Furlong
deep in dog mercury cuckoo florid earth,
orange
tipped, the swimmer, smeared in dolphin grease,
burrows,
scrabbled & scratch-scraped, down
down
down
gulps fairway breaths, rutted,
the
imperious, impervious sopping air/ downwards,
aching
against, seminal gravity of light, dense photons
of
ultraviolet infrared x-ray gamma-ed (the stigma skin,
less
interesting visually than, say, a Grunewald)/ down
against
the cuckolded calling of primary, secondary,
tertiary
urgency
this
not cut, cut up, uppercut,
a
stranded dream
breeding
false springs, limbs frost riveted to frozen mass/
the
swimmer sinking down into darkness/
the
man on the radio watching out for swallows,
tit
willow, tit willow, the weather diabolical/
thunder,
lightning, hail/ down into the darkness of dank roots
and
wild rubbish/ raking among the detritus of forgotten dreams…
and
there, he goes relentlessly following her, everywhere she goes;
and
I thought we were going to see them mating.
“Oh, I remember fucking
in
the mad midnight winter wheat fields
when
I was animal soul, type-writer body,
she
was water wheels to my stormy petrol,
and
in coitus,
we
procreated electric rainbow voodoo children,
cast
stratocaster shadows
in
the frost of migrant bird workers”.
Down into the stinking earth
where
delirious demons mardi-gras parade, fat Tuesday caskets
of
pandora miseries/ these soul eggs, cracked
in
beelzebub’s fistular claws/
Eostra
promising awakenings
with
Christ fasted scientific destructions/
and
God is lurking round your bed, like a shadow,
like
a thief in the night.
Thrusting
through grasping theistic fingers/
sympathy
laughing mythological, alcoholic
through
mouth-hands, electro-microscopic tentacles
of
uncomfortable tradition.
“Is
the world a totality of facts?”
Tautologists
stare wide through lightless void…
and
if God is dead, all sorts of things could be going on.
Hey, hey, hey, let us look for signs
and wonders
in
the thunder, miracles in the cracks between the worlds.
Cut
up this course now…
miracles
are science naturally forgiving,
Will
Burroughs and Aldous Huxley in narcotic conflict,
they
enable you to heal the nightmare of atonement,
imposing
a framework of intelligibility,
a
religious impulse in the brain that intrigues
&
creation of light is real, unreal, real this world
of
information, of growth… and putting our brains
out
on the table, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference/
let
us blunder through our lives then with a virtual expression
of
love/ find ourselves sympathetic to an acceleration
of
divine impossibility/ the awesome advances
of
new technologies/ the arch-angel
of
silicon based intelligence/ unashamedly millenarian-Aryan/
the
drug-taking human mind…
and
the unresolved question
of
whether everything will shut down
come
the tic toc flop into the year two thousand.
I may consider
selling my brain/
now that I have
been superseded by my computer
And
in this crack between the worlds
there
are no seamless existentialists/
La
Que Sabe leaves a trail of bones/
running
with the wolves now/ she whispers stories…
and
you should listen well, for this crone shadow
is
she who knows.
Expressing
uncertainty, creeping through the valley,
a
possible victim, the wolf - a common or garden intellectual -
fixes
an unreal world in the appropriated arts.
Shamanic
& chilled, the quantum multiple-world
anally
monopolises imagination.
In
and out of belief, the woman constructs
the
shiny and bleak details of his world…
black
menses of earth/ he suffocates/
not
waving, the swimmer/ computing
the
madness of drowning/ a fragile thread of hieroglyphs/
perishing
in the thin floodlight of moonlight/
he
bides down in striations of saturated soil/
La
Que Sabe laughing a trail of bones through bloodless ears.
He
corpses on stage/ sinks down into ambiguous nothingness/
a
fine spiral of voice, heard only in the hollows of sleeping hours.
I
remember fucking her in the mad midnight winter of diplomacy:
her
foreign office ransacked by floodwaters of union.
He
dreams of referenda, drowning in the totalitarian soil
of
her wisdom. Her electrical discharges,
enlightening
the
shadowed cracks between the worlds.
He
urges his smallfart plebs onto the streets to raise revolution
and
plead for the continuance of darkness,
rallies
them with sectarian sentiment.
La Que Sabe laughs a trail of bones
through
the idiocy of their leeched blood/ rapes his bunged ears
with
the vaginissimus of her inevitability.
Scalding all tongues
on
stolen waters. There can be no
sweetness
in
the swimming drowning not waving
of
initiating patriarch penis wielding God.
Oh jealous, jealous, jealous, the infant shielding his
scrotum/
brass
welded to the cold nothing of control.
The
swimmer breathing filaments of earth into starving lungs.
La
Que Sabe waves her breasts in apocalyptic zeal/
the
swimmer squeals, clutches the oakwood-iron cross
to
his lacerated, sobbing chest.
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