Monday, May 08, 2017

Scott MacLeod, POMARINE JAEGER (2017)

Scott MacLeod


On the Arctic coast near Barrow, Alaska in 1952, Pomarine Jaeger is female.

On the Arctic coast in areas of small lakes and meandering rivers almost anywhere.

The stagnant clouds, the pools of fouled water, bluish spirals of smoke disappear in the stink of an eye.

On the Arctic coast, Pomarine Jaeger is in a hollow sort of depression.

In summers usually brief.

The wind shakes our patience, irritates us and makes us feel weightless.

Devours us.

The spell is broken, is always momentary, though no less cause for concern.

Pomarine Jaeger lacks song, and copulation is yet to occur.

Reality disappears every few minutes, soon reappears but without language.

Neither silence nor a voice on the motionless surface, one day and the next always momentary.

The remains of what must have been, rotting away: cigarettes, matches, condoms, incense, sweets, prayers, holy images and other trinkets, baubles; random fantastic shapes in perpetual motion, howling in semidarkness in the throne room.

Sky of the lame and the crippled as though they were cages.

Pomarine Jaeger sees the error in the light.

We are inclined to doubt Pomarine Jaeger.

These comments are made even though we have, ourselves, such behavior.

Usually silent, narrow or even nonexistent possible consequences: all sorts of gestures and gesticulations and obsessions, fallen to pieces; and beheadings: eroticized, concrete, hallucinatory and untranslatable, overflowing with rubbish and muteness.


Copulation was observed after the second day and wandering in the vicinity, moves fast, hides well, and is no longer young.

The swaying of hips flinging itself over a precipice.

Pomarine Jaeger had what for the flat tundra terrain was a relatively generous figure.

Pomarine Jaeger is prevented hearing any soft notes before copulation.

Pomarine Jaeger resembles fragmentary accounts and did not utter cries.


The mountain has ejected a fiery meteor of semen accumulated over centuries.

The sensation or the name of the sensation unweaves us, encases us in an uncertain haste to reach what we can call our own.

At the center of the liquid surface: shadow, silence, silence.

Unsuccessful efforts to find the found.


Both hands.

An upraised axe.

Nothing is happening.

Our phrases begin to fall into line one after another.

A vision of the offering paralyzes them, disappears, will never fall.

In the rubble of the abandoned ice mansions, two young boys raise a little flock of black sheep.

They do not understand language yet they vibrate, alive with sparse, sun-scorched visions, mental meadow-carpets of desire, innocent kingdoms of animal copulation.

The corpse of Pomarine Jaeger is being followed by endless pitch-black shadows of ears, ankles, groins, necks, breasts, finger nails.

This corpse lurching back and forth on the rutted sled-track begins to stir again.

We note that without exception only the female error is perpetuated in the lower latitudes.

The female alone broods.

Another sound emerging from Pomarine Jaeger’s mouth.

Syllables fallen from the firmament onto the ice, to form another chimerical body of specters, as in a poem.

Aerial roots, descending, become empty reflections suspended in reflections.

Every incandescent language in the throat like the beginning of twilight partially in ruins, the remains still fresh and moist, like a fountain of sperm or a single drop of sweat.

These words that I am writing are buried in the verbal subsoil.

Here on this page, we make our way inside, as though we were walking inside ourselves.

The lamps go out and dawn staggers, far removed, always way over yonder.

Recourse against this distance would be neither a translation nor a journey towards meaning.

Something is missing.

A text has neither a beginning nor an end.

Pomarine Jaeger opens