Geomantic riposte: 'Kill-site'
Born in Regina, Saskatchewan, Timothy Walter (Tim) Lilburn is the author of nine books of poetry, including writing that garnered two Governor General’s Award nominations. Lilburn's work has also received the Canadian Authors Association Award, the Saskatchewan Book of the Year Award, and the Saskatchewan Nonfiction Award. Lilburn is the editor of, and a contributor to, two influential essay collections on poetics, Poetry and Knowing and Thinking and Singing: Poetry and the Practice of Philosophy. Lilburn’s poetry collections, in particular the Governor General's Award winning Kill-site, often usher the reader along lyrical lines into familiar yet estranged locales of contemplation and mystery – what may be imagined to be Tritogeneian landscapes where the armchair reader is not necessarily autochthonous and must quickly scrabble for what letters he or she has for a modicum of comprehension ... but the continual promise of aurora borealis is well worth it.
Kill-site by Tim Lilburn (McClelland & Stewart, 2003, page 21)
Leave ontology behind.
Leave goodness behind, said Socrates.
Take the drinkable pelican wave further into your mouth.
Until the blue desire appears standing on its feathered, python
tail, and you are speaking with it at a distance and cannot hear what
is being said, though this is soaking your beard and the skin of your face,
though a red tent, well-hipped, lowers itself over the talk,
and there are drownings going on, intimate to you, in the mouth
in front of you.
Geomantic Riposte: Forms
At the edge of ever developing development
where environmental reserve begins or ends
without shadows of one of your talks upon wall
of rabbit-cave, I am lonely as a living sky lonely
as the first man crawling
into one of your forms, panting
stages of the musical erotic from early Kierkegaard
but that flash (flask?) of hemlock would only devolve
to a lower level of government, maybe more Bataille
snuff-fantasy in bird-
head scratched on tiny Lascaux
where instruction comes from vibrations in melting
You know, they told me, Heraclitus
that the mountains are in the way