where do I go now, O Academics? where do I go now, O Battle-droids? where do I go now, O Door-knobs? where do I go now, O Petrol-based eyes? where do I go now, O Bodily fluids? where do I go now, O Mother?
seven years, saving hunger for the hungry, sharpening knives for midwives, pretended I read through the pages wide spread but only I knew where the hands were and why, disgusted and disgustipated sleepless constipated by the dreadful truth about the salivally marked territories and soldiers with glass in the eyes and eyes in the glass and rotten mouth skin eloquent but no taste at all, unable to fill in to fill in the void.
a master of concrete an expert constructor I constructed a truth, names a word a pumping muscle to give away and I gave away what I had and what I didn’t have I gave as well.
In return I got acronyms micronyms micropiss macroenvy macroshit and the broken fan
no window is a window no paper is paper no mind is a mind without a name in it when you pretend to be reading but dreaming about the bell and the hallway and the doorway and the silk that reflects on the head instead,
two winters in a row it was cold in the celebration hall birds of feather shit together sweat and giggle worst fucking music ever except for the music when I looked at the hands two hands the hands that waved I thought I loved Clapton just so I could look at those hands, Slowhand is an orphan-apparition the eyes of a fish art-school coloured glass the technique was irrelevant the package the surface the media was not the message I know it now all I had to do was deliver the insides declare the goods the good the light through the flesh that still was in me
unconstructed, thus unaware it was there, unaware we would grow up and down, my frown, my truth, my youth, my ghost, my rudder, my brother, my pi, my voice, my engine, my late for the wheels to home, my I I’d lay my head right here on this concrete bed so we could talk talk and talk talk my I don’t want to go home I want to grow wings I can fly above things on the soil now because someone’s uncle sat in the car next to the man who plays mean guitar and voices his vowels and his words like a father
the master had failed to construct what he laid his hands upon but what he didn’t lay his hands upon became a garden that no one looked upon because they thought it wasn’t there so he didn’t care if it was growing or not too busy watering the fake paper grass hoping to grow a rose from the glass
the master was unaware of the closing time of Eden bars so he stayed until late in front of the door a burning sore but to no avail it was late even the hookers were gone and the good children were in bed dreaming about how they slept and dreamt overseas clean white sheets and could I be a man of science and is there a dark side of the moon and is it true that I’ll take off the glasses and be making friends with bottle
and the Holy State was calling the brave have answered unaware they will be missed by the not so brave the generous bossom overseas embracing the youth and offering a place in gospel choirs for both the holy and the unholy black is beautiful and white is beautiful tune in with angels come and tell us what it is you want and we’ll tell you what it is you don’t need because the purpose of the fish is to give and be given
seven years asleep amongst the sleeping I refused to have my meat taken out I refused to sell my teeth, the glory that no one promised never came and we grew out of the seed into the bloom this somewhat deliberate misscalculation is the sequence of the growth regardless of the technicolour or the monochrome but too late to call now too old to wait so I sit devouring horizons and in the horizons a winged cephalloid me the void opening up the crack to Ginsberg and Kerouac to mala beads alpha-streams to tea-leaves to he-leaves dreams himself a mortar collar, and in the dream he never looks back and in the dream he leaks through the crack and in the dream all laden with bees and in the dream he lands and in the dream into the hands and in the dream he’s eaten away and in the dream through the mouth and in the dream into the veins and in the dream I’m bleeding honey I’m bleeding Coltrane I’m bleeding Kerouac and in the dream behind the wheel four hands but there are two hands and in the dream heaven is in Frisco and in the dream wearing Jedi colours and in the dream taking them off and in the dream looking down on my body seeing the rope and in the dream a body next to a body said don’t go I need you so
I’d polish it clean I won’t keep track I’d give it away and I won’t ask it back it’s too red black and too loud I can’t sleep at night
every day
anyway
define nothing
be fine
this inch this syllable this animal this tongue this soul, inhalation is for the fishes
this pound unchangeable unweightable a solar canine a cane for the blind to those who follow you blindly a cape of a dead navigator dead on the soil but alive elsewhere I wish you could see
this blooming hoops of electricity this colours this ear pressure this tube in the hole in the skull of the chosen of the walkers of the soil of the earth of the endlessness of the unfolded universe the love oh the love there’s so much of it I’d surrender my pineal gland for a drop for the air for the rope for this liquidity I reach out with my hands to touch this branches to sink with these roots
this animus this anima
this aenema
an unknown soldier’s riding by with ease
please search no more my burning sore
I am your long-lost John Riley
but if this is the window
and if this is the curtain
is it me
looking in
or is it me
looking out
what if looking out
is the looking in
and what if every face in the world
looks like John Riley
and I trench I push I squeeze these words out
pieces of broken glass out of the feet into the no more and I’m carrying on yes
these are the last words are I am done done he is gone gone the ghost I love the most is dead
the circle is closed I grow new toes all my eyes open I grow new roads
am I am I am I there yet
would you please answer please
I don’t have money but I
have faith
to sell
june/july 2011
