Three Poems by John Latta
LANDSKIP AND FIT
Which confer’d such high additament
To my discomfort. Whose lines
Raketh. Which—like Eben. Scritchsoule
Poked by a sticke—is
Love’s lewd Pilott. Whose restlessenesse
Abrades sinnews of landskip to
Right the commodious junk of
Man’s complacency in a fit.
Whose naughty money is what
I got, & empty pocks.
Whose time uncomb’d consumes ticks
And tacks like a guinea
Hen, and songs with confidence
The bones of memory stuff’d
Into small urns. Whose antecedents
Shape a wreck’d constant heart.
Cuss-drunk the Pious, you
Overwash a particular lossy comprehension
System, one whose first peck
Of notoriety is a lust-
Breath’d tango stop’d. They’s no
Diviner wash for the great
Unwash’d massy fornicules than licker,
You announce, Incke of thy
Pen accrescent and dip’d. And
What perchance’d sod down thy
Brunt accrual in small-beer-
Prose? Old retainable earth, its
Malt scurve, its boreal scrum
And watery fastnesses green’d and
Blue’d. Besides earth and us
Leers nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing.
People’d with unimaginable shapes, you
Draught a rough prospeckt whilst
A certain verecundinous opacity graceth
Your worship of sow bugs,
Saps and garlands, the sopps
And frequencies of th’unshorn I.
‘He unsat the unit I’—
Charles Olson in a fit
De-complacency re: Keats, he of
The blew presumptuous wings, lording.
So love’s length grows naughty
By degrees. In our greasy
Torpor is Sum smal accrwment.
Or in pranking oneself up
To say ‘No musick with-
Out discord.’ Y’r ob’d’n’t, &c.