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Lapsed WASP: Poems 1978-89
Victor Coleman is one of Canada’s best-known poets. Born in 1944 in Toronto, he has published many collections of poetry and has been active as an editor (especially with Coach House Press), a curator, and in general as an active force in all the arts. Lapsed W.A.S.P. collects more than a decade of Coleman’s work, including much that appeared in small editions, a process which has been a central part of his aesthetic stance. This is poetry that brings the body and the intelligence memorably together and challenges a reader.
- GenresPoetry
128 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1994
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
January 27, 2022
Some lady pulled my wisdom tooth last Friday
leaving a hole in my head into which
you can stick your tongue
bu it weakens the jaw
The dentist tells me
my gums have to come out
and the cute little Pakistani nurse
hands me dental floss and hope
at thirty bucks a throw
Teeth like Frank O'Hara's poems
shoved into posthumous drawers
like the underwear of bachelors
* * *
As the truth
decays
so
the spirit
I am faithful
to the principle
*
The Big Enemy
in the Culture War
is the Audience
*
I get
very lonely
very fast
* * *
Dear Bob -
We missed you
at the election
Gerry & I
thought it wd be
delectable to have you there
but you
were too tired
to hob-nob that evening:
a private
person
[...]
* * *
I wanted to teach -
it extended my reach
like the law's long arm into the maw
of the masses, or their asses
emulating media
in the fist-fuck of history
symptomatic of the accedia
that inflicts us all
in this thick Seventies air
as we wait in line for
the bus, the movie, and the meal
that deliver us to slavery
* * *
It's the end of the Seventies
with its insistence on suicide,
homosexuality, and female parity.
Meaning is the hard surface that covers intention
getting lost in computers and underwear
the naked intention becomes vulnerable.
Classics are moulded by a conspiracy of controlled data.
Glamour outweighs romance
and the computers are all underwear:
they denote and are intentionless.
The intention of a memory table or data base
is collaboratory: a benign conspiracy.
The Arts are out of joint;
there's harmony in dream only.
Getting it on means taking it off.
The light and sound mixed
in a vision of Fred Astaire,
blind without taps.
Fashion and glamour adhere
to an even thinner sense of meaning
and are said to dictate.
[...]
* * *
Cross-eyed individuals
begging for the surplus -
Ron, Ron,
a dew ron ron -
Isn't it wonderful?
Waves on your pillow.
The perfect nakedness of strangerhood.
The inelluctible intelligence of a sympatico heart?
But emotions won't ejaculate,
love won't expectorate,
it oozes the blues
in the first fear of decay.
Lose, lose -
shall we remain alone?
Singular, sing
sing sing sing-
ular, you liar,
you fraud.
* * *
You wed
I dew
The cold
makes tears -
solid
balls of
air in
bloodstreams
Do I
flush red
with blood
or blank
as sheets
to wind?
Mind free
body
able
to leap
tall Bill
In song -
[...]
* * *
Somehow in the depths
of a jealousy I cannot fathom
a part of me drives
the BMW over a cliff
near Niagara.
Before committing this act
I filled the back seat with your pictures
and all my family albums.
I added my diaries and journals
as an afterthought.
I thought I'd discovered a new form of art,
one where the past is easily discarded
to the flaming pyre of history
where nothing I said ever mattered much anyway
and nothing you did
ever guiled or beguiled me as much
as the way you sashay up to me
and accuse me of loving you
while the actual feeling is more like a flood
of light in the blood.
* * *
The gellatin of cynicism
congeals around the heart.
I watch your body move
within its fleshy garment
engorged with peace, and the rage
to live within this atmosphere
of Blind Lemons and John Thomases,
gardeners all, though they fall from grace
and the egg on your face
is Creation.
* * *
I only think of breaking down the door
because there's nothing there
behind it
in the
distance
three fates wave signals
I only think of breaking down
when you leave the room intentionally
to avoid me. I only think of leaving
the room
when you enter
unannounced
*
I know it's over when the romance is a pounding
on the door
Of course, you
love me
but why
demonstrate?
You're old enough
to know better
why can't you go home?
Was it you pride or hide
I hurt? Was it
the ride
that was
expensive?
I'll answer you just
like the torture of telephone love
leaving a hole in my head into which
you can stick your tongue
bu it weakens the jaw
The dentist tells me
my gums have to come out
and the cute little Pakistani nurse
hands me dental floss and hope
at thirty bucks a throw
Teeth like Frank O'Hara's poems
shoved into posthumous drawers
like the underwear of bachelors
- Truth Decay, for Stephen Rodefer, pg. 16
* * *
As the truth
decays
so
the spirit
I am faithful
to the principle
*
The Big Enemy
in the Culture War
is the Audience
*
I get
very lonely
very fast
- Short Shorts, pg. 18
* * *
Dear Bob -
We missed you
at the election
Gerry & I
thought it wd be
delectable to have you there
but you
were too tired
to hob-nob that evening:
a private
person
[...]
- Raw-View, after Creeley's "Hello", pg. 22-
* * *
I wanted to teach -
it extended my reach
like the law's long arm into the maw
of the masses, or their asses
emulating media
in the fist-fuck of history
symptomatic of the accedia
that inflicts us all
in this thick Seventies air
as we wait in line for
the bus, the movie, and the meal
that deliver us to slavery
- In Chains, pg. 33
* * *
It's the end of the Seventies
with its insistence on suicide,
homosexuality, and female parity.
Meaning is the hard surface that covers intention
getting lost in computers and underwear
the naked intention becomes vulnerable.
Classics are moulded by a conspiracy of controlled data.
Glamour outweighs romance
and the computers are all underwear:
they denote and are intentionless.
The intention of a memory table or data base
is collaboratory: a benign conspiracy.
The Arts are out of joint;
there's harmony in dream only.
Getting it on means taking it off.
The light and sound mixed
in a vision of Fred Astaire,
blind without taps.
Fashion and glamour adhere
to an even thinner sense of meaning
and are said to dictate.
[...]
- Louis Louis, for Zukofsky & Zappa, pg. 48-
* * *
Cross-eyed individuals
begging for the surplus -
Ron, Ron,
a dew ron ron -
Isn't it wonderful?
Waves on your pillow.
The perfect nakedness of strangerhood.
The inelluctible intelligence of a sympatico heart?
But emotions won't ejaculate,
love won't expectorate,
it oozes the blues
in the first fear of decay.
Lose, lose -
shall we remain alone?
Singular, sing
sing sing sing-
ular, you liar,
you fraud.
- Drinking the Blues, for Ron Caplan & Stephen Rodefer, pg. 58
* * *
You wed
I dew
The cold
makes tears -
solid
balls of
air in
bloodstreams
Do I
flush red
with blood
or blank
as sheets
to wind?
Mind free
body
able
to leap
tall Bill
In song -
[...]
- A Marriage Poem, for Minette & Sandy, pg. 63-
* * *
Somehow in the depths
of a jealousy I cannot fathom
a part of me drives
the BMW over a cliff
near Niagara.
Before committing this act
I filled the back seat with your pictures
and all my family albums.
I added my diaries and journals
as an afterthought.
I thought I'd discovered a new form of art,
one where the past is easily discarded
to the flaming pyre of history
where nothing I said ever mattered much anyway
and nothing you did
ever guiled or beguiled me as much
as the way you sashay up to me
and accuse me of loving you
while the actual feeling is more like a flood
of light in the blood.
- The New Suicide, pg. 73
* * *
The gellatin of cynicism
congeals around the heart.
I watch your body move
within its fleshy garment
engorged with peace, and the rage
to live within this atmosphere
of Blind Lemons and John Thomases,
gardeners all, though they fall from grace
and the egg on your face
is Creation.
- The Blake Ectoplasm, pg. 86
* * *
I only think of breaking down the door
because there's nothing there
behind it
in the
distance
three fates wave signals
I only think of breaking down
when you leave the room intentionally
to avoid me. I only think of leaving
the room
when you enter
unannounced
*
I know it's over when the romance is a pounding
on the door
Of course, you
love me
but why
demonstrate?
You're old enough
to know better
why can't you go home?
Was it you pride or hide
I hurt? Was it
the ride
that was
expensive?
I'll answer you just
like the torture of telephone love
- Not Noise, pg. 95-96
Displaying 1 of 1 review