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 poisoned
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 anonymous houses to a house, a myriad of crumbling blocks of flats
to a flat, countless grisly rooms to just one, the ultimate freezing to the bone room, one dull bulb to yet another
copper eyed bulb, our naked bodies trying far too hard, too fat too thin, too
spotty too smelly, too ugly too embarrassing, too old too young too burnt out, from one to the other, no good, basement naked, you do not
want to see all this dirt, blink, on off yes no zero one. Gone.
This copper net blinds my eyes, These copper cords literally moor me.
Docked. Today we cannot voyage to the infinite moon inside this cavity 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, aye, 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, hang upon the gallows. Ohm.
A man steps back through their swinging shadows and surveys his creation. He turns from his handicraft and he is satisfied, but then he sees the evening sky before his eyes.
The sky...
It is dirty with birds.
A-Soma...Safe to Swim
A man steps back through their swinging shadows and surveys his creation. He turns from his handicraft and he is satisfied, but then he sees the evening sky before his eyes.
The sky...
It is dirty with birds.
A-Soma...Safe to Swim
