Corina Copp: from The Green Ray

LA VOIX HUMAINE

It begins seductively, with the potential loss of her hands
parting in a bath O Fernet, able to close again, close enough
to his temples that his darker moments of depression
illuminate, taking on a slow neon flush of knee-
cap busting into freedom like we’d like it to
for the story. In reality, the butter did it, accompaniment
_____for a lens in constant threat of expansion; plus
__________it’s all over the microphones
_____but like a judge-salve more than
_____a ski-resort French-bread patter creaming
_____
the handheld Mi in ornate fumes,
and took the view that a woman I had loved
for a long while was dead, BUT did you know she’d be finally
important to you after she died. OF COURSE you knew that,
that’s why she went to so much trouble to feel like she was always
ABOUT TO DIE when she was with you, because she knew she
belonged to you much more in death than in life, already.

What are we bedrooms’
throats drenched in bromide supposed to do then
We hire someone to …
such and such a degree of independence, but they do need
you. Knee becomes nothing, calm down, stick to your
thoughts if I were you. I’d detail here a feeling of degradation
but I lack an ability to practice, much less make you feel it because of my practice, to persuade in-
side suede pink gloves what a line like that can do
without a single desire to insist
other than form itself blotching anterior paprika while you’re
__out drink
ing. I listen to La voix humaine, a woman moving from
not … a leaf to objective, as shrewd the many
forces assume to keep curt … she is thinking
I don’t want to be pissed on
all the time,
obsolete in the dark can. I leave right as Piaf
sings “Bâtarde! Bâtarde!” Overwhelm: “Le journal! Le
journal!” Her husband can’t stop reading (Algeria, PEUT
TROUT), newspaper in hands. Outshone, she
makes scenes on the telephone with scarabs
in the wrong
scone at the astron sppeed. Âllo? A virgin in Bourgogne
is still a subscriber to AMC. At some point, pause
I could not hinter Madam is not at home
__divorce
at your improductivity, deluded interior.
bragging boys over, I mean, there was nothing to do
but be honest. Coming from nothing.
How could faster wealth possibly be so inevitable
and why resolve
dangerous impulses. I turn off the glass
__fibrillator
break a, you distract the women’s
Door beneath sound of 3 accordions … nothing
I am lying, socially, I’ve only had three cigarettes today
and not one called. No one called the house.
All the day the house
persisted in its infinite artistic workings. Mine
teddy bears. THEY ARE FALLING ALSO
TO DISREPAIR.
Come lend your time to me
It’s all right, she likes it like that. She told her friend,
__For heaven’s
sake, what do I expect me to do about it? Her friend
sucked on some hard candy she got at the waxer’s at 7:00 AM.
It was pink and paraclete, pain ward
labored tirelessly, sweet, yes, an indirect salivate
Obediently beyond pink, it took on a Rosicrucian beam
inspir’d by her agape
so she’s all standing there drooling
_____
For a moment a Radical spiritism—
Smooth is
_____conservative.
From that surface on
Amplify went flat on ice rink
onto a book, «The confusion of persons is
always the evil of the city»
Just looking for some triplicity, you?
Put your hand up,
under my black cotton turtleneck
below a celluloid collar
Earnest living

SONNET 59

<< My face in thine eye, and thine
in mine >> is true speech, and is
I read naturally, is male, and
if, I did not look but basketfuls
of presumptive eggs all wet
do nothing for us playing at it.
If and is don’t lack for harmless
napkins like freed, unending
time bleats through the
washed away. In mine, suns
dulcet polishing of a tlooth,
<< as much falsity as I can use,
I carry >> On the level, a prop-
osition to disrobe contra shit
on the streets steams near a hot-
spot a relationship a sign a man
pinned to your back moves a
name I’d armament but you know
in a flageolet sitch I’d do any-
thing for you so. On the level?
She ran her car aground as his
ships firing agony in sand mag-
netized black screens of mites,
her car OK tho, it hurts, hood-
winked and The Image in Form is
a book of art writing by Adrian
Stokes and also in Malina
the fact is << I’ve never been
happy, but I have seen beauty. >>
What a fine replacement.
Blubbery and dying in my
same as a breastbone for you
is some fixed charge waiting for
Papermate® to stir a con-
ditional tense apparation, or
is that a coffee, tedious wall
clouds are rather of soap, see
and hath sense since torment
and hydromancy bothered to tune.
More, more if must be, more if I’d
be into it, I said I’d do whatever.
What would she of the unmistake-
ably Gothic appearance write
me, «I’m losing my mind with
probity presumably forever,» sure,
I like most care more than fuck-
ing Tiffany’s rattle, inlaid with
let’s book it to Alpine, if a diviner
knew you then too as I do.
I wish she would tell me what
to do with you, or if I did look,
How marvelous to see you,
post-screening, makes «true
hearts in plain faces rest»
more larding and accurate?
Or whether revolution be the same.
In 1938, hotspot was employed
in the firefighting sense and
whitish smoke employment gives
other women illustrates finitude
onscreen, a labor of demand.
If other women wanted finitude
over touchable repetition or if I
beat and beat salad or roast new
potatoes deeply in salt and oil
and exclaim their spits as an otter
might shriek the slightest un-
attitude vocable across your
hunks in Pisces comportment,
or with happens in trying and apts.
to go mad in, surely it’s been
nothing near this terrific face
I never in real head’d defenestrate

_____

Corina Copp is a writer and theater artist based in New York. She is the author of the chapbooks ALL STOCK MUST GO, Miracle Mare, and Pro Magenta/Be Met, among others. Recent writing can be found in Cabinet, BOMB, Boston Review, Corrected Slogans: Reading and Writing Conceptualism (Triple Canopy), and elsewhere. She is developing a three-part play entitled The Whole Tragedy of the Inability to Love, inspired by the successive forms of the work of Marguerite Duras. The Green Ray (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2015) is her first full-length book.

“Sonnet 59” — appeared previously as a translation of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 59 for The Sonnets: Translating and Rewriting Shakespeare (Nightboat Books, 2013). Edited by Sharmila Cohen and Paul Legault. Also included in the chapbook Miracle Mare (Trafficker Press, 2013).

 

Photo courtesy of Lawrence Schwartzwald.

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