XVI. La lourdeur [de la tâche]

XVI. La lourdeur [de la tâche]

            Fusées (1889)—XVI. J’ai trouvé la definition du Beau, de mon Beau.

                                         C’est quelque chose d’ardent et de triste et, quelque
                                         d’un peu vague, laissant carrière à la conjecture.

Exiting number six, Via Carlo Alberto (1889), the driver whipped his face—
Il est mort à la tâche—Le 6ème, where the woodwork assumes whiplash
Stemness; as it was known, Bouillon Chartier, Rougeot, with a ceiling’s
Supernova best described as foliage, and it is here, to think on a musicologist
Peering into the whale’s clouded orbital (2000)—Under diffused spar,
Sunstone, the interpolated grass eaten, and the green cinders blown

Graves festooned with train tickets, the sinkhole filtering a cenotaph having blown
In the lanterns, gone out; burrowing the sediments among a lapis solaris’s facets
Hoards of accumulated sunlight upturned at Monte Paderno, whose boiling spars
Casciarolo (1602) found cause to emit the darkness—Accelerated axes, whiplashed
Atlases of migrants before the Beehive entrance’s caryatids, before whose stretched ceilings
For l’ENSBA (2013), an oil transferred angel of history—Brother of a cobbler, the musicologist

Of Andreas Werckmeister (1645-1706)—Faces backwards as it is blown; György, the musicologist’s
Comma splitting, of a rustic organ towards the future—Ennui, descendent Inanna, Akkadian Ishtar’s swept wings have blown
Eight-pointed stars, silently as owls, tipped with down onto soiled courses of the Hanging Gardens' lead-lined ceilings—

Eclipsed green habits of the Académie, s’en va battant—Gilgamesh enumerates her pits and quarries, his face

Glistening before which Ishtar ruts lapis lazuli, for Chaldean lions lining the Processional Way—She spars

The Bull of Heaven by giving it to him; threatening to wrench the locks of the cemetery’s gates—Whipping

Oxen into the abattoir, Rembrandt hung up to drain (1657), Soutine’s Head and Carcass of a Horse (1923), with their whip-chains
Of vertebrae, Francis Bacon’s lover under the umbrella of 1946—There are Haussmann’s squared crossroads, of musicology
For rain coatings, swill channels; there is the recording’s rout of vibrato—Unattended earth spar
That might glow for years in a drawer; Scheele, of the patent green, grain counter, who had blown
Correspondence with Lavoisier nomenclature of the fifth element (1774), exposes the flat-bottomed ceilings
Plafonds, of phlogiston theory; the latter proposing excises of reactive bases as oxygen—For Lavoisier, respiration is a combustible process, whose face

Blanched before blinking, among the crude overpainting, unprimed canvas of a gathering on a scaffold mount (1794) faces
Of a five-year war, fixed on a solar eclipse predicted by Thales of Miletus (585 B.C.E.)—Judeans whiplashed

Into captivity (597 B.C.E.), on the seventh day of the fifth month, 19^th year of Nebuchadnezzar II—A ceiling’s

Etching as taken from a prophesy of Jeremiah (1956), as Chagall’s tribute (1964) to musicology

For Le Corbusier, L’Opéra Garnier is a décor of the grave (1955); begrudging a chandelier’s fallen counterweight (1896) a spar

For Second Empire demolition in its entirety—Not yet impatient for Mendeleev’s periodicity (1869), the blown

Particles of a composite statue’s silted feet exhaled by Baudelaire (1867)—A stricture, drafts of the gouffre blown

Three months later into the infant lungs of a third son, Konstantin Balmont, who concluded a third floor leap a year after facing
Klee’s exam minimum (1898), which then did not spool into birdsong—His iron-braced pollard sparred

With dew of Ishtar’s night flight—Valuska’s choreographed eclipse path before an iron grate forged in Memphis whiplashes

The regulars out of their lassitude; after beating the hospital’s occupants, they follow a string of ceiling
Pendants to the wise fool and focus shivering in a shower room—Ending with II. Soleil, the six-hour lag, and towering musicology—

Prokofiev’s arrangement (1921), Cinq Poésies of Constantin Balmont, blown green chlorosis of musicology

Until it matches the tread of macadam, by whiplashed feet that cannot keep time; just as well catacombs just below the observatory spar,
Do you hear my heart—Alexander asks up to the ceiling, served a Babylonian broth steeped in Lenten roses (323 B.C.E.)—Until facing you, remember me—