Thursday, March 29, 2018

Surreal Sonnets By Hart L’Ecuyer

Hart L’Ecuyer is a surrealist poet from St. Louis. These are the pages.


Dictated by certain amazing chemicals, Otis W. Caldwell
         (as one might expect) can be measured & described
                                                  as necessarily right or wrong.
                     J. Arthur Thomson the structure of a dogfish
                in an erratic & unpredictable manner suggested.
                 To connect the lady up to any kind of apparatus
                                     would ruin the intimacy of the scene.
It is amazing (but true) that social scientists study men collectively.
                                          If indeed it can be called a science,
                    a ball released from your hand a million times
                                                    falls to the ground each time.
You still have to decide whether this is a good thing or not;
                         you might even decide that it is an evil thing.
You will get very little help from a psychologist in answering these questions.


Buddhism did not succeed in sending troops to breakfast;
                                           in fact, Elena lay flat in a bathtub.
                                           In the vanishing world of privilege,
voluptuous, fleshy women left suicide notes. Fidel is always right.
The little princess turned down Jasper’s dozen red roses
& his routine telephone calls & money & with his dying breath
                                           the emperor gently divorced her.
                                           Caroline’s disregard for propriety
                                           was wasted on confused Hugh,
                                           ailing, drinking, raving;
Hannah, the tricky problem, was a liar & repressed.
                                          All we know for certain
                                          is hefty, wooden, & bloodstained,
                                          & it still reverberates today.


        According to one person who knew them well,
      David, Francis & James resented Barcelona.
    In accordance with New York,
  a constant succession of boys cast no shadow.
Flanked by two angels (how many? two!) Igor strolled about Madrid.
The day-to-day grind of open coffins & retrograde appetites
could not have been otherwise; every night the snow-covered drawbridge
where thousands of old people frolic & masturbate to  magazines.
                                 Concerning the febrile desires of youth,
we have seen endless bombers abandon collaboration;
                                              to honor fully Pebble Beach,
                realize that cyclists in the form of a telegram
   are the maximum opponent of Russian propaganda.
   The ballet began in the dark.


Regaining pleasure, Gabrielle fancied a shoe salesman
& Lucien, on principle, sold the Irishman a turtleneck.
                                               Graceful, wouldn’t you say?
                            Sergei looked nothing like a murderer
                       & the baroness was physically persuaded.
                       The senator handed out advice:
                                            “Remove the body.”
                                  “Take up guitar playing.”
               “Talk up a storm at dinner parties.”
                Still, there was some truth in her 50 franc blouse;
             people no longer know what elegance is.
         The nylon prestige, the high-wire publicity,
    Antoinette was ready to fly off the handle.
Within days, the chauffer went on a paid vacation.


                   Claiming it was for his health in the absence of a boyfriend
                                    Ian was on the lookout for a maze of small rooms.
                     The heiress pulled off her bathrobe & floated downstream.
                                                                                      Joan had had enough;
the canoes were about 30 feet long & known for their scrambled eggs.
                   A Swiss tourist on the outskirts of town
                                   leads us to some very sad places:
                                      the floor, Paris, a separate personality.
                   Beneath the stairwell Gregory made room for the tendrils.
What’s wrong with your hands?
The judge: “I don’t associate myself with any trends, groups, or experiments.”
                                                   The Brooklyn guru often visited London;
                                                   watching the dancing boys

                                                   Ian accomplished a satisfactory clarinet.

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