Hathor Auteur from Lab Book by Your Thing

To Paris byway of
Carriage, with the
Queen of my universe,
My goodwife and
Precocious progeny
On an overdue sojourn
Long written on
In letters, correspondence
Bearing my progenitors
Waxen seal and perfume

Every bump of the
Phaeton tossed
The stanzas of
The bildungsroman
As a skiff would bob
Upon the Lac Inferieur
In Bois de Boulogne
Somnolent rattle
As a cradle lilting
On a musing reverie

A dozing dream
Where me, Will
son of Will, the
I prefixed with a W
And ended with two L’s
A restless flaneur
A sleepwalker,
Skirting the drool pools
The culture coma
Badaud gaze, for
Onc’ ah fortnaught
Was once lit up again
Sailing the freight
Naught a cloud,
Allowed in sight
A fortnight
Frolicsome Seine
The sights!
At night!

All January, February
March, fist up
Keep it up
Strong and fine
Would they see the through line?
Find the gun still smoking
Would they see this line through?
Foretold, as it were
To fund a minor sovereign’s
Puny gunny
In the alpines

Jarred awake as
The spokes break
And the driver
Groans “Confound it”
Half awake, I saw the words
Form, a square,
A line in air and
Tie the knot
“Germinal” dropped
To close, with no
Ribbon in the gutter,
I lost my place
The jolt ripped a page
From “Portrait of a Lady”
Page in the lady’s hand,
My queen, my friend yet,
Together, broken down,
In savage wilderness
For stretches, trackless
Stepping down to stretch my legs
Straighten my spine
I found a draughtsman
Facing the wild land
In the road’s margin

Our sun, that star
Sears, the fields
Sears the sunflower,
Alights man’s orange hair
And beard ablaze, intent
on this trace of land
A reed plucked and cut
A reed touched to ink
Flicks across a page
Jotting out a scene
A field, cows,
Birds and bees
In the modern style
Loose and unsightly
But capturing the day
Or something
Queen Anne’s Lace
Surrounds him

We are modern women
And men, we have had
Our pictures taken,
But the youth’s new style
Impressions and beyond
I’ll never understand
This generation is entitled,
Lazy, lacking in respect
It’s senseless, it’s like
Smelling something
Scentless
Even a whiff of Cockles
Or poppies, smell green
Earthy

All January, February
March, fist up
Keep it up
Strong and fine
Would they see the through line?
Find the gun still smoking
Would they see this line through?
Foretold, as it were
To fund a minor sovereign’s
Puny gunny, is that
Your Thing?

This man, before nature,
Excrement on his heel,
Cabbage whites from
Cultivated fields, light
On this delightful repast
The birds caw and respond
High up across the tree line
A busy insect buzzed
The artists ear, Then Poppies
Then wayward Thyme
The man unbothered
Embroiled in his pastime

“Goodman” I say
“Watch for that bee!”
He ignores me,
Indecisive bee
Ambles to the poppies

“Goodman” I ask
“What are you drawing,
So entranced, and
Might I add
vigorously!”
He ignores me,
I step closer to see
Close enough to smell
the stink

“Goodman” I say
as the insect, circles
The Artist at work
“You may be stung!”
Still ignored, which stung
The honeybee
Not dying today,
Chooses, content
with Hawkweed
A flap of wings
As the crow flies
The artist, arrests
The dancing reed mid stroke
On a cow’s haunch
In his reproduction
Turns away from his work
“A bee, see, decides”
And turns back again

It stuck with me,
it stung a little

“A B, C, D-Sides”

• Electronic
• Experimental
• art funk
• jazz
• noise rock
• sludge pop
• United States