Five Sequences from O, Clytaemnestra!











Love, which takes quick hold within a gentle heart,
seized this man for the beauty of the body
snatched from me — how it happened still galls me!

Love which exempts no one beloved from loving,
seized me so strongly with my pleasure in him
that, as you see, it still does not desert me.
— Inferno V, 100-105

There is no heart-decorous vision, no mysterious
universal condition existent in this, the flawless
probationary system; there’s no need to worship;
thus, there’s no reason to fear ceasing to exist
independent of frames of meaning hawking style
over substance, decadence celebrated for its own sake,
its own stake, its own primordial ache cradling
irregulous cringements. Pax tecum. Tax vade mecum.
Duces tecum. What’s the big diffidence considering
our most holy drive-by sky? O, Tempora! O, Heroica!
Stupor mundi. Novus Ordo Seclorum Stake-Out versus
New World Order-In. We do go on. All is not lust.

Peeling veils, masks, personae, personalisations,
personifications, slow-dazzling brightness spanning
one necrotic abyss, sky rolled up, a scroll drawn back;
creation: Here’s a ship, a wreck, a whited sepulchre,
splashed dashes of quicksilvered scudding violet clouds
tumbling from sky-blue vermilion, the smell of history, thorns
and signal-to-noise impedance, pounding jangled roars
of spangled recollections of soul strangled, vessels
terminally mangled, the virtual foam yielding
to quantum universes in the vicinity
of elementary truths borne upon waves breaking
your art, your one-and-only lonely so human chart.

Turn down the roar of your fantasies. Do you speak
the language here? Heroic battle scars versus
sleight-of-hand commands. You’re caught looking
in all the wrong places at the drop of a hint
or the contortion of faces. Witness strategies
of disadvantage. The global pillage’s instantiation
and you, following a promising thread, winding it up
into a solid ball of evidence as you go?

You have all the time in the world.


Without the disclosed organic work composed within drifts from shifts within the inner book, without memory within authentic connections wrapping up the scablands, within the explicit way sinuous code sintagmata signify, without life lifting its supersensory scars, without demonstrative apparitionist blades of lightning harvesting the sky’s choreographer of entrances and exits, without midnight’s whispering presences, without the way we see indistinctly — a mottled mirror travelling a terrain cross-sectioned — metamorphic rock-strata tracery of chemical essence, of chimerical illumination, of the visual limned to resonate with the universal frequency of our inner voice — its radical incantations affirming spirit’s function. Draft, insteadily, canonical formulae of enactured recitation or refulgent iteration. The exemplary interpretation of chronology is but one constant allegorica varia verifying the sublimely subordinated yet oddly etiolated human form. Without violating the essential, without displacing the central visions of unthings, without mutinous winds reticulated, this rough magic I here abjure will break your heart, will bury it beneath
fathoms of earth — living to die, dying to live — dreaming of rebirth.


Let us tell it fresh (or nine-tenths unscene):
The freedom of the writer is total, absolutely.

These seemingly small alleviating tragedia:
You are finally subjugant to the fluidity
of the account, the coherence of its matter.

Welcome to Canada, Big MAC territory
beyond terrorealism (a.k.a. MexAmCancan).

We shades return, given again a pair of wings
constructured with the visions of prize birds
one inevitably blinds on a continent of magic.

Lex talionis — Rara avis in terris nigroque
simillima cycno: Alis volat propiis . . .

Put order in chaos or chaos in order; but,
Reader, never for a po-momento forget
I would like mariachis a-marchin’ at my funeral.


Whether circle or spiral, it’s definitely time to retreat (or surrender all). Take your dagger, gouge out these augury eyes and dream sweet dreams, sweet enememes.

Offering lustral sacrifice after the deed of green greed, feeling all chaos and Lyssa-stricken, the daemonic ecco-nomic line, agent of the enemy; crises-susceptible, you possess nothing but the ability to manage deceptive catastrophe. Not exceptional, not extraordinary; simply some subtly manipulative garden-variety xenophobic story hawking your suspect Holocaustic glory.

There’s the sea — who shall exhaust the sea? The sea which unceasingly renews the crimson dye?

Electing to travel the winding route to paradise, there’s nothing left of time worth recalling, its sere marine scene struck with intra-lunations this pit’s the deepest you’ll ever visit or view. Yes, there’s no place resembling the land of paucity when rancour languidly evaporates beneath its serene sheen reflecting an opulently shirred moon once we make tracks for achingly tender adagios of the real, mountains of skulls, mythological confabulations so spectacular, so unsayably true in this sheared-through view balanced expressly for you, you and, yes, yet another you, too. Don’t blink twice. Right. You’re left bereft, holding endless shroud-clouded nights in such useless, beautiful, and unbearably tiny hands, collaborating in crimes to bring whatever world home to certain ground (only to discover faceless flesh and carvements engraved are givens coming from the future with mounds of ash stuffed in its maw).


Sine loco.
Sine nomine.

It is time. It’s redolent in the arteries
and bypasses of surgical symmetry;
this world ends badly. But, others?

You dare not name what you cannot but see.
Glory, glory! (That’s the other story.)
This is an image of yours truly unruly,
an extension of all we know we cannot be.

One lives in the wing not transparently accessible,
squarely opposite you, sadly obsolete voyeur
of the visible: Think Velásquez (or Venus).

Think signal-to-noose ratio. I, too,
have felt fateful. My Friend, it flows
freely in the blood, of the body, love.

A poetry fellow of the Chalmers’ Arts Foundation, award-winning writer Judith Fitzgerald’s O, Clytaemnestra, the concluding volume in her critically acclaimed epic poem, THE ADAGIOS QUARTET, will be launched 4 November at Windsor’s BookFest. She is currently completing “Leonard Cohen: Master of Song” (authorised by its subject who contributes eight original works of art to the Spring 2008 book). Visit