The Foreigner of Two Fabrics Stanford Cheung
ISBN: 978-1-927593-38-7 ©2014 Stanford Cheung Published by Fowlpox Press
The Foreigner of Two Fabrics Stanford Cheung
“Roaring tides my verse, euphonious the words, depiction of world, chanting life’s portrayal. Tainted this cloak, blind waves to tally soul, interpretation for decorum, distant yet subjective, I write.”
Stanford Cheung
CONTENTS 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
HOW SEWING MACHINES SPEAK FROST WOOD SHIFT TIMELY NARRATION AGHAST INTENTS PICTURESQUE CONCEPTS STROLLING TANGENTS MERGING HORIZONS ADAPTFUL STUDIES CRIPPLE EAVESDROP THE ROOF REVIVING COMMUNION THE WORD REN BEHIND THE DITCH CASUAL’S STAND PEWTER WORDS WELL DRESSED GRAMOPHONE PUZZLED FORTURNE
HOW SEWING MACHINES SPEAK At least not reading about it or how does one write in prose which keeps going to daunt on rugs that trample, rawboned in knots, static exceptions, a result after once tried. Imagine one page condensed even for a soul like me that stares blankly on this wall. Some people. Stagnant. In the matter of breath where ideas pour out vapors, the mouth glazed over and over revolution. A void of revelation? That hue in a million pages ripped only one that surrounds a typed blue, for it that smudged tinge over everything caressed; minds. Teasing voids; in the distance. I see blank hallways. It echoes. To throw the audience in the moment of writing a life last note.
FROST The snow upon touch, installed every silent drop, as it takes on many forms when contact is reached, forming a rich, calm cadence. Later to paint hallways and alleys, between the cleavage of cement, with shadows, silent, in the calm contemplation, suggesting a tonal reformation. Yet, it’s unreachable to hands, in the distant prairies, a transformation over centuries, where all particles combined, remains infinite. It remodels a structural nature, where wrens used to bathe in dreams, dreaming innocent snow, and larks, camouflaged, as beautiful as the snow white itself, flourishing, in the glass case, unopened. Hidden in the slumber shade, absorbing spectrums of winter glow.
WOOD SHIFT Wearing felts trousers bold in thick possession, strapped knitted keyboards, mute behind the old bag she always clawed. Calloused it was until. Then with a child contrasted a gathered poise. Such fashion, mosaic every flower erodes upon rain it mocks. Golden twisted, like that of a face her scripts mocked, turning each second for seconds. Some compass of fate. As inwardly from reality the knots tie, of fifty two pages covered beneath dust, breathing out curse in clubs that drink. I recall to talk about these presences, many loops, upturned arousals linguistics that remain illegible. Speak of the shank, ointments of oil human follicles drip, no emotion is euphonious. Foreigners may pick those trashes up, wash up the screwed up shades that blinded many behind. A bark pushed trolley without boxes firsthand.
TIMELY NARRATION And so, recovered slap sticks rushed to put on this hat that stuck out petals, that raised its hand, to call an answer beneath the cracks of cement, winds do chalice a tug, sweeping the first mouthfuls of leaves, decorated in trees. Within a day, even clothes hung and swallowed each gallon of sun, seeing things dressed, warmth up the flower field, where pearls of snow, as fast as nature, turns white. And only fences shudder because why petrified to see swings sling themselves with each push seasons slay. Fast gone birds, northern arrival as happy as crows wave hi, not around tangled quotes, each song that chirped. Outlived in fear, consumed in ears those tangents in blinks of eyes minimal tears, stay calm and through a story, each epilogue I cannot tell.
AGHAST INTENTS It’s fun to see a moat of noise, where peddlers kneeling from those demented noises. Remain clogged, in pink pajamas picking the mane of a dandelion as that same colony flew without shame. Harvesting dew, incubus tempting just how naïve I was, seeing how rude a manner can be. Paradox in the sweat sea, where an elder stood the pedestal of a stair, concretes even sung describing just how stiff she was. Yet below, perhaps a son that stood there watching picking up the wrong tune to parenting, for she has failed. He stood watching and I read “Go ahead. Keep walking.” Without knowing she fell along with him yet for a hag like her, no crutches but pain. So terrific, the portrait of alive, cruel in the distance, kindness close to suicide. Both jump but for a damned to choose, yes timelessly, selflessness is oblivious. Jump the fence, series of words that grow roots along the soil, stars walked.
PICTURESQUE CONCEPTS Go ahead. Capture this moment, you need some aperture whose scrolls bind light under artifice roots, that grab flights of mock; motherly dove, pecking hearts bleeding flocks. There are those shutters, flick of a remote changing channels; whose figments in mind remain unchanged. Blink again under rain acid tears, seeing yellowish haze. Once in those first times. Focus, don’t lose devilish larks that blind your gaze, mystifying you as if they were lovers. Grab hold; night-dream for reality in day. Motives tap at night; old grey’s fashionable verse. Doggy paddle, notice consolations above idealist’s grave, how whether clovers makes meals out of dwarves; small peas, speckled dust: forming matters of edible realms. Response of hijacked bored construction, one foot above clothing that never really changed, only mixed with timings of soil. We rest.
STROLLING TANGENTS Sniffing breeze, head held high heaving hail, halt, heard haze the breeze I sniff. Ripped open with a towel, I throw on the floor, room service, ignored ignited, ignorant innocence, impending maturity I was small that time. Cut each fabric, crafted my mind making playgrounds out of fantasy, cheered, clear, calloused, canopied sentiments only felt fabrics. Sniffing breeze as I ripped open a towel and cut each fabric I thought I felt.
MERGING HORIZONS Blink to the note pages that stack dark upon sandwiched brains. Ocular hope sees it, descending slowly upon each stanza bloats its field of sad, melancholy a tattered heart can’t stop staring. Sky, a few miles of a decade high, dripping amongst into days, crusade routinely paint of leaking end, with pinnacle strength, putting us to sleep, kissing out foreheads bleak, a blackout drainer, eyes under mercy as final seconds call. Closed our shuttled lids, lashes in our reigns, aleatoric dwell of leaves like that of our dreadful slumber that somehow makes us talk happily in our sleep. Deeper into the ocean, so does water turn hostile, and myriad seas Ontario buildings seemingly stand, flushed both hemispheres of life. Sky of night, sea of dark. Whoever wrote into these messages one stroke to music of opened patches no more.
ADAPTFUL STUDIES Suspended on carved maple thick, where greedy revelations swarm, honey beasts in lustful landscapes forming trails of lantern lights making transfusions blanketing lively justice. Crowded the fire. When woods hold firm And I see a mirror jumping through the reflection, with the dark backdrop slinged over shoulders. Leaped across those hay into threads underneath it all. That shadow, lurking to dance bowing and saying hi, don’t run away, childhood memories remain. For once waking up, in the midst of this show that piled trash, those amorous laundry bins. Yes, something out of storms, each crackle that tickles canny hair, brushing the glue that mended syrup beside what undiscovered past the dice on six sides play.
CRIPPLE Outpouring theft of sweet oblivion dance. Not wearing laces, aroused a tango where pages paged her quivered lips. In huge hoarse rants that contract two subway doors. Firmly as jeans stuck like magnets dissecting coarse of a loose thread coy. Out there nations of clans, perhaps in pupils drew dilated eyes. Perfect and round. Of all such things woolen and covered its beauty, never induced craved its coffee, lipped profile. Its frame never dropped, nails jarred deep. Who; this canvas questioned, dripped fleshed red. Not like for me newspapers spread, without it knowing. In the middle of summer, with a shoulder shunned away, melted like sand but a verdure outcast pool; of all places, unions right here. Sounded like sound, around guck town. Not above soil, grounded hands reached like heaven, its roots grab death.
EAVESDROP THE ROOF Fugitive voices; at days you can actually hear deep layers, gorges laid flat speaking. In clusters, perhaps caressing thinkers, small mammals, prints that roam. Delicate fortune, chest I open spilled timeless without purpose, no aging limits. Just books, counting coins fossilized the deans of kings, queens. Earthly scenery, marvel those terribly gone nature. That appears to be human hand made spotlight, taking up strange night candles or otherwise. Meaning I was liked under fumes where wet cloths, furry dangling fears, reflecting the gloom out of me. Or even wanting to pile dead, dignified wrong death while sleeping intently, mute over everything for two fingers sprained on its right in too late. Right under the midst of it.
REVIVING COMMUNION Why are the comets, strum two peddlers formulating away, culturist sin for clusters to waver. Understand, holding a piece of distinction, excellent. Dodging sales, tumbling down their hunch backed wisdom, how it seems like it. Each drill, between split atoms, mind and soul, both look to match as we scratched our heads, dismay yet awed by two halves. Glimmer, below spectrum moon, shining above below velvet ale, spilling blood calling for emergency by the pool of vessels, anatomy of mimicking nature in its prime. Toiling mountains, of a giant’s forceful slumber, murmuring throughout night, with two specks seemingly bowing. Trapped in the gulls, praying what canopied doggish yips, round in the ocean sound. Both merging sand together.
THE WORD REN In the blues. Shaping glyphic humans, courage upon the arrival of western birds, knitting one to each other, amongst vast pewter mountains. Sheer density, across winds of gravel roads, these little travelers, picking up learning so much about society, even lies became an imperative. Dipped in mosaic orange, species nesting a litter from afar, just how many words form trousers. I said trousers iron a hook, baiting human’s symbolism. Half in tune the unity of squeals, arched bridges hung the neck of the sky, I can now envision clearly. A fuse. Drink from roomy tubes. Eye it like I who fiddles withluscious contexts, cited when above, embracing that of flesh, which cleansed salty upon lifelines, in the clouds, my head proud strumming the neck of a geese just loving how brave you were.
BEHIND THE DITCH Presumably small ones, watching rolls tangled, embracing his child arched silk drift, while she whom I stood beside hologram brick walls, unnoticed, consumed skies once both adored. The curls, snakes of medusa; seductive like succubus, rush of venom, it’s fast acting. And running around mad menned, unlike only one me. Each rain drop, picas away from spacing, intimate wide awake on the branch sleeping turtles, spherical jars that sit on, too sentimental to ask. Recording in small notebooks, retaking shots, kneeling vertical from the rooftop shingled diesel. Smell of cumin, revolving dizziness regaining conscience on a soft rubber pavement lying cupidly, wings wide euphonious above squalid like dignity. Translation it wields, black smith’s hammer, illiterate without weight distribution, no interpretation.
CASUAL’S STAND These washing machines machines washing these camouflaged words so attune, Aware being us for us being aware in the recorder that shanked a knack as that rocker shanked that recorder aware being us. Whose penumbra limped and reversed, like those ancient operas with voices that never lose their trousers. Clouds overheard each thunder, thundered each over heard clouds as St. George, hearing sirens ever so loud the first time. First time the ever so loud sirens whose sprained dice does not play gamble but pool with each tug on the cycle within unescapable life. Yet if I knew your language and spoke of it, why does the back room understand each conjugation, every pair of pronouns that fit fashion ever so together.
PEWTER WORDS Granted caressed wishes longing candles that remain lit burnt enough to dilate blind eyes. Writing back promptly; scorching charcoaled ink, mud churned black, ball point prompts, handpicked words. Someday, the hoods once above our vest will become stocks only memories canopy, without toils of rakes, reaching back amongst our mailbox chandeliers that once blossomed, unable to harvest. Those stamps remain mended like paint, nor do fingers that touch will peel teethed edges, of a stove ironed, becoming the metal itself; stagnant, looking back. Yet those kind words we read first get thrown away last until a new letter arrives where we toss afar the promise we had kept in that box, shut tightly Hence, have we ever read assumptions carefully; not sure.
WELL DRESSED GRAMOPHONE Tied in braid cashews walking fluidly, being ideal triplets reminding us about the past attributor stood over senses of the past lay grounds, of a narrow street finding ourselves vertically between mountain cracks. Still learnt titles collecting fatal friends of mine, each with field shots praising disturbances empowering by whose nameless wandering wrestler ridden tense bodies outdoor of endowing art. This opening where keys, knifed knives, bare to fleshful hands open both scales, fossilized answer with the song found hungrily stacked together curved records. Playing today, fireworks set a glow, yesterday opened in a day’s hard fists, that flurry beneath the shadow slushed white snow, mummified around master’s despite skin written in prose. Aluminums in a green glass bottle, like cold grief, cradled on the ocean bed, finding its mother of that event deeply scarred. Powered by held handles seeking only to him silently skating unnamed into city life of midnight sky.
PUZZLED FORTUNE From tattered hearts whispering verse illustrated in this exit, jump roped apparitions each work resists. Meandering dread filled matter delicate indents, canvased by ants, submerged in crossed examination, looking back recalling remains that spoke; within the poet’s mask, in starvation without words. In front of lamp lights spewing heart strung gas. Even for oars difficult to paddle over tactile seasons, rolling humor, disengaged mile. Tangents and tangents, travelers embarking beyond velocity, inscribed by skies two handles over, slanged on backs, declaring drumbeats. Synchronized heartbeats every time rushed in crafted voltage, cross knit cues in the sight of war everyday in the hobby of morning. Chatter of diction, awkwardly admiring what to write when sewn within jokes that mocked unable to smile.