherly Notes for Ivan to Follow

1.

Assemble me

synthetic

suns.

The ones

that

grow

disorder

to disease.

The ones

that bake

the nights’

obesity.

2.

My

Morphic

boy.

Make time

to grow

gaunt

against

the

moon

again.

To move

phony muscle

below this

malicious

constant.

3.

When to

breathe

isn’t

in the teeth.

But the

strange of

one’s

flesh.

If this is

Death.

I am

regret.

—-

A Letter to War

1.

When you

hate me

more than

anger.

You make me

more than

important.

You make me

more

morphic

than

dreams.

2.

Circumcise

my existence,

then

rifle me

into

instant

night.

A man is

only

a massive

limp and

I am more

than any

other.

I am

Morphic

Boy,

making

microscopic-

sized

men to

undermake

you.

You are an

only.

The

Mythic

Swamp.

So

vicious

when

deep.

I am

from

all

ways.

Step

into

my

ludicrous

desert.

—-

Ivan’s Well/Upon Seeing his Mother Dead

To swill

from

a fickle

well

means

more

than

being

a man.

It means

I am left.

Baffled as

my own

boss.

It means

I can

pack.

This

big fat

bucket

up with

whiskey.

—-

Rockaby

(For T. Calvert)

This body

sways

in saturated

angles.

Rapting

far

from me.

Awake.

It flaps

at my

at last.

Waves

at my

at rest.

Sways

me to

pacific

nakedness.

A man

among

two

loose

nativities.

A woman to

my way

before

this.

Oscillate

near

me.

And here.

Earth

is

above

ether.

And here.

I am

the

anemic,

unaghast.

The flap

of my

father’s

crowded

old

hunting

cap.

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