when I was young
short as I was
I would take old radios
how did theywork?
I stank of dust,
me a brokencamera.
I scraped off green
it worked again.
they took it back ?
I was that young
I am old.
twenty-two ? obsolete
I?ve taken too many
I smell of burnt wires.
My mind is worst when
[waxed and buffed
like a black marble lobby]
it gives no purchase to feet or rede.
I’d liefer leave and slide across
its sable-shine rind and reck
after the janitor’s jangle-bone key ring to
Sub-basement b with the concrete call
[sepulchral, into distant directions]
swoll into its thews.
He and I
the lines we pass in dust. They are as
arcane words mined into our service.
[A clean floor can kill such men as we.]
It forgets those it has been trod upon.
It has no ruth to purpose.
my unfilled mind
speaks of dirt as a musing
and unrevised withal,
[strewn into trash bins]
With the slightest touch,
a sleeping dragon awakes.
Odin’s ravens, Thought
and Memory, croak.
They eat mushroom clouds for lunch,
dark rain for dinner.
Gorged after this meal,
they hear What the Thunder Says:
‘All the world has aged.’
Megiddo is quiet.
Two men lay like sleep,
bowing to once fertile ground.
a child without eyes,
Winter settles on a land
too burnt for lilies.
I have redesigned, updated, and converted to MoveableType, my aptly named writing section: Verbal Impotence. As added features, the useability has increased and it has commenting. New Look, Same Crappy Writing. I even added a new poem to it. So I suppose it is New Look! More Crappy Writing!
Anyway, I stole this link from the Riley Dog because Banksy is my kinda guy. And in other news, the pope does shit in the woods, plus I still have no job. Up next,
Brittannia: A Selective History from the Expedition of Caesar to the Norman Conquest. Make sure to check out the Flowers of History.
When boys tread upon anthills it is Golgotha
all over again, the people run about like
ants who have sold their souls for a bite of apple.
When a dairymaid churns milk into sweet butter
Proserpine is tumbled into the land of death.
Winter and virginity are not quite opposites.
Before I knew poetry was written — not lived,
my beagle and I would chase grasshoppers for hours.
Now each day is a new Labor of Heracles.
After I first shaved, I hid in the closet.
I gave the razor blood sacrifice in my fear.
I had no one to guide my shaking hands.
When Prometheus gave men knowledge of fire,
they promptly forgot its wider consequences.
A squirrel often forgets where it hides the acorn.
Poems cannot be written by the innocent.
Cellar doors open only into the skyline.
Squirrels and ants burn like men.
This reflux is astonishment
The immediacy of their terror short-circuiting
even disavowal?s detour–
This too is but a train of shadows.
The ungraspable phantom of life.
A strange flicker passes through the screen
and the picture stirs to life.
A vacillation between belief and incredulity–
a terrorist mood setter,
like a fairground barker,
caused women to scream and men to sit aghast.
The elephant is led onto an electrified plate,
Smoke rises from its feet and
after a moment
the elephant falls on its side.
The lust of the eyes
ending in perversions of magic and science.
Equally dubious intellectual curiosity,
lost sight of now after decades
recedes into the flat surface
and the deception is exposed.
Shock becomes a strategy
of a modern aesthetic of astonishment.
The hollow centre of the cinematic illusion.
Na?ve belief in the reality of the image–
a train of shadows
freighted with emptiness.
*from Tom Gunning?s ?An Aesthetic of Astonishment: Early Film and the (In)credulous Spectator?
that homeless babbler
stands on the mailbox
as usual, speaking nonsense
(salvation thru self government)
in his tattered tartan.
We’re out on Saturday nights
dressed to kill–
(accomplices in bombing starving brownskins)
(consumption means extinction)
(silence is assent)
Cadillac Escalade gleams
up to the club ? there he is.
should call the police. Want
some java after the rave?
I could really go for a
cup of coffee.