Communication by David Russell

David Russell

He handled his language as he fried his eggs:
There was tension between the respective softnesses
Of his egg and the cooking fat –
Dependent on extreme alternation of heat and cold,
Confinement in shell melting out of shape

Solid outside the skin flesh, fluid only within,
Only under the flame
Pricks the shape in itself, the shape in the pan

To carry the pan, he had a woven cloth,
His twisted eyebeams were the thread
To weave, to sew – ring for a rod

Spear-thing threading
From one side of the eye to the other;
Two siphon-chambers, walled with woven sponges,
Every pit a square eyebath –
Heatproof for dinner – a film in between,
Secure until the knot cut in the lines

Filled, to empty round the other, poor fishes –
Too fat for the umbilical between –
So, back to the same; always the same difference.

A repeated missed grasp, eager hand
Banging down to dust and skin –
Scrape, at the numbers implied in the buckling
Of the Irregular
The magnitude accumulator,
Amputated square roots, divided by themselves,
Every pipe its own softening cleanser

With a rhythmic sponge-squeeze of amputating end,
Hollowing the end to make a route of withdrawal;

Ash fertiliser – making straggling inroads
Into the cleaning fibres –
Salivated for greasing the gullet –
Thin sparks for lighting the gas oven,
To make a pretty ring – for an unshelled egg
With its own ring-cock –
The untortured black pudding.

Play with the rag under that old gramophone egg
With lustrous rim-swell –
Turn the egg-pan into a baby’s hammock
Curled up by the blue fat-fumes.

Incisions like gyres of odour
Up the black-downward nostrils
Of our friend the reversed loud-speaker.

Hailing the new all-life boats
Between the deathly tyre-waters.

When the mirror’s woof and warp is scorched
To the extent of a falling water-sheet

This man’s oven was like a revolving stage, scorching
Between the slices of air-release –

Flick down to cardboard cartoon-umbra
On the transit-slat – All-all.


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