STEWART LAING
SHAKING DOWN THIS HOUSE

Now my familiar drone mouths such and so, but knows I find me here bound, Turning slowly round and round; leaning towards that kindness and acting not the zed, If but to make a sombre hour something finite; to uncage this mind, break the cast, And set the striving free from this so barren check. From the conjunction of knees, these curving feet, or thinning thighs; sleeping, While Simplex on a motorcycle slowly turns around. He sat as He sat, unmoving, his knees about ear-height, exposing nothing but a Turbaned head and hands, a chest and feet, immobile in the dust and buzzing Among kind beasts. His face, that face, the first found waking; and those eyes, his now, as calm, As guileless, as the gesture of the twin hand he holds. Mute dialogue holds them close and keeps them far from me. Too much seeming makes the semblance lie fallow; falling, falling Or turning to disuse for Nature and Nature’s Ease me fly. The wary eye looking inwardly out, wards off the reading clearly there; Seeming, seeming, but yet in doubt. To what CRUX can I trace this impasse, this stalemate? What Will or Incantation can relieve this nullity? Plague, Fire and the Beasts horned, cloven-tailed and foul; rout, tear, corrupt and smear This all too constrain-ed purity! Void cataracts, and sunder hills! Not this deluge, not this wrack can cleanse or undefile this hour. Enough. This light blinds. The sweetness cloys and chokes. Retching is relief enough; for now... Get with child your colonies, Boy; (leper, go down licking humbly, stroke that open lady-fig); Drink your head and wallow, Boy; fetch up sweat, come gaping near Eros, Shaking Down This House! Curl fists and force leaves from Minotaurs’ mouths, Boy; A star splays between those horns, the arch bends, Breaking Down This House, Wipe your soldier, sailor, Boy.


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