Longhand
It hits me
the night before it happened
and it came from the back of beyond.
“can you take it?”
“this is you, lover…”
drifting with caution,
- winter burns of perennial fright -
to be born in the purple,
so to speak.
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The argument is this: all displays of weakness are distasteful: they witness defeat by compulsory constriction: they do so massively and socially. This isn’t ancient day; it’s tomorrow. It’s unstable, baby. I am a definition of live: or the denial of a denial: it is a gift to reason: all things tend to defeat. It is domestic English: a common tongue to all: it’s the shape of wire: faith is about retreat. It is a touch that shakes: the fall of mystic life: it is a tale of conviction: a demon powers my side. My only sound is a different music, the one of the moving muscle, of the nerves tense. It ignores seasons, travels like dawn through thin air. It’s abstinence of generating life: the fear of demanding eye: it’s an obsolete frequency: it’s an enquiry on a new life. The mystic breed: to hear: to have a crackdown: one of the stainless ones. That’s how far I’m willing to go. This is the ultimate you. Will love save the day in interesting times?
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I decline the Voynich manuscript
because it’s too feline for my own good
and it disdains my lofty afternoons.
I prefer skillful video games
for two circles of the clock.
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hyper real is this sinking feeling that images of void and lust and masses of
non-entities press on you as work violently deprives of peace and strange is
way these thing move, slowly and uneven, as a tender and almost sweet breeze
breathes from outside it comforts me as a compass of youth and infancy broken
only by unwise words from a strange and obscure mist prometheus delivers a
steady and unsuspecting flow of desire and knowledge as someone moves in
unsuspecting way towards me as giving speech to indifferent song of math.
“abbandon yourself to this flow…” she wrote in impending doom – my territory
is as ritual as language: confining colours and grace to each of the spheres of the
heavens. and this harmony is my gift from me to you: cherish and defend this
architecture of love, girl. faith will come only twice or less in a life time and it
will teach everything you need to know. time is on each doorstep and it will
want it’s death toll, as numbers of irredeemable strength, as a tsunami to that
irresistible land of memory where little things gather around me as ambassadors
of another age when alternative meaning of these things – a different belonging,
an easy gathering of hope – where in the confinement of post-humanity there is no direction but the one inwards: take good care of yourself and of the things
you love and cherish. don’t forget to chase the electrons in you and make
sure that everything comes to place. communication-information is really
no transmission – there is nothing said but the deafening volume of muzak:
an overture of trouble and grief.
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