Tuesday, October 18, 2016


The modern world, relay station triangle and danger of electrocution relay repeat, repeater switch, switched on off yes no zero one. Is that the buzz, ohm, is that the vibration at the heart of it all?

From galvanized towers to wooden poles copper nerves knit a less than geometrical web from one springtime tide to another rotting fish coastline, from one littered, leafy copse to another, over one summer hedgerow to the next summer hedgerow’s dead bees lethargic insects and crushed hedgehogs, above one mossy farmhouse across to the next, factory farmed pigs, one methane village to the next acid urine scented milking shed, from one grey autumn shower, one muddy town to another, over one damp dog shit winter city street to another, above slush, between houses to house, crumbling flats to flat, rooms to freezing to the bone room, one dull bulb to yet another copper eyed bulb, naked bodies trying far too hard, too fat too thin, too spotty too smelly, too ugly too embarrassing, from one to the other, you do not want to see, blink, on off yes no zero one.

A copper net blinds my eyes, physically binds me. Today we cannot reach the infinite moon inside here, cannot dive into the infinite craters and seas of dust where it is safe to swim.

The greedy child in me knows it is safe to swim in the pure icy waves of my time, here and there, up and down now and then, tomorrow today yesterday, waves of my light and sound, soft now deafening, gentle now violent, my light and time now bright now dark and darker and darker and darker still and I swim because it is safe to swim, and I adore what my intuition commands of me I must most hate and I live with glee what my intuition demands of me that I must most urgently abandon.

To you, my child, in reverence, I bow, for you are most mean and cruel and heartless, as children are want to be. My skull is my moon, twisted swollen and distorted. Prick the moon. Pop me out of my ecstatic miseries, trapped as they are in everyone else’s bleak and dismal copper coloured prisons. Rest in peace child, send me dead and roasting on a roaring storm wave of here and now, my head talking to itself with the poetic thoughts and the otherworldly images we invent, for these companions are never malignant. They are most gratifying, vicious and evil, but, alas, it is the voyage they accompany us on that is cancerous.

Through a nick between the shuttered window and drawn curtain, into my room penetrates, just, white sunlight at an early afternoon angle. Navigating on slightly stilled stale bedroom air, a mote of dust sails serenely, splendid, upon this ray of silver light, a sextant for my calculations of bearings and destinations and time, and for this timeless moment it is the brightest, most penetrating, most wondrous voyage that has ever existed in my innocent, childish universe, a golden adventure in the gelatinous folds of faulty memory where the best bake bread, drink coffee and wait patiently for the dough to swell. Then the pirate galleon, it is gone into the dark seas and it is free, and its crew of hardy Jolly Roger sailors too, and I smell bread baking in the oven and roasting coffee floating in on a swell, on a breeze from fifty years or so ago.

All the best people, with all their good, kind thoughts, swing on the gallows. Ohm. 

The sky is dirty with birds.

Sunday, May 08, 2016


Dedicado al Turner sepia y a imperios descoloridos de Fighting Temeraires flotando a duras penas

Remolcados fuera de los marcos de pan de oro

Colgados en amarillentos papeles pintados eduardianos

Dedicado a una generación que, contra toda esperanza, esperó que nunca se hundieran

Humo negro de carbón


Una obscenidad  para John Constable


No quiero vivir allí

Oscura es la noche
Ni en la luz del día me siento del todo bien

Se diría que estoy en las últimas


He tragado hasta los últimos posos

Que no leen un futuro

La retorcida sinapsis no comunica memorándum alguno
Que explique la retorcida geometría del DNA
O las retorcidas geodesias del universo
O las encharcadas mecánicas del Teatro de la Memoria
Ni la química oxidada de estos últimos pensamientos sobre el vivir
Ni explica tampoco la viva, la sublime, la retorcida escala de todo


Que no leen un futuro
La retorcida sinapsis no comunica memorándum alguno


He muerto

Texto y  imagen, "La Blessure" © David F. Brandon, 2016