Corina Copp – Two Poems


•   June 15 2015 // poetry   •

Two poems by Corina Copp

 

Little Lady of My Heart

Shoe polish before
News from home
Up to the drawn-
In knee where your
Eye socket trusts
Off-shade
On purpose, don’t
They read…it concerns
People who are close,
I enjoy myself a
Bit with a twig be-
Guiled by your
Curls noncompetitive
With hides in quo-
Tation and bla, further
A 17th-cen. tureen
Emptied of am ex-
Pands there, remorse
But not so much
Remorse that you
Should polish intro-
Spection it could
Mean so much
To her and her
Followers if
Counters gleam
Time of relationship

*

Touches inter and
Everything showy,
Untenable, snorts
One’s faith in
Long green hose
Laid out enor-
Mous poisons
Before our feet he
Admires are acting
Some small iris
Inscribed with woe
Why’d they go out
At such a stylized
Distance, a hyper-
Direct remove…?
I thought they
Revealed sirloin
Quite rotten that
Day, but later on…
Blue-black shifts
To bed in charges
For us both but
I’ll leave too gently
And softly
I’m putting across
A malaise and corn-
Bread for my rebound
Who does allow, wan-
Ders like gnashing,
A closer look
All the drags across
The ground
I still leave a tip
Better carry on,
Painting of someone
Absorbed in own
Disposession stretches
To her about bite
With his mouth name-
Ly method red
Now as we towel it,
Today might be
Might frontal
Today, breakaway
Neutrality, tissue
And stimulated, bones
Are bored stiff…I
Couldn’t quite
Contain myself
I couldn’t…be free
And sincere either I
Liked him more as
He got richer…than
Tortured, soon no
More caresses
No dreams of
What would make
Non-rapid dis-
Junct of humble
And sly less like
Advertising
I’m not sure
Attempt to clean
Leaves clutter
With its silver
Spouts please shall
Have a seat cross
Mediality hope-
Fully stay beneath
Cherry blossoms
Posing like you’ve
Buried seven hus-
Bands without a tear
You are keen
I love metal
Aluminum, brass, lead
And eager to prefer
A long time
To come disport
Free love

*

My problem is rather
To attain, I don’t tell
The trash, license
Less <>
I don’t tell a glassine
And honest envelope
I do not tell it a lie
If Mona is the tit-
Ular vagabond girl,
Probably the life
Force is
Lying…doubly it’s
Doubly pure
An artistic move
For sure, switches
And sausages in
Febrile ceramic dust
Ledging here in
Your arms I’m gut-
Ted, collapsed on your
Couches, feeling a
Wire seam for alpha
Overvisible love-
Making speaks over-
Audible prying
Bleeds, clarifies he-
Althy grabbing at my
Smoking acolytes in
The words of my apt.
OK it was bigger than
The analyst en-
Larging a relax rose
Under the nose,
Feels drawn, of
A quaking dog,
Pianocktail spule
Pain for some bread
And there was yellow
In the room too, al-
Beit jaundice!
OK, truth was: hel-
Meted, ransomed;
And Le Monde, read
Through and found,
Returned she, more
Wit, then? Six
Jerks in a Jeep
At zero, leave
To stir forgiven
Rain, her bun is the
Center of the world
Radiates dark
Green only to hurt
Your driving and…
The road operates
With violence as
With fun, your skin
Glows in the light
Of the youth scene
Its whorlish somnolent
Attitude and chatter
About freedom and
Celebration of the ir-
Rational is thanks
A lot
Despite conscious-
Ness-raising that
Speaking had to be
Free from parsonical
Sing-song and all
Those cadences which
Lull the spectator
So that the senses
Get lost, get
Latest beholden

 

 

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 «l’ve never been
happy, but I have seen beauty.»
What a fine replacement.
Blubbery and dying in my
same as breastbone for you
is some fixed charge waiting for
Papermate® to stir a con-
ditional tense apparition, 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, «l’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 theatre artist based in New York. ‘Sonnet 59’ first appeared in The Green Ray, her first full length collection, published by Ugly Duckling Presse.