Shooting
Icepick slick stiletto
shatters third eye
Bless you Doc
Now I can see
what I am told to
like Buzz, Merle and Greta.
Camera can pan close slow
zoom cut action wrap
Print can fade titles end
Icepick slick stiletto
shatters third eye
Bless you Doc
Now I can see
what I am told to
like Buzz, Merle and Greta.
Camera can pan close slow
zoom cut action wrap
Print can fade titles end
Up at the crack of doom and so it pours,
acrid quicklime, gregarious sash window,
drone buzz, sable confetti, nasal toot,
sootfall, gasp, volume, mass. What folly, what
pulchritude, what bafflement. Life was a
giant veiny nose, a red herring, a
wanton flop. So be it. Que Sera, Sera.
Horace Day, Matt Busby, James `The Fact` Durante…
pock dugout, dabbed down and dusted copious
cloud of potassium permanganate,
spotlighted by Lazarus, light reveals
white head and lost tribe of Erin: Quilty’s Pals.
Stop making scents,
tincture your sphincter with
perfidious salve,
snort pulverised juniper,
sweat quinine ampules…
another one soon
stifled in shallow,
lifeless cant.
Too late for love,
like the vestibule
catastrophe nook.
A broken swan
negotiating
burning boats,
safe in a synthesized,
furless chrysalis.
Today is soundless, voiceless, no tunes, no printed word. Just the hissing cars and the heavy droplets plashing on the path, the hum of the drones, white wax burr, ear stodge, and the wireless ghostly common room below…
‘We cannot muddle on like this,’ you discern the jabber, groan and wince. Whose muddle? Eton or Harrow, Seychelles or Maldives, Cumberbatch or Merlin?
‘We cannot muddle on like this. No. We cannot…’
So on they charming chant, they never stop until the timer says so.
Today is soundless, voiceless, no tunes, no printed word.
The hisses quicken, grow more urgent.
A door slams. Does frenzy erupt?
Alarm is tangible, like ice.
Where are they all going?
Work, school, shopping, buildings, fields, aeroplanes, ships, trains, to meet, to avoid: to do normal things. I burn and rage at the thought, they cannot hear, no-one can but me, here, now, feeling chagrined, let…
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kept from the saddle by sleep and cider,
nestled in this cluttered room, this dimlit
hibernation station, wallow fallow in
the gathered gloom, the afternoon moon
this is the time for those who dream in daytime,
those who gather and hunt, those who like me
watch from windows, making shade from shadow,
form from substance, the things that dreams are made on.