kleaver

How can a naked man run past curfew the streets without living?

Tag: time

oaxaca

This evening i tilted my skull towards the sky and saw a Michelangelo’s sunset covering the expanse i know as sky – swept off the urbane bus and phlegm-specked windows i suddenly become aware of a deep, throbbing desire to believe in something bigger than myself – to see that there would be a god absolute enough to have patented this beauty or churned it out in a colour factory with an audience of captivated humans with their manmade reason to have witnessed – and then i look down at the blue duffel stuffed between my legs, and the stale, pale, smell of sweat gracing an air hemmed in by many skins – and hear the children asking fantasy questions – “mummy, if you could be anywhere now, where would you be?” – and energetically i laugh myself off like a puerile joke.

holy oestrogen moon

Dear year, give me slow death. The minutes are fresh, and smell of the magnified dew of an exponential new day – the time to make new things beside a world that celebrates this break. I know that i am a first man, that i have crawled out of the water and am now glaring at the proud orange sky above. I also know that i am alone – that i turned back and bit my mother to death upon birth, and now walk this world alone, my sight piercing through the sentient patterns of skin-bags plodding past me in times square and central park. Friend, i may speak to you in intelligible words, but how selfish you are – because you demand that i believe you more than the beautiful little doll-like friends that i have dreamt up for myself. They are perfectly manicured, up to their eyebrows and smell so refreshingly of lucky strike, and celebrate poetry in stolen boats off staten island coast, while you are coarsely emotional and too legal. I should believe them more than i do you. And here, abandoned on these new shining sands, i am inflamed by a new exciting wonder of having a new world spread out before me – thinning under my eyes, a landscape glitching and loading, into the forms of pinched trees and blue magma rock. Here is a huge serrated pie crust, and i shall breathe, like an angry baker at the task of furious bread, into this new world new life.
––––––––
I am in It, and hence cannot read it off as blind optimism – it paints my vision in psychedelic colours too beautiful to question or be surreal.

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