Soyoung Jung


Those gone days of appetite and flush were gorgeous, fortuitous, bunches that plummeted outwardly bloomed and still broken. Dog days of tossing a light copper spoon into the eye of a joke -- wild fabric tying the wooden leg. In that inclement laughter: always the foxtrot in vogue and svelte dress of lightning, always the same love for money. Today broomswept, into this arabesque. Yesterday, behind album sleeves: still pigtails and quintessential toss. You can hurl an indigo rose from hindsight but slipping it into my laces today won't start to steal me toward spigot; only this lukewarm resist. Sometimes the gravity gets to be much. Other times the once great sack of slop-drop tears that clung to my lips over easy frowning pretends to retain the same something furious. Yesterday is effortless, held by the handles to lift with its cloud of lore. Its ruins that shoehorn me down into instant like hoodwinked tomorrow may sweep fast our bruises across a glass horizon. Great days have already passed and in passing again, we remain yet in beast -- color of steam, weeping her betrayals, in beauty -- dog paddling toward a more feral center.

Like an Elusive Poetry

In the illusion, I wanted to splash in your ballroom held taut by a dash of orchard aromas. You were only starting to emerge from your grove of late night violins and devotion to blues. Such were the vaudeville storms, copious in my arms. Ballet, ballet: the opus sashayed in its circular dream of consciousness. Yes, we were prisoners in that frivolous, opulent zoo, where distance between us was always slow boat, intolerably close before you'd vanish again. Reappearing as apples sparkling a scent of sonatas inside a clay bowl, their enchanted forests withheld. I was carrying a tuba crowded with puzzles, you were noodling your curved box of startle, steaming with words, their meaning safeguarded behind the white beetles of your teeth.

Little Demons Emerging From Corners

All night I was a concentric circling of ring around a pinpoint of stabs. My redeye waltz of feats and defeats, swaddled in aimless razing when fingers sound by picking at the strands of shut secrets. The insomniac clock: its hands form jaws inflating shape into the hollow ticks of accurate by a music of slit and percussive cascade. Hands burying a tendency to break into gnawing. All night I was errant and jinxed, dreaming of chewing glass on the edge of my jigsaw island always slid toward some other coffin. My hidden hourglass of nerves juggles this trickle of roaming with a salt that layers its confectionary splendor -- who caught by tail the slice of forest with arms of sunlit bronzes and searing whites? I welcome the erasure. That lizard of noise. Sudden image of it.

Conquest of Superfluity

Again the world was chasing its tail. A sheet had fallen over quiescence, and everywhere they were spilled and hidden, as into incision of sweet jasmine swell. Their trees soon burst into spidery lies. Shocking, articulate prayers rained out, their pelt and pirouette kept them in breeze puzzled in cold. And bird, that brushstroke who lit white events to startle the blizzards out from the melt of dreaming, panorama's invisible gold. From sky. Each vision gazed out through glassy walls to meet a counterpart image tied to it lengthwise, by tightrope of time. Then all the days threw, or enthralled, desired occasion whose end was loosely indefinite sail or sobbing or edge of crime. Wanting as obvious as windmills generating filaments of fleeing in endless supply. To weep, weep it back to oneself, as reverie all by itself intuits designs for retrieving with welt of conquest and no room for questions. For on the lip of the unfortunate pillagers leave just floors and dirges of torn carnations. Wealth of the cry. Learning to gather into corsage before being mobbed and careened. Abruption fills moment's pivot: drop of tarantula, flytrap of scene. Then intimate falls into gone, passed by. With sightless views iced over, ribboned mirage.

We Who Pursue

Finally, the end came as a clear evening. The rupture and sinking away were a handful of helium that made us feel nimbly insouciant. And your ambiguous gesture that almost said more could've been anyone's tattered flag or feather. Our visions revealed you had arrived while we were still seeking various backward destinations, elaborate phantoms, so there you went, seeping quietly off into crevices of the current understanding. In the ecstasy of a current understanding the periphery teases with seamlessness, and appearance is always part pleasure, part specter, and most of all the reflections we invent. The way we appear always blued to each other. And defiance of the silent obsessor throws a quick lasso from its infection of submarine patience, until the occasional heartbreaking glimpse of a background eternity. How have we ever arrived at this unutterable condition -- windfall, calamity, lack or indulgence? There was a silt of awareness that slipped through grasps of tentacles attached to animals called wonder, inquiry. Then always the later consequence sliding its body behind blacker curtains. We revolve in suns around the missing and lost, or something greater that taps at complacence -- ribcage of stunning illusions strung across several atmospheres. Or else we climb up the air to assault or make love to forms organized into shapes of our gravity in lieu of the buried opera where you are treasured most dear. The vault's calm or qualm is designed for our prying, so we will always hallucinate you.

Vagabond Moor

It was innermost dwindling, past fertile and needle, that held us suspended in wandering visage. The marbled air thick from delicate skeletons roped with arteries routing desolate violence, deafening virus. I was caught in a chance bunch of lattice crowding my sight with a vista of circular lives, sky-heavy with circuitry winds and bodies of wire. All of us febrile, pleated by angles and logic edges, particles just shy of roar. My mourning your morning too. You must have been furious quarreling to yourself. Lucid, or loosed from this episodic brook of tangled occasions. The ponderous weight of endless quandary is rarely slit by cyclic surveillance, refrain of savant: you are paintbrush, polyphony, portico to finally and I am a fainting blouse to your bottomless haunt.