Final Etude

Took one of my poems, used the vocabulary of old bill faulkner.

Orig:


Final:

Perhaps you will, as so many Southern gentlemen have, take to writing to telling but at its core are wringing hands and a hard blooming in a cold field, humorless and profoundly and sternly prophetic out of all proportion to the actual years even of a child who had never been young.

The eternal 43 year old black lace framing up this not-shapes like not-country pressing towards the telling whether for sister or father or nothusband a nameless child of the South. We dissemble, the high hysterical brow, on stairs and from among the faces holding him, screaming and vomiting. The man, her husband and father of children naked and panting and bloody to the waist in a summer of wisteria driven out of whatever ogreworld of Jackson the not-yet faint shot, pounding on stairs, feet hanging with the static rage and impotence of children.

Undoes the all, presupposed evil as owing to some irrationality between two moons balanced maybe, though, happens is never but like ripples maybe through that wet umbilical cord of the Mississippi.

It is a new time, when asked “air you, air you” a brother a murdered and she a widow before a bride it is a beautiful life that women lead. It is now the father who is the natural enemy of the son told in a succession of periods of utter immobility like a broken cinema film unraveling in the not-wind, not-sound and falling by dead gestures, furious attitudes in sunset.