Sylee Gore Surreal-Absurd Sampler
“Inhale an image, exhale a word. Melt a book to paint a mirror. Buy nothing you can borrow. Refill a song. Place a window somewhere evident. Let muscle overcome memory. Is image a language never needing translation? Never ask why. Burn a book, mix ash to ink. Wait for fiction to come true. Succumb. Here – catch it – a book you’d never buy. Exhale an image, inhale a word. Borrowing makes you new.”—Sylee Gore
Garden The
a a a a a a a a a a about above After after alas, all all all all alone. amaze among am’rous And And And And and and and and and and and and and and And, Annihilating Apollo apples as as as as as as as aside, at at barks bays, Be be be beauties beauty bee below, best beyond bird body’s boughs busy But but but but but Casting chase, close clusters combs companies Computes could could creates, Crown’d cruel crush curious Cut Daphne dear! delicious dial did did do do do Does Does Does does drew drop each end Ensnar’d ever exceed! Fair Fair fall Far far find, flame, flight, flow’rs flow’rs flow’rs! flow’rs, Fond foot, for for found found. fountain’s fragrant from from from fruit garden-state, gard’ner garlands glide; gods, grass. green green green. grow. grow; hands happiness; happy have have head; heat, heed help herb herbs herbs Here here here, hers his hither hours How How How How hunted I I I I I I if In in in in in in in in industrious Innocence, Into into into is it it it its its its its its kind know labours laurel lead! less, life light. like Little, live long, longer Love lovely lovers, luscious made makes man mate; Meanwhile meet! melons men men; might milder mind, mind, Mistaken mistress’ mortal mortal’s mossy mouth My my my my name name; narrow nectarine new, No No nor Not nymph, oak, ocean Of of of of on on one Only Only Or or or or other other other our own own palm, Pan paradise paradises pass, passion’s peach place plants plants, pleasure plumes prepar’d prudently pure Quiet, race: reach; reckon’d red reed. repose. resemblance retreat. Ripe root, rude, run run; sacred seas; see seen shade shade. shall share she short silver single sings, sister sits skillful sliding So so so, Society solitary solitude. some some sought soul speed, Still straight Stumbling Such such sun sweet sweet, Syrinx that that that that that’s The The The The the the the the the the the the the the the the thee their their their their their their themselves themselves Then then There there there: these these these, they this this this this thought through thy th’ till time To To To To To To toils transcending tree tree, trees trees trees! tree’s Two uncessant upbraid; Upon vainly various verged vest vine walk’d wander was was Waves we we. weave well well What What When Where where wheres’e’er whets, While While white wholesome Whose will win wine; wings; with with Withdraws without wond’rous works, worlds, wound, Yet yet you Your your your zodiac ’twas ’twere
Snow Industrial
I hate a sudden
fall. I’m talking
about cracks
in photographs
Curly waves grid
the histories, if
______ is my subject,
______ is the object
Take it from me
Taffy drapes steeples
Sculptures of girders
are not girders I know
that distance is spare
that 3x=24
when x is late
Corn described as noon
Watersalt nested low
I need a physical
Perforated étude
Charcoal watercolour
My back to an orchestra
Saline crackling my hands
No rain plan for
informel
Fluted pilaster
plastic seam
Dolce’d disc of petal
Tacit dark matter
Gasoline egg whites
Dusty ficus dance theatre
Mirror mirror
Scooped honey
Butter gums
charnel traffic
Honey honey
Flaunts sugardown
I know I’m scooping water
Honey on my hands
Car interior dandelion hot
Moving boxes, human smell
Vuillard rinsed in cobweb
Thing is I just walk
I fall asleep
Light zero desert
Should never have
Is formalized
in the eye of
premiere I mean
starling I mean
the law I’m here
Chose my patron saint
Permasnow grits
moonlight
to my fingertips
September
A sunless pause where jackhammers tear
apart a concrete box. I can see satchels
weighing each step. Metaphors flounder.
Progress is loss. Crumpled wings
won’t fold.
Cars, deliberating speed.
Leaves oranged like autumn’s mirrored
August sun. Revenger – redeemer. Paint
my eyes, dismembering the crisis.
Watching the dismantling past.
How silver wire knots everything.
I can’t shake off the light on things, how
it falls across schoolchildren and broom and onto
the leaves swept in a heap just as another
one rounds the corner.
The street’s so clean. It could be any day.
It’s getting fainter, harder, monochrome
The fountain’s just turned on
It’s the bristles, cinched by the rusting band
It’s the oak leaves clagging the bristles
It’s the crimson needling the broom
It’s the shape of the broom
Vanity of vanities. I can’t tear my eyes wider.
Let’s Not But Say We Did
Bees blot a stale stone
Nudes lease sunlit insults
Indeed in debt we won
Title sweet a stout snow
Day wound a tasty style
Slide blind a downy beast
Twine totalled a salty bed
Wildness blasted dew
Westbound is unblessed
Obediently we unsaddle
The unsteadiest oubliette:
Obstinately we astounded
#f8f8ff
Ghost white comes haunting my dreams, I say hi
That sky? oh, ghost white – here, take a colour
Let’s paint a room for sleeping ghost white
Not just her hair was ghost white, her face too
We can live in these clothes, they’re ghost white
Call it ivory, call it paler than rose
I take ghost white walking, it hangs behind
Tell me another about ghost white
For when we started there was ghost white
When we ended, ghost white blurring
Blurring our pages, revering shadow
I Don’t Make the Rules
You can ask the funeral director to come later if you want more time with the body. In the sunlight, I see my father’s pencilled drafts fluttering on the garage floor. An archivist needs to assess documentary finds as a window into the past his silenc’d course, and with the thick night bound I remember splashing in the metal paddling pool when I looked up and saw my father’s face wet with tears.
……
He was on a lawn chair, and I remember how his stillness kept me silent too. You’ll need to register the death before you can use the ‘Tell Us Once’ service decking their silent orbs with light The pent fumes choke me. Many forms of communication do not result in documentary evidence. Part of me thinks the correct thing to do would be to rent a huge skip and just throw it all away.
……
An optimistic part of me thinks I can skim through items. I remember how the air glimmered with the bugs we used to have. Is the receipt the only evidence left, made precious by its rarity? A will is legally binding, except for the funeral instructions. I rub the crack in a photograph that shows my father as a child, a smile of fierce effort on his blurred face where stov’d in silence he may sleep
……
and wheresoe’er thy silent relics keep My back is also seriously hurting after combing through boxes. Papers strain the plastic as I heave the bags into the rusted basin. I remember that, when I waved my hand to shoo a fly, he startled. Try not to feel pressured into paying for a funeral you can’t afford. By themselves, these fleeting items provide little more than evidence of a random communication.
……
But in a wider context they can serve as proof I’ll seek each silent path where we Did walk You can only arrange for the cremation after you’ve received the death certificate. I do like the mementos but I just don’t know how worth it the effort all is. But I remember he kept his gaze trained on the crabgrass. In the metal tub, a papery dusty tang.
……
For a moment, I can’t hear the highway traffic. The vast majority of society’s communications are never documented. I remember then he rubbed his face and forced a smile and met my eyes a silent, unseen sorrow doth best please I don’t have the money to pay a company. You may go into shock or feel numb.
……
You may feel disbelief. I strike a match and let it fall. A major chunk of everything is straight garbage. The absence of records does not mean that the ideas never existed, only that they have left no evidence the stars shine in the silent I remember how I didn’t smile back, but I stretched out my arms, and he rose to lift me out of the low pool.
Sylee Gore is an artist and poet. Her “Library Poetics” series is on view in the Expanded Librarian exhibition (URL https://www.crassh.cam.ac.uk/events/41769/) at the Centre for Research in the Arts, Social Sciences and Humanities in Cambridge this spring.
“It Does. It Feels New” first published in 14 Magazine
“September” first published in Postcards to the Archive (Rothermere American Institute)
“I Don’t Make the Rules” first published in Thin Air Magazine
