Sam Langer
10 LINES WITH ORANGUTAN
What are you looking at?
dream of every young man to find a beautiful girl naked, asleep and unprotected.
The bay of the page, the sunburst of the descent
It was a Renaissance portrait once
Hair jungle, La Gioconda
Someone lining up to see the latter, wryly embarrassed
One of a few extinct venus
Am I on the menu? touch my face.
I’m getting a bit excited here
I have been storing these rocks all day.
PARC MONCEAU
Formerly
Now and
Dirty of which
Yeah to kiss to look
Purr never there
She has said to me
Different métier
Hidden lost (laughter) (crow)
(Laughter)
Go there elsewhere
It is thousand now that
Who because
Men return
Man by we go is it that you
Beside of me
TO STAY HOME TUESDAY
The tap & the soap gave birth to a cupboard.
You'll never understand it,
it lives on a different switchboard.
And as a tennis ball covered in dirt and spit leaves your hand
you may think of a discrete pool
to lose each flat rock of yourself in,
but water can't be kept, and anyway all
your strict chat has turned your hand to a fin.
Tin roofs howl the inner suburb.
Houses fail their walls. Drift catalogues
the friendly streets. You leaf
through my head cold, around a bureaucratic rock.
"My love is of a birth as rare
as the polar bear. Do they like to
get high, as I do?"
I friend my chutes
chase fried beauty with a squid dinner
egging on the platter.
My flakes start hurting as we bar and Martini
towards the 87th floor.
We lower noses, get super silly
the down town pearls the darkness
felt like going up in planes
found it written on a bread packet, the world
Was wholly for pleasure and amusement, opening
an elevated maze of malls with grass below
instead of trams, or like this soft pout
big, a truck-cab melting into your
exact trend where they fake ageing for a lark
or simply, along the tiles, cool future jaw bags dangling.
No animals, great houseplants alone
lush cupboards creeping into the hills
where you can only cab the vista.
I cut out poems and felt
well, again. Mirror animals
the deadly cute insects
the skyline rocks
like a dispute in poison fog the Bay sinks
& the wasted trust jams
into my head the dusty ferry
10 LINES WITH GIORGIONE
Warmed risk. Eloge.
Fish or rat pants.
Look here, not in the distance.
I find my breast plate most satisfactory,
My discrete knees even more so.
Ow, my hat.
I love the trees they plant for our trials.
The lake looks pointed today, my liege.
It matches the paper of that buttress.
We are still on the rectangle. Treasure surrounds us.
YOU WERE THERE AND IT IS FORCE
You were there and it is force
left and right the riches burn
this violent dissension had shattered the beginning of the year
to off or themselves
the numbers of people
polished mirrors
yet both perceived
yet in compassion
they take this and take anything else
they take place on grass
leave party but years keep buzzing
and we grow old? No they died too
is it that the tree's last year is of grief
of looking new and sometimes with abhorrence
glance with opaque eyes
around the popular notion alluding
religious origin ultimate party
they experience more than if you were a cadaver
these diurnal trifles were properly exposed to eyes which had never received any pleasure
don't sing and jump about the sacred dents disgusted with him
When I saw you weren’t going to I risked my life
trodden fig leaves and gravel there
I think nobody here builds
bridges anymore flying their vanity
practising their duty
in the forehead of the routes
swabbing
HEROIC
EN
VE
LO Tarzan & Tzara, Achi
PE lles & Odysseus are in bed
Southbank. The river gives them
a thing to dream about.
Where is Sheerah a voice
lives in one of their heads
an image of the river, brown
& clear, not looking back.
Deserving no white man’s ex
periments. They get up
long after the sun. Tar
zan post letter to art
ist friend. BERLIN, brr
say Tarzan & sleepy O.d.
Flash in their café, an ae
ternal peaceful moment, look
at the flowing trains and
choppers Achilles com ments
. (commands.) Look, us on
Yarracam Tristan exhorts!
Get with program, deflates
the king of the jungle. Odie
jiggling his tax. Where is
Sheerah? Where’s She-Rah?
AT THE BEACH
Under the glad wrap there is a titanic face, awake.
Waves and birds confuse it with themselves.
At the first groan the assemblage will be an opus of shirts.
Number two, a wave, to shush the excess from the shark.
A song shoots from the cut. Everything is charging
the purpose that can afford it. A sour noise
greets the salt calculator in mid-air.
10 LINES WITH ANDRE MASSON
She will have been turned to carpet
By bedside your slither
Return creased expression to masked Stomach
Why did the moustache cross the road?
Israel’s communist ovary
Multiple stomachs imply Jacques Vaché, superimposed planes…
A pear accident
Eternal slowness of bullet
Tearmarked for tearing down: the weaving factory
A bar.
Sam Langer was born in February 1983 and then finished a B.A. in May 2007. Now he works part-time for Spotless Services at the Alfred Hospital in Melbourne, Australia. He has published poems in Cordite, The Age (Melbourne), Otoliths, Overland, and 543, a free poetry magazine he edits and publishes irregularly.
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10 LINES WITH ORANGUTAN
What are you looking at?
dream of every young man to find a beautiful girl naked, asleep and unprotected.
The bay of the page, the sunburst of the descent
It was a Renaissance portrait once
Hair jungle, La Gioconda
Someone lining up to see the latter, wryly embarrassed
One of a few extinct venus
Am I on the menu? touch my face.
I’m getting a bit excited here
I have been storing these rocks all day.
PARC MONCEAU
Formerly
Now and
Dirty of which
Yeah to kiss to look
Purr never there
She has said to me
Different métier
Hidden lost (laughter) (crow)
(Laughter)
Go there elsewhere
It is thousand now that
Who because
Men return
Man by we go is it that you
Beside of me
TO STAY HOME TUESDAY
The tap & the soap gave birth to a cupboard.
You'll never understand it,
it lives on a different switchboard.
And as a tennis ball covered in dirt and spit leaves your hand
you may think of a discrete pool
to lose each flat rock of yourself in,
but water can't be kept, and anyway all
your strict chat has turned your hand to a fin.
Tin roofs howl the inner suburb.
Houses fail their walls. Drift catalogues
the friendly streets. You leaf
through my head cold, around a bureaucratic rock.
"My love is of a birth as rare
as the polar bear. Do they like to
get high, as I do?"
I friend my chutes
chase fried beauty with a squid dinner
egging on the platter.
My flakes start hurting as we bar and Martini
towards the 87th floor.
We lower noses, get super silly
the down town pearls the darkness
felt like going up in planes
found it written on a bread packet, the world
Was wholly for pleasure and amusement, opening
an elevated maze of malls with grass below
instead of trams, or like this soft pout
big, a truck-cab melting into your
exact trend where they fake ageing for a lark
or simply, along the tiles, cool future jaw bags dangling.
No animals, great houseplants alone
lush cupboards creeping into the hills
where you can only cab the vista.
I cut out poems and felt
well, again. Mirror animals
the deadly cute insects
the skyline rocks
like a dispute in poison fog the Bay sinks
& the wasted trust jams
into my head the dusty ferry
10 LINES WITH GIORGIONE
Warmed risk. Eloge.
Fish or rat pants.
Look here, not in the distance.
I find my breast plate most satisfactory,
My discrete knees even more so.
Ow, my hat.
I love the trees they plant for our trials.
The lake looks pointed today, my liege.
It matches the paper of that buttress.
We are still on the rectangle. Treasure surrounds us.
YOU WERE THERE AND IT IS FORCE
You were there and it is force
left and right the riches burn
this violent dissension had shattered the beginning of the year
to off or themselves
the numbers of people
polished mirrors
yet both perceived
yet in compassion
they take this and take anything else
they take place on grass
leave party but years keep buzzing
and we grow old? No they died too
is it that the tree's last year is of grief
of looking new and sometimes with abhorrence
glance with opaque eyes
around the popular notion alluding
religious origin ultimate party
they experience more than if you were a cadaver
these diurnal trifles were properly exposed to eyes which had never received any pleasure
don't sing and jump about the sacred dents disgusted with him
When I saw you weren’t going to I risked my life
trodden fig leaves and gravel there
I think nobody here builds
bridges anymore flying their vanity
practising their duty
in the forehead of the routes
swabbing
HEROIC
EN
VE
LO Tarzan & Tzara, Achi
PE lles & Odysseus are in bed
Southbank. The river gives them
a thing to dream about.
Where is Sheerah a voice
lives in one of their heads
an image of the river, brown
& clear, not looking back.
Deserving no white man’s ex
periments. They get up
long after the sun. Tar
zan post letter to art
ist friend. BERLIN, brr
say Tarzan & sleepy O.d.
Flash in their café, an ae
ternal peaceful moment, look
at the flowing trains and
choppers Achilles com ments
. (commands.) Look, us on
Yarracam Tristan exhorts!
Get with program, deflates
the king of the jungle. Odie
jiggling his tax. Where is
Sheerah? Where’s She-Rah?
AT THE BEACH
Under the glad wrap there is a titanic face, awake.
Waves and birds confuse it with themselves.
At the first groan the assemblage will be an opus of shirts.
Number two, a wave, to shush the excess from the shark.
A song shoots from the cut. Everything is charging
the purpose that can afford it. A sour noise
greets the salt calculator in mid-air.
10 LINES WITH ANDRE MASSON
She will have been turned to carpet
By bedside your slither
Return creased expression to masked Stomach
Why did the moustache cross the road?
Israel’s communist ovary
Multiple stomachs imply Jacques Vaché, superimposed planes…
A pear accident
Eternal slowness of bullet
Tearmarked for tearing down: the weaving factory
A bar.
Sam Langer was born in February 1983 and then finished a B.A. in May 2007. Now he works part-time for Spotless Services at the Alfred Hospital in Melbourne, Australia. He has published poems in Cordite, The Age (Melbourne), Otoliths, Overland, and 543, a free poetry magazine he edits and publishes irregularly.
posted by mark young at 8:33 PM
1 Comments:
Absolutely right on!
I admire the hell out of these.
Just when I thought poems could be normal, these poems
go mad!
I just adore these
Please leave yr knickers on, gentlemen, we have a poet in the room.
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