Two Poems, Bradley Fest
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Two Poems, Bradley Fest



Oceanic

When first the penultimate moment between clawed sky-hammer
and pitch clay cried, rid of its previous natality, the forgotten gills
were the tale of Encyclopedia folded into a bottle
to set sail against the sun from mirror inhabited isle.

In need of a herald, the threshold of electrocuted engendering
gathered its claxon trumpets and hollow-eyed standard-bearers,
their grieving first breaths lamenting the ubiquity of the sea,
and smashed a bottle of nectar on the analog bow of departing information.

Where negation might lie, the reflexive move capsized,
voided, before any binary coupling could occur, by the horizon-less
field of multiple beginnings. Each curled dimension was allowed
to explore the plotted points of its own memory, unfurled along

axes of incalculable data, until the unraveling coalesced
into indivisible matter with no entry points. All of this occurred
in the wake of an already disappeared and swimming hyperarchive,
an ultrachronicle of this used-up [. . .]-verse. The grains of sand

froze over and the beach dissolved into concrete and the cables
of parallax fantasy were not permitted any books to scan,
any documents to file or shred, but kept ticking away
their lonely banshee note in realized singularity. They were left

only the task of describing this singleton before the last evental
careen could lay unmeasure to rest by a closing of incompleteness
and measureless standing reserve. Nothing left to do but await
the worlding of some vague appointment in the briny darkness.

Survival City

For this will to deceive that is in things luminous may manifest itself likewise in retrospect and so by sleight of some fixed part of a journey already accomplished may also post men to fraudulent destinies.
—Cormac McCarthy

Tonight, as if risen from palliative concrete lines,
as if dropped from cedar-Eden-bloom,
we cantered recklessly, all the while absorbing
a certain amount of quasi-organic-fallout.
This was not planned (per se). This was not—
as if conscious line drawings were the norm—
quite the cantankerous fodder as was expected. It
would be nice to denote a certain type of storm, a certain
amazing(ly graceful) present all shot-through with Ball Lightning
programmes and wheedling cancerwrought noontimes, but
the fact of discoquarantines spoke to a kind of kinetiscopic
mariner-moon. What island? What, in this all too troposcopic
of clandestine machinations, could one expect of certain
soccer pennants? (We were a culture groomed upon
the unseen ruins of something never used—i.e.,
our fallout shelters were excellent sites for AA meetings.)
Tonight the return galvanized a backward-sliding
only to be reborn upon a slate of unused pylons.
Fissure the Onlyville, the copracket, the fileshore.
We were misdirected youth awaiting a mass-
revival of MAD1 –SCILLS2 for a tomorrow bearing down
like a heathen-midden of upset flie(r)s. And if only
we could wait to be reborn slowly, our anxiety
(maybe) could be sated, like somesort of posthuman
analogue to fucking real cop-lights on our handcuffed hands.
But sadly, this wasn’t a time to be arrested (nor “stopped”).
It would have been great if some Game Genie descended,
alterity and branded-corpulescence aside, to wrack
Sherry-like certain forgotten favors along the Seine
and Thames, certain (I don’t know) “raindrops” “hitting hard”
upon newly re-invigorated / re-constituted skulls
that would be the makeup of what was left of this
now quick fever of loss and mild trepidation.

Or maybe there would be a sublime nothingness.
Not sublime like: two carrots in a field get to talkin’. . . .
But as perilous adventures, sloping by
in the afternoon like epic playlists.
Things are beastly. Gratuitous even.
Fortunate wine and odds and ends.

Losing the text by an overabundance
of Sunshine proves not to be the conundrum
quadriceps are expected to be when injured.
He-man was only the smallest interval
of a transcendent toy company. . . .


1. Mutually Assured Destruction.
2. Southern Comfort Infantry Lulled and Loved Slowly.