atlas obscura

the view of the aves spyglass
over a finger-width crust of geography
pockmarked paper pasty with the crescent tatum of terrain
ridged by a foghorn fire, hear cry the foothills
overt dust-raising in an empirical march
and the beat of an imperial warhorse charge
marching its own androgynous footsteps
this ravine of clouds churns, suffers, weeps
take me, mother! how lived i then?

i am mutinied
from a carpet that dredged me undersea
whose life am i?
who stole my utter lack, complete liberation
from contours of flight flurry desire and decision
why have i been bound?
for wager against a pocket of pennies in pride and puckered visage
rest well, mother!
I assure you, I am resistance.

but from cloud-gate spyglass
i see droplets of ocean and life and sweaty soot-faced antique men
and a torpedo of integers that chant and slither against
legions of dot digit decimals and spiral indian curvases
coil serpents up the leg porches of a massive shrug
given this ode – this mutilation
i see the sandpaper of the Neanderthal
and constellations that sparked white stripe across mother Africa
Pangea sunken under plague of a million Congo lives
and cities that grew overfond of salt-fondue
buried five down and eight across
in our soap and chocolate and confectionary box
wallow in leftover tears from yesterday’s prime-sirloin-buffalo

nay – the dead never stay dead long
my fear has flewn, i know not where
but hark the telltale in the air
i saw lives that shot on golden wroughtwork trajectories
across manmade mountain into monument
and lit the cupped round hymns of a thousand shivering gods
wrapped in blankets and drenched with crumbling godly cocoa
in the soggy rumple of their white night

lead on, white stripe!
I saw the construction of giant planes
the concealment and capture of libertine comrade
the mutilation of invisible soul and space then time
I smelt the final sludged bottleneck more than saw
the splintering lighting and crunch of a baobab tree
white stripe, set me free!

there is a better world above;
and better worlds yet
we do not throne a mound of tortoise – let us ascend
and there we can lie about the hum of our hearts
to neighbours who know the truth, and smile-
sip cocoa from the mouths and tongues and abdomen-temples
of the God stomach of the God Stomach-
we are epic proportion incarnate-

but white stripe! I yearn a foremost curfew best-
we will be drunk on the honey of our lives
from a natal syrup and unctuous view of a zero-multitude-
the dot complies and comes hurtling down with sudden effort
and petrified consent-
the stars burst in dishwater shampoo and the cosmic sneeze disperses-
we will see the lives of lives in the drizzle of organic gunpowder-
they are not their own,
and now i disclose – ‘our’ neither of being
to a vapour and Sputnik Sweetheart