Quarles (2)

Lanny Quarles

The Radiation of the Golden Armor of the Werewolf Knights
(The Curse of Waldemar of Oregon)

[Come this way!] ocean-forest forest-ocean like chains two children hopeless sometimes of the air sometimes of Paul Naschy’s silver atom falling in LA MARCA DEL HOMBRE LOBO is the Zeus of a single thread the zen of a single head or the amorphous black octopus-waldemar wolfman-fuzz tentacle which floated out of Paul Scheerbart’s nib the way science even if Paganini is a single bodiless horn mounted in a crypt of microscopes floated out of a poetic figure virtuous virtuosi that gargantuan rose of green glass bricks melting in the landscape BREASTS OF SOLAR WEEVILS BOILED UP FROM A JEWELLED SKELETON HUMM OF DAYBREAK BOILED UP FROM A TWIST MURDER MOLLUSC Waldemar the beast of portland melting under your pentagram of silky black mud would sit so refinedly reading Ned Ward’s Hudibrastic survey All Men Mad: Or, England a Great Bedlam (1711) Waldemar throws up his castle under the spell of your red-headed drug the radiation of the golden mirrored armor of the werewolf knights that billiards room which doubles as a salon of murky windows poolball molecules foaming in the lycanthropic air Lady Bedlam under whose deceptive sign we boil (hand sliding up to cup the breast) John Hughes or Waldemar of Oregon the vampire rugby player who plays the sitar all ascrum & primordial as a bomb or chirp and drinks from your nakedness drinks from your fopling flutters sparkishes and witwounds dead serious Ichabod Crane mosquito and wants your red beehive of bloody necks not to mean the sleeping real [Pope Bugbear on an eyelash-leash] but to bear witness to a galactic foal abbey folly whose white dwarf spots (o what gentle, dappled feathers) murmur something better more stupid (as in the incandescent multitudes of oceans) than the fantastic draining of images in the hart of the whorled (or a person sitting, near the wheel, near the deer) in the desert of moths there is nothing finer than this paisley house coat this protoctistan alphabet (step lively, sir!) nothing which compares to the taxidermy of werewolves or the eroticism of a perfect brown silk cone (presently aquimble..) Paul Naschy’s filthy bloody shirt (hung on an automaton of woven antenna) placed inside some clay dark canopic owl partially obscured by northwest fog ‘the end’ drawn in gothic cocaine on the green felt rulebook the fossil ferns which tile its giant eye-sockets the trouble with Krug thought Krug

back to 27