Brad Flis lives in Toronto, Canada, and frequents the good places.
Gaelic Sister, Unattempted
O Rooter! O Wallower in ponds!
You oppose the richest moment. You look to imitate
what was imitatable, to imitate decision.
What is left but this method of warming,
a sound we judge upon and the frame it teases apart,
like a shard opening the throat, or a shibboleth?—
Between glyphs, discarded, my tongue ribbons
after that vital third. (Not merely the monument,
nor the monumental, but a marker of the totem’s dementia)—
My hand is your hand, my leg your arm
as though the fixture were a fiction or vice-wiersza:
junk DNA, we are redundant.
‘Who is your father?’ ‘Rotting stomach
is your father, an apparition
open sod exhales.’ ‘It is pleasing?’ ‘It is constant.’
I am a fruit container. I was born
of thirsting walnut shells,
of unending. dot. dot. dot.
The Dressingest Man in New Delhi
He is the colour corn
resembles, immaterial like this tunic
climber; his sign is less than.
Truly, his mail is gunmetal, a gentle phallus.
There waft cooling vapours
often in his Tupperware.
(His gods, like mint, bleed tobacco juices
into his spout, where the tongue and Jumna intersect,
and thus Red, and thus a portent of the guitar
we invented in our sleep, as we slept.)
Vines grow from his head and disappear
into the empty, yellow ceilings.
His belt is nearly in the beer.
He carries many mugs, not many mugs.
Three Sorrowful Things
Ach, how moonless and impure the unleashing
robes memorize their galleons and sea salts.
Ach, the mild swan repeats its wings against
my dull face, I am drawn towards its wings.
they dance in their own name?
the small rain down can rain?
Rows of water pipe ignore them—
A stranger carries itself
in coptic jars; white birds feasting
upon flushed plums and the breasts
of their own trajectile force.