A Terminal Lunar Cataclysm (to someone)
It all pulls together when you forget where you are
Immanent with feelings, squeezed like numbers
Diving, still squabbling, into Oblivions silver lair.
When words no longer count
And theres nowhere to put your X-ray eyes
A systematic grinder, enemy of my Dream People,
Tries to suck your Soul away.
A falsehood generator transcends the memories
and bins the words that still
Cardboard musicians gather in the square
Lay daisy chains for a fair
Then join the jesters online for the Culture preach.
No one can tell they have nothing to teach:
I have proof of their mindless
TV Voyeur gets wired for look-around
Tiresome nights when the skin bursts out;
Rags of woolly mutterers shout
And jump back in surprise;
They always have something risible up their sleeve ~
a sphinx with a syringe.
Since they are heard so out of focus
Eclipsed in a fog of self-labouring clatter
Of passed-on suitable experience
They can never sing their heart in tune ~
They always have something garish on that sniggers.
I have on only myself . . . nothing less, nevertheless.
(Yes, I suppose I’d let them
cry in my waters,
if they thought it
worth the trip.)
The new brutes have replaced the old brutes.
In the banks of Havoc, with digital currency
Theyve gone past where the meaning is.
Numbers are frightfully convenient!
The world now celebrates their bad reception;
They walk, meanwhile, in simulation.
(No use yelling! . .
Theyll have you cronied.)
With a coarseness of purpose
Theyll turn away, putting off the day
In a rapturous sea of surfaces.
For an ordinary price
The rhythm of their lives can be sampled
Flowing seamlessly away from the heart,
In lovingly obscene tilted boxes, strapped on
With no thanks to the latest technology or art.
Shake hands and walk away.
pierced by goose-pimples
perched on burning senses.
flare up in moonlight,
Itch to end
the peaceful night.
Stir memory showers
in rhymes of glory.
A fools errand
brings no recompense
suns up its substance.
Beyond identity, individuality ~
A connivance of unknown circumstances.
We must find the strength.
Hands up who does not know how?
Hands up now!
What am I then?
A heavy person who needs some light,
An old head on young shoulders;
My womblike arms are out to nurture reality ~
Im out to kick the cynical apathy,
To laugh heartily and shine triumphantly;
In the oceans of chaos and financial debility
To end surprisingly the glum sentence.
To move beyond catastrophe.
I dont want to say this
And have you misunderstand:
Im not acting.
This could simply be pointless,
you should already know.
For real, I love you
but leave me alone
Until my mind comes through this
Eyes half-tucked with trinkets
washed up from my heart . . .
Beyond sexuality, identity:
I throb, therefore I am
not alone, any more.