Geranium Lake Properties, caterpillar sea-life surviving in the bathtub

© lcmt 2015

Another GLP panel that might work as an illustration for a poem (“The Arborist’s Wife”) from The Wife of History and Other Planetary Characters.

Asemic comics are published here three times a week, on Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday, except I am going to be busy tomorrow, so I am posting Sunday’s comic now.

Objects Within Range

Several flowers may pop and shout
to anyone built in easier apparel
and smaller attachment, cutting
joints in one fell swoop, driving
the world you need to know:
boxes and cabinets of coral feet,
brass goggles and labor saving
devices. You can memorize one
pattern, one button, one dimension,
once upon a sheaf of time following
a folded seam throughout history
and delight—examine both within
range of several flowers, then you
may pop and shout.


copyright © 2010 lcmt

A digest of the result

This stone is marked out
with the illness caused
by an impromptu kinesis,
and with numbers.

The inscriptions were
probably torn away
during the civil wars
after her early death.

This stone ought to note
that she was a pastelist
and perfumer, given a
parchment ear, yet living.

She had kicked the bucket
in far harsher mastery
elsewhere, and had not
forgotten the humble.

Thirty-one years reading
medieval languages
weighted with proof
of flight and abdication.

Often broke, roving afresh,
she was the last person
who did not know where
to trouble the planet.


copyright © 2010 lcmt

Yet Another Palaeographical Fable

An embodied demon, jarred awake
by the consoling sound of the sea,
decides to walk across the fossil world.

Revenant electricity and oracular
wreckage from the night mind hover
behind his shoulder, endured with

destinies coiled in corrosive echoes—
while brawn wings of deep heart muscle
shudder within the core of his shadow.

In his wake, lampfire trembles. Lost dogs,
unable to hunt, fling themselves through
staccato walls of candor and brunt tones.

Doors break across cellars filled with ascending
rumors and the clangor of bronze calf-head
deities sunk into caustic slurries of reverie.

An angel behind the gate of an ancient heat,
a rich voice burnt with incense in the testified air,
implores the demon to enter a room of Paradise—

Silence is refusal. Dreams spill over into incantations
while rumbling undertows drown doubts and mysteries.
But only a man can speak a devil’s assent.


copyright © 2010 lcmt


Once we were roisterous monsters,
coarse and unchangeable, indebted
to no one, indigenous to nowhere,
incumbents to battlefields, beholders
of ghosts. All our joys were clotted
with pearls, all our griefs were denied
with stone, all our words were bald-faced
bricks, all our lanterns were fueled
with turpentine and salt.

This plague, this rain
of nails, this slow-moving
barrage, not as percussive
as artillery but just as sheering,
has harried our bodies into staves
and cudgels. We are needle-stemmed
and weather-marked, our backbones
burned with sloth, our skin, our bark,
gravelled with dearth. We have become


in dust, a few scrubby curiosities
without bounden shoals, collected
into unclosed museums.


copyright © 2010 lcmt

Red, Once Blue

There is no life on Mars,
no massive black silted
pipelines, no spectral vaults
of permeable membranes,
only gardens of molecules
sufficient upon reservoirs
filled with scattered handfuls
of continuity, proclaimed in
harmony, revived by discord,
communion flourished with
contrariety, dense waves of
dissolution accreted to true
halos of the edge. All that
colonized, all that surprised
the slow dominion of this
ancient planet, yielded long
ago, piked to brittle hoarstones
athwart deserts inimicable
to the dry seed of pioneers.
Or rendered into red sap
fossilized within volcanic
mountains imagineered as
venerable dragons, white
and toxic. Clusters of poor
angled bights, burred dull
with formless dust, follow
shorelines bound outwards,
accompanied by felspar-rich
glass, witnessed by four visitors,
infants in ormolu and ebonized
steel, recently inscribed with
planetary characters, bolted
to shafting designs which twist
and turn in false spines and
flowers and thorny spurges
around a solid core, waiting
for the galaxy’s end.


copyright © 2010 lcmt

Abide, or How to Tune Paint-Flakes

Who is sympathic and abiding and
versatile with this sense of human
essential to and with this hand,
this hand, even though hemmed
and contracted in an arc
through time?

Who continues to hover assuredly?

Knots do not whisper in art galleries,
not even in the presence of the wispy
notice in arrears, as the next fee etches
out three riddles. “Oh good lord,” sounding
lowsome so low to my gold enchambered
housel, until forever gives the footed
heart of your sweetmouth delivered
into old seeded juices still abiding

Then forget the doom, the grave is hiding,
while the past has been a diligent second
to his little brother Death, and death
puts together a good peace for those
stilled and vicious,
felled in bay and fern and ewer.

Abide, affright, and atone, anon.
Beat, bemoan, but bend.
Bequeath boats to boards.
Bruise, unhint, unwhisper all offers
to fear better words, or wilt.
Chinoiserie binds you cold to bell
and air. Air out a pie with spears,
serve it up gulping, enough, enough.

Count leverage in this town as akin to
a hopping catch-all. No sooner it strikes
up but the house is besieged with eager
harmless armies of circles sealing this
small room, as sheared wings whip
through sheening eras, brushing the
pitch of never rested illness in hours
breathing flame filed from ivory
roused out of early slumber.

If you’re all at nines,
respond with eights, abiding, abrading
incoming causeways sequenced by
englossed excisions of free will.


copyright © 2010 lcmt