Wednesday, September 7, 2022

Andrew Macdonald - Of Khlebnikov I & III


It is that sound commands logic blocked,

inverts conundrums 

their stalemates opining—

mere surfaces a placed dream conducts

to ornament that hungry want 

of newness language does.

But with these scores,

their dictions of no purpose, 

are hand-outs of bills soft contesting

the crack in the conscious 

mind combats of

when it’s found the 

energy wielding best of conditions.

Now it is hate purports what 

harm we’ve done them

our forced machinations assenting

the grammared will

of poetry alone

its power made dulcet.



Silence connotes held-in fears,

unuttered notations

rinsing the back of the mind

wet with intending.

Its sounds convulse

if put to paper,

form parcel teased of

as when what 

should not be spoken

gets graphemed on palettes

of numbered worlds

our thoughts pertain them.

And then what builds

is denuded of whispers

(those careful breaths contriving)

to grow a talking flesh

its fast from life renounced on

this scaffold of higher truths

sense of force brings with.

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