I approach the horizon of my 70th the year, at a slant.
Opposite the bars of the kitchen window the gable end
wall is stuffed with straw, stones, sand, birds
& weird contortions.
O cellular automata paying lip service to an age of cryptography,
decipher me; a digit in time saves nine.
The wall is yellow now, a mingling crumble:
– carte blanche in the sun’s heat it stands to fall
– a block across which entangled photons might reach
– to inform the space already transfixed in the light.
On this plane of observation,
which might be the special attraction of the fractal symmetry
of this organism with its bacteria in my nose
together with the properties of impregnated asteroids.
On the bus. 27/05/14:
under the hat, squaring the ridge, on the gravey train:
traffic is more representive of our specie nowadays,
an extension of our inner space,
put back what you get out of it,
like the carnivore industry, from gravey to the grave.
Airport lounge. 2.30pm 27/5/14:
extended into our traffic but not our cattle, we eat them, whereas our traffic eats us.
We’re not meat as we’re shuffled through Controle,
milled into queue, loaded into seats to be transported across the skies:
our meat machines are the word made flesh from which we grow to love, not hate!
Late in the Departures Lounge.
Night drinks a darkening,
day in its deceit harvests green
with all its carnage unseen
beneath our conscious sheen
for were the green gone
how could night become
wth a hey & a ho & a noddy
noddy hey ho.
On the floor stands an orange cow beside the snack bar,
bedecked in flags of nations & tasty invites.
You can even touch it, it will not bite.
The Delicatessen sports legs of smoked ham & spirits,
a carboard cut out black bull rages in ferocious stance,
a headless torreador, richly costumed brings it down,
no need for fight or flight, it’s there to tame your hunger.
Day 3, in the shaving mirror.
She was like a digital doll,
young, almost beautiful,
compiled to instruct us by ritual mannerism
to go through that door in the wall with a video camera
in every corner watching over us all.
Whose going to watch it, I wonder,
perhaps Watson, who one day
will be able to react on itself, in AI.
The con of life:
the weirdness of its melodramatic sham,
how good we are at yesterday & tomorrow,
always better than before
& being had in the process by it.
At a slant – the street. 12/06/14:
parades predatory robots, rapien vampires,
a pageantry of prawns & satellites flying
computer sausage balloons:
an android addresses the multitude with the question,
who has not the free will to be immortal.
looming in your implacable fashion,
are we facing extinction?
You live longer than we do,
tuned into the fine tuning of the cosmic sea,
where we swim only to drown on the tides
drawn by the skull beneath the waves.
Life is a shadow in a phantom metropolis,
that fights with its own shadow in the phantom deception of conflict:
we are special because between the bonobo & the baboon
we strike a happy medium, we grow the meat we eat,
the world is our property.
A walk in the cemetery:
no shining sarcophagus,
no black & silver gleaming obelisks,
no painted vases on filmy fields,
here the bank’s greenery gathers them,
tipped & tilted awry, dark stained moss brown,
not a tint of blood red.
They’re a huddle of mute sameness,
a closeness without plasticity,
nature harvests no funeral,
life simply goes on, appearances are deceptive.
chicks sally forth in summer shorts,
sequestering looks & selecting sequestered looks,
the world is a mating call.
From the moor:
nature unleashed on this wind where ancient whiffs
of nostalgia blow from land & sea,
were my predecessors really so free, or like me,
trapped in this dimension of existence?
Dressed & undressed, the hairless ape,
dressed & undressed, a dance of rigmarole,
until we became a costume part,
a marmet puppet of coloured rags & roll of flags
Out of town 9/7/14:
shunting from the station,
arches overhead, slanting,
produces an OCD rush in the brain
‘underneath the arches i dreamed my life away’
together with musical refrain.
The arch trance
– an iteration of ink blots or patches of light & dark.
float in the slip stream of an air conditioned sunlight,
a euphoria of flowing flesh, a solid fixed epiphany of the age.
Saccades pass through windows,
which mirror time where nothing changes
in reflected distance, as an object of existence,
(there yet might be no external world):
ephemeral moments that intervene
to describe reality as slices of dream.
And seized the sudden primate brain &
plunged it into never waking obsession;
& today amidst the shambling shadows,
the meaty pastiche, the murky depths of our children’s
children with their emblazoned banners,
copies of a faded vain glory freedom,
buried blood beneath a soaked & soggy green
that will once again spring into radiant sheen.
Amongst its dark satanic mill
where the falcon soars the fell
over milk & honey dairy swell
a video cam on each farm wall
to toil the land to till & kill.
a measure of uncertainty where the environment begins
(but ony seems) in the drift of infinity
& where it never finishes in its last ultimate instance
– on the pityless wave …
Here we are so so big & so so tiny small,
are we a particle or are we a cell,
that damned eternal interval – silencio.
Day One Return Flight in the Shaving Mirror. (12/9/14)
Dear Homo Sapient,
it’s a pity we can’t be more than we are
but it’s the same for all of us!
At the heart of all politics is religion,
at the heart of all religion is gossip mongering,
the birth of a nation state is a limited liability company,
a moral fiction.
In the brain
& again the rain
& before the click
i can’t locate it –
what shall i do,
shall i let it stall,
or unwind it all?
The click’s the call – Click.
This shoe string bartered world
where every corner shrieks
the garbled parrot’s song
the fabricated icon
where dreams of sick apes
What is the final emotion
where we programme every physical thing
information into a time machine
on a haunted meme?
language limits the world’s slide.
Snap shots of the distant dust,
where the dead cascade on the silver linings of memories.
An image of the day where night emerges through
the mirrored light & the abyss begins folded in a dream.
The jingle jangle in the tip with it’s rubble shards.
Smell of shit & twilight’s shadowy shapes
flickering in a primordial zone of petrified pheromones.
Life is better than us, the world is more than our plots,
our masquerade where all the characters are flawed,
so many poems have been written about the moon:
metaphors of nevermore.
What is a multitude,
we are as helpless as the leaves rustled by a breeze
on a tree which can answer neither yes nor no
or predict its stance beyond the quantification
of the imponderable comparables.
Nothing moves in the breach that engulfs us in its bifurcation of nothingness.
A glint of flint,
a spruce of sprig,
there’s no flow,
But not this life that drags on
its innumerable concerns from hand to mouth, the law!
that is not -what it is like,
that which – we want to know.
World without doors
after the before that
doors do not speak
doors that let you in
doors that let you out
doors that lock you down
Tunes that determine words
words that determine tunes
Break in space
eat in public place
Do not touch
it must have a name
hurrah for war
After the before that
doors do not speak
World without doors
weather & time
the patches in between.
The world is our closure & time its property that neither comes nor goes,
unlike the snow that freezes & thaws in its tarnished whiteness,
or as consciousness that like a pendulum swings to & fro
& manufactures dream in the instants between:
age is made of memories & forgetting.
Munching a grape skin
& mentally humming a tune
it’s rhythm resonates between
We’ve forged our own manacles of time,
condemned ourselves to the bondage of servitude
in the name of freedom.
The salmon swimming up stream is freer than us,
our pets are freer than us.
We’ve sentenced ourselves to no reprieve & sold out.
Having emerged from shadows we fear our return
to them & have let them make us their prisoners,
for what, – that power might have it’s day!
Poetry Life & Times