SurVision Magazine
An
international online magazine that
publishes Surrealist poetry
in English.
Issue Thirteen
THOMAS TOWNSLEY
From "Death Rattles"
* * *
Hieroglyphic baptisms fester. Welcome to The Nominalist Picnic. Such a deep red—a deep, deep
red! Or is it a "red deep"? Either way, "Look out stomach, here it comes!" I chose this sword a
priori. Is that all you got? Make it gnu. Make it gnaw. Make it now—or make it numb. How's
that for a basement full of heirlooms? These angels use protractors to measure our discomfiture,
and so I ask you: Got any doo-dahs to spare? Don't laugh, Janis. Keats might have written this
had he lived long enough. Now dittos rise above the steamy lake, and we are submerged in
category mistakes. So much for your frog-toed felicity and ironing board bromides! My tears are
bluer than yours, anyway. Now pull my finger before Death arrives in his little tugboat, bearing
galvanized buckets of chum. I'm dog-starred! I'm also either delirious or deleterious, depending
on your choice of codex. Naturally, you picked the red one.
* * *
Your trichinosis sunsets. Your prattling fondue. Your septic melancholia. Your flowering
inconsequence. These are the reasons—for what, I don't know. Do you mind holding my infinite
regress? That the Reformation began on Halloween is purely coincidental. Does the very concept
of a thing entail its existence, as per Anselm, or did I pay too much for these indulgences?
Kierkegaard said, "I stick my finger into existence. It smells of nothing." I say, "It could be
worse." What is that rumbling beneath my god-terms? Sorry, I mean "our" god-terms. When I
wake, will my dreams remember me? I am loved for my predictable nature and my facility for
subtraction, but what about these claxons? Must you go about defamiliarizing everything? When
will my frisson arrive in the mail? Who are you, anyway? Why do I feel faint? Tis an indifferent
wind that blows across your left quadrant, or so a little bird told me. Of course, the little bird
could be lying. Come to think of it, so could I. Your narcoleptic garage doors. Your xylophone
kisses. Your syllogistic ice trays. Your ambient grief.
* * *
Star-mandibles eat eyes. My physicians call for bloodletting. I remind myself that "drink" is both
noun and verb—has anyone seen my scutcheon? Sunlight xylophones down upon the memory of
a lake from my mirror's "wanton youth." To reach that lake, drive a blue car through valleys of
yes and no. Condense. Displace. In dreams begin prehensile tails. My astrologer quotes
Aeschylus between sobs, while my physicians call for more leeches. Star-mandibles eat eyes.
Morphemes splatter on the windshield. My mesmerist reminds me, "Each symptom begins as a
trace." If only I had my scutcheon! Later that day, I encounter Ludwig Wittgenstein, standing in
the checkout line, but he's too busy counting coupons to answer my questions.
Thomas Townsley is from New Hartford, NY. He currently teaches in the Humanities Department at Mohawk Valley Community College. His collections of poetry are Night Class for Insomniacs (Black Rabbit Press, 2018), Holding A Séance By Myself (Standing Stone Books, 2020), and, most recently, I Pray This Letter Reaches You In Time (Doubly Mad Books, 2022). SurVision Books pubished his chapbook, Tangent of Ardency, in 2020. His work has appeared in numerous publications, including The Decadent Review, Stone Canoe, SurVision, and Doubly Mad.
