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Wyvern Lit

Four Poems

Poetry by Kell Connor



Our resting heart rate is Revlon, is excess, my vested interest in redness presents itself as reverence, as the initial stages of contrition. I don’t recall what I did wrong, having in the interim come significantly undone. Alone with only the muscle memory of Marlboro Country, only the scraps of the map of Marlboro Country, alone in the lower tar of my cheating heart. My heart’s in the cart before the horse. My hearse is hitched to the absolute worst: a white Dodge Ram stuck in reverse, smashing me back into the past headfirst. The show ends with one or more of us gored, most of us in rivulets, bloody toreadors. When it’s red it pours, as they say. And they say: Say no more.




The imperative of the grid is very simple; its a systematic separation and/or visible support system. The surface that you cant push past is surface perfected. Surely youve been waiting with the patience of a saint (meaning you were unaware of waiting as a way to describe your status. You thought you were daydreaming, buffering, you thought you were merely moving through the workweek per usual). But what I ever love is light, the low light of the law firm. The grain of Xerox, softernotice the night is unlaced and lossless in this recording. The place of prestige is transaction, not location, not thought. Without the register the long line comes to an awful halt. I wonder what number I can call. The only way out is stumble onto and through a series of false walls.




Summon the void by decorative stripes. Summon the void by aligning architecture with desire. When the entrance suggests reverence do not believe me do not enter. In the atrium, bathed in magenta, bathed in deep pink, you find in the void your asthmatic self, your place of absolute articulation, the cult figure you collected clippings of from print media. Thus proving you experienced childhood. Thus the void is all-inclusive, all erogenous. I felt so ephemeral in your arms, or alone with the thought of your arms, alone in a crowd at the gun show, alone with my only rifle. Im from nowhere, where they taught me very early how to clean a weapon, and later I raised myself alone to wield it with the dead aim of the last, the lost, the formerly weak.




The moon will halve itself so slowly. That’s nothing. The right thing to do with the night sky is find a blank spot, a darkness far from all constellations. If you look at the moon you lose. No, lose is the wrong word. This isn’t a game. To rephrase: If you look at the moon you have failed. The moon ruins the sky in the same way a moral mars a story. The real story is a pointless gorefest. This year’s thin cycle of cicadas hum hallelujah as I twitch in the grass, hissing glory, glory.




Blindness is an absence of subject, and blindness is the condition under which I will learn to love my landlord. I live, like you, in a state of pleasant duress. We continue in this fashion and the seamstress gets no credit for the dress. We set sail full mast on the good ship Condé Nast. It’s a battleship (in the sense that any successful empire must defend itself against absence, or the attrition of our attention). Sense of place is leased from lords to keep us from slinking back to swamps. Sartre said slime is the agony of water. The horror of the abject is akin to the fear of the vacuous—the fear that the mind is beholden to the body, the fear that the mind is mainly folds and fluid. The fear is not just of spilling but also of the empty cup. And the fear that the self, though it stains no known surface, must be sopped up.