Bertilax Trax, or Xperience of a Day | Liam McLean

1.   Morning

Soon, soon:

the dewy,

russet bale! —

the chewy,

tussocked kale! —

the

stooping

knight in mail,

raring for rest.

 

The          exquisite

lady

coiled       like

maybe —

tortuous vest — she

loves him

best. And the very mad she-lions the very rough falcons

 

and cockatrices beating rapid in the wood, swinging

rex beaks like SOME KIND OF maces,

causing attention. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

2.   Noon

The ochre hound.

The fast-locked lounge,

where bending he bated his ((careful)) kiss —

delivered it sweetly like letter to cheek.

 

Oh! His host’s stoned eyes

cut, wet,

like lemons in surprise —

his sister’s children laughing in the strong light

from the decorated veranda. Oh,

wretched December

 

sky in blind

acid hashes and harlequin diamonds

to hamstring hearts with hurting.

3.   Evening

The dog had caught cancer, messing with that dead deer; blessing his flatbread ear, the friar uncertainly turned, caught the master addressing his brat, dread fear with stark, slattern frowns. Meanwhile the hound, unbothered by dying, kept clawing at cushions, baying warning in gothic characters: tumor slash sash, tumor slash sash — at the crux of the problem a crinkle, a wrinkle; a white lie, a slight stye. The old maid lord began to cry. Glumly he hulked into his kitchen: glimpsed his sons by the island caressing, all the air packed with gnats, guests, glares. Get out! Plus the laughter of women, creepily leaning, all over the vibrant silver drain — didn’t they know his pain? Where went Gawain?/Where his white teeth like the shore of Spain?/Where his caged eyes like remorse of Cain?/Hear them jeer on the silver drain; dont they, dont they know my pain?

4. Midnight

Here is romance’s sublime

susurrus —

(a grove of good doves,)

 

here is the finest

amorous chorus

(fish in bad river;)

 

yull ever d*mn to

(what else should I give up)

 

hear from us.

(to improve my love?)

5.   Predawn

Darkly he drives too

fast through

the tattered roads, his face askew.

How he chatters, “It’s getting cold!”

 

His man, his old

host, worn and supportive,

giving directions through

his chewed veil of nails.

 

While their three

pals clunk in the backseat,

chained and hoping to see

a bright, isolate eave.

 

“You passed it!

You passed it!

Turn back, turn back.

You passed it. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . you passed it.”

 

Now the knight

jerks into reverse — breathes angrily

to cry, “Let’s have fun tonight!

Let’s enjoy tomorrow.”

“And the day

after that.

And the day

after that.”

 

“Until we make

 

it to climax.

6.   Daybreak (Outro)

Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh . . . . . .

Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh . . . . . .

 

(fey summer flies change fashion each hour)

 

Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh . . . . . .

Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh . . . . . .

 

(dire uncle casts sweet avalon mower)

 

Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh . . . . . .

Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh . . . . . .

 

(moths abandon their windows — the nightlight’s gone sour)

 

Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh . . . . . .

Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh . . . . . .

 

(travelers, tall as

manners, lean

in their shower)

 

Lhude sing, cuccu . . . . . . !

 

never

 

stop now

Liam McLean is a writer from rural Connecticut, currently based in Brooklyn. He received his BA in creative writing and anthropology from Oberlin College.