Jes Dolan: three poems

HYPERBARREN ONE: the marital bed (if i am a bright housewife)

i came to this university in order to be closer to this wooden table                        
to be near to this table
to be here in this graduate room which composes me as a row of lights composes me straightly
i came to this university to be nearest to the hustle, to shake hands to suck dix and get small bags of money back up on my back
to be under the straps of this baggage
to be inside this bag and carry my own weight in the appropriate ways as it is appropriate to be weighted and to carry.
i came to this university to be a pillar
a soft madonna, a blanket ghost stood whitely against the columns of dead.
i came to the university to be a soft column, a rare pleasure
an accomplishment, a doing everything perfectly.
to be near to this table
to carry this weight
to make soft my hands and shake them free of money
to culture an incredible anger
an incredibly sensitive anger.


in particular, you.
complete the carriage of us to them
by folding neatly each anticipated hurt
father to mother, hem to hem.

substantial death deals substantial wound
and the immediate death is a bully to the working spirit.
don’t lose hope. lose yourself out of enchainment

get to know your aims, sight truer down the bowing barrel
that is you. will be evergreen as you. will weather and winter
and in the end untrue the icon of you. defeat will be organic

will organicize you in a manner no diet or maxim or ritual could ever do.
unspirited corpus. lovely lonely old you. lose yourself out of signification in
pursuit of some you

wild green youngness is the shoot, sight carefully. aim true.
make a baby of yourself i guess. swaddle the ghost you are growing. the spectral
plant that demands mention – we cannot break these terms of each other: ghost, spectral.

here are the holes of each body that wrote on the world before you had grip of the stylus.
here are the works that were done on the field before you had sense and subsumption.
here are actual places where other people walked down the ground before you did that.
and here are their deathbeds. they are rectangular tiles. white cement on the path

sleeping at the bathhouse, here are your dead. pushing out a paper, here are your dead.
sitting in the clinic, here are your dead. they are your dead. your dead. your very own dead.
have another cigarette. tread harder on the grass. press the buildings around you
down with the weight of your head

be only and alone but be hopeful, be a pine. redwood. fir. balsam. push sap and fuck only in forest fires,
only at the occasion of your own complete conflagration. think how long it will take them to put you out.
think how many of them will come to put you out. no, not burning, but fucking
(for ______________, the dead)

HYPERBARREN SEVEN: the inflatable bed

i came to this university but am beholden to the past:
burning down and down owhite water
a lost clog cast into the lot of the consumption complex
i wreathe to weave to slight owhite water,
the frush of whose foam pleases girls completely.
compulsively choral, the cabaret of blanched horrors
heaves and rushes with a rapid fit of hydrangeas,
happiness overcomes the frost and each apology bursts,
babbles small flies, pleads for grease, for release.

i came but
can only produce the ichor i brew out of overlong sleeping,
a brook of fatwax, a thrum of catarrh, the waste of my throatbox
pressed to gold plate and made current.
it is with these tokens of exchange
that i had intended to come and sit by the good wood table
and pick up dropped seeds with my bent thumb, a smelt run of
paperbacks piling against my long shore i had hoped to
uncrease the money caught between folds in the excess,
ribbons of white in the caul.

i am out here doing a bad imitation of you at your best. least bluff,
blown away. builder’s fluff bleeds out of my bottom body, clothes away.
i am the first in my class to go trinkling crystal vases through her fingertips.
cuticles nipped to the quick and pink about it. seething out and snatching up a thing to recess with it behind her comfort. seasons of shade.
thissss voice i have certainly practiced, the fag-end of a theatre
technique that shakes the bodily vapour out of each leg, long muscles lie unbrained. bored at play.
the face reverts to lake and will stutter light and refleck only the psychotic break which leaks the warm egg of heartbroken decision onto every
dried out face.

when i go they will find only pr0b:
the porn that never was but still became the breaking stain the
cup of crushed space
strained wavebreaks clap
a bowl of bursting breaks
an ancient and harassed place.

politely i find i must excuse myself on account of the dust,
being a result of the mites and my neglect to navigate or entomb in memory
the leadshot i had expected to eat and enjoy. even now agonized song cruets forth, bitterling
with crumby edges, squealing after having been forced
to repeat the words of the world from the still-warm
human pages of joyce’s deadalus’ good homer, who is now held in my
unwilling possession – cyclic deep storage belowly bound to only
earth or peat, not mind. take note:
now be sure that in your suicide you slash one leg backwards into history, a swimmer kicking in the last.

Jes Dolan is a queer writer, performance artist, and front line worker in one of Montreal’s three supervised injection sites.