Aught, no. 13 (2004)


Lisa Mansell

Sonnet 4

I made my home mal and dime
          along the unlisten of twt lols
            of mime and a migldi-magpie’s aim
     wasps that tilt and still    stings      lisp-spilling
      a cracow spotting ackrock
                                       across the kracened sea’s sixty eyes
           creeping sweet                    ond grac

        my déjà vu is jude and aged
                  grappled on the lead-pipe grin
  floating as fiddles to viols to fogs
unalive but unsleeve-greened
                               and furled as faded daffodils

          ides bile inside the library boat
                              an arab-dance barbed in sand

 

Sonnet 10

lilac and kettled on a lift-lown wool
      I’m mime and emerald moss

                                a million’s lament smiles and dovetails
                                                     my mile and mermaid arms

mimic dams against the armada’s lean and marl
                     as elms slam and lily the marble’s pearl


masts in schisms music their storms from ember
                                                       like-as like-as elk lapping
                                                          long knowledge from an empty limpid
                                  a pious in appropriate piws
                                            all liquid and nil on an alloys belly


         I pen in open and oil pipes
                                as the quartet cracks aquamarine
                 into quinces and colds of sequence

 

Sonnet 12

                 bass as a labia blowing its orb
                                       the belly-dance sands dandy and olden-day
       a ball labelled emblem
                 inside a bracken rib-cage brick and necked


ghosts slug and guts their eggs
                                      fastened in far-off morphology
                            an again-again of guttural tugs
                                    from pharaoh-wifes washed in white flings


this is not theirs

                    a host lunar in gas and oats


them is not their they
                    but a year of uttered uggs that under-umberella
                                         dolphins that sniff at the flux
             afraid of the serif that first rifts at the fly


Copyright 2004, by the author. All rights reserved.
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