The Field

An itinerant worker returns from a civil war that never quite happened, back through time to their partner, and on their way they see things in England that cause thoughts to occur. In sequence the field repeats, each one slightly differently. In each field a different voice, a different group. Maybe a village, or a city, or a bird.

*

Clasp the grass in your hands now at this late hour of our rebirth – as we sweat, we who know too much, and too quickly – faded chromium packets waft in the breeze over the field, like afterimages

Since we reinforce our being through rooms of tiny hands reaching towards fluorescent ceiling lights – we teach the performance of us – when offloaded we stutter, flake, lost in proportion to that loss

Hear the plane unzip evening skies – culture has hardened to crystal where it once was organic twist – subtilise your mind!

*

We can cover ourselves in dirt, with hustle and bustle, to miss (with rock-like attention) the abyss – only to find the small black cat that wants to sleep on our chest while it purrs, sounds the hollow

If we give up moral valence – just do what we need and let life cast light to describe our moving – as a cold but beautiful slim vale of sunlight showing chaos scattered across the tiled farmyard floor – ignoring the bones in the drawer

But didn’t we once have grace? Our thought can bestow it again – we can’t go wrong, if we do wrong… our holy thought-life frees us

*

Excuse me while I disconnect – I tried my hardest to stick meaning to the story – we played Baldur’s Gate, Heroes of Norrath – some greatest times of my life spent thus and end in dark discord

Regimes of meaning colliding as Dostoevski and Nietzsche throw away their controllers and turn off the console

I join this laughing and dancing – I lie In the field and dream of gameboys

A slight frown accompanies this new life, a memory of frowns – and other frowns of them – cathode ray tubes send dark futures

*

*

If god was real, how could you sleep with all that evil in – how terrifying a real god, who knows just how everything is and holds the Mayan pyramid and the Czech church of bones within

Bad enough being a child learning to have a face learning to have eyelids constantly weigh on your eyes – learning the smallness of the throat and the air which runs through with a low whistle – learning noises that will be with you forever – learning the feet’s hotness, learning the pain of not seeing – the slow functioning of tearducts

*

This is no reproach – but seeing is useless to us and hearing, we hear nothing – our long lives run long paths of confusion, we know nothing of sun facing houses – we know no carpentry, and dwell underground in sunless caves

We are uncertain about spring, summer, etcetera, fruits, blooms – our every act, without purpose – but we see the stars rise and set – have cursive memories, and write blossoms of talk and sigaldry

We no longer work, it was too hard for our bodies, and too dear – such are our skills and devices

*

In the field, a temple, a bench, a lichen-covered seat, a rest, where god’s heart in this dry garden hangs fast – like nowhere else on earth – hear that fluid-rush beat and slapping of tissues compressing with thuds, startling the black ducks – it lies submerged in the hot lake, seething – the massive, beating heart of god and satan’s small and proud heart lies beached on its pulsing fly-island, cracking and splitting in the sun

All this blood in the water, flesh of the red clouds this fine evening – I can hear a battle from here – I like this fading rhythm more

*

Animals can see each moment coming from a mile away, but find it hard to change the future, even knowing the time and place of their death – be it in a small hot deli at a late breakfast, or elsewhere

Our failure, our sin is that we lost this shining ability – this fissure makes time wasting possible

*

*

Enjoying yourself takes practice too and is no waste – to sit on the beach and drink – to not allow the idea overlay the drinking of it – learning to relax is as hard as learning to work or fight

*

This may surprise you, my dearest, but when we get down to bedrock no two things are the same – this dagger I see before me and this other dagger, also are not the same – no two males are the same, nor females, nor organs, nor others

The lit secret is: change an object’s place and you change its identity – difference is real – truth and sly sameness lies to generalise and idiotise us – there is nothing all objects under the one name share – name is just or mostly air blown at things, and by that fact is null

*

There are reasons why we suffer – don’t forget that when we think well, we know what to worry about – if we feel lonely that’s because we are – and our beds are empty – I hate that every morning I must face the evil alone, you said – and I could not speak, and my eyes – well, I could not see to see – this fluorescent tube of light, its heart, your wet hair slick in the darkness

May the golden meme come to our aid, between sheets of crisp paper with elegant setting and type, with kelmscott hedgings and red gild – to lower beauty’s latency

*

In every time and every place there are those who are for and those against – forming two gnarling camps whose new scars soon seem scratched mirrors of the other

Yes purple tents (all other fabrics seem tatty and used) – this side of the brook’s curve whose opposing banks throng with beige and other colours bleed down til sandbanks quail and look upon blood running through the water’s blue reflections – this paling image is a gravitation of minds, pulling them in – and we who live at escape velocity run risks, talk quietly of justice

I sit, on the achieved gnoll’s soil, twirling a dented halberk’s tin-glass window, looking deep and in

*

Life spiraled out of control when we figured everything we do lasts forever – once done, never taken back – rests in infinity’s ledgers – complicated, this scratched tally on the dull walls of existence – on the silicon chip of being there are strings for all things, all sins but sometimes registry entries are lost in the blue screens of time

I stand, survey the battlefield – I stand, on hot dirt’s cracking skin

*

*

We new peasantry can’t afford such daring gambles as love – you need land for that, one needs capital and ours is occupied or haunted up with ghosts and spectral problems

I came to this field from my home where a crowd of parents sat grumbling in their seatbelts, reading papers, never winding down the window further than an inch, and that only to gaze wearily for a moment at the leaves – dry, and fallen short of season – I cannot speak as they grow tired and tie their tongues around disgust – ardent noises startle the old

*

A grassy place without a name, this mound I’m lying on, this blood – I thought I knew where I was but now I lie wounded in this crap and grass – whose sodding side was I fighting on?

All has passed now as the grass is soft and damp on my cheek, my tired fingertips – I have arrived at a nameless place – I see bodies here lack organs; that one has lost its name, its voices; this has lost its mind, its heartbeat

I have lost, but I am alive – a beginning – call me Zarathustra – something like that, like a tethered firework

*

Each human’s brain is a lifetime’s work of art – watch it there dancing its body – way to go, you dense mass of infinites, connectome, unboundaries, uncatchable, describable!

It’s just a shame we’re lost in space – we know exact co-ordinates, we know masses – all different kinds of masses and still we’re lost in space – just great – our magnesium hearts burn bright, then burn us out, we wobble free, a husk of carbons and burned lumps – bodies laid out after battles – fallen bodies, fallen standards, and blank eyes, far stars, something more

*

Let us remember oh ye brash lookers upon reality, oh ye comfortable behind a screen, and children shoring you up, that some people can afford to be hopeless, and some cannot – and this is no dalliance, no flirting with the irreal but a necessity of care

Adam and Eve were too innocent not knowing what they had, they would lose or what it was to lose – forgive us for that, forgive them unknowing – what only knowing could bring along the baggage of knowing, value – and even in the garden of Eden they should have demanded more

*

*

Milady, what if this is it? – what if things never get worse, fall of eternal sized proportions – what if our burden is to feel the battles of immanency forever?

I heard a story once about a sailor trapped, once and for all in a great maelstrom, hung halfway up, halfway down it in a broken barrel – look up and he would see dense-clouds and squall – down, the reality gap black of the rumbling whirl – but never did he move – the poor cur – thus we win individual battles but never win the war, never

*

I can’t cope with this immense and quiet sorrow which drapes itself on my back when I drive the car – when I use new washing liquid, when I turn on lights and I must ask what all this has to do with god, or the real way of things now

These moth-black cows here around us, they could leave these fields if they so desired, but I know so much I can’t get out – even if I fly, Noah’s Crow into the storm filled stratus, I know tomorrow brings battles – I know I can’t run from such time or time as such – so I slide this whetstone along my blade and hope

*

*

Mountains, hills, everything towered will raze with time to a soft flat with a deep skin of water – end in shallows, given time enough or as a particular yew palls with a virus, pulled from other regimes of beings – gone are the days of this and thatness, now a flatness, now a flatness – where sand raises up and subsides under paltry and pallid waves – those were the days, when you could speak and your real voice would say something

*

Of course the hard problem applies to you too – your lips move, but I can’t hear what you’re saying – I find nothing like comfort in this, sheathe your swords – get them away from me – get out

*

The children of intelligence have long made war most ignoble with their sharpeners and hot tools, their horse-shoe hooves and armoury so let’s go back to the days of rocks and bash each other over the head for bones

Of the immense human song through warm cuticles and spines in the savannah, of long runs to catch prey, with a greater endurance those days were purer, no? – now watch the unnatural cut lop off zones of the cultural body – your mind will feel the pain but not your tongue, if you are struck down here on this field of heathers

They can’t reach the connectome of your words to harm it – beyond physical shocks and shock treatment – it’s a pain, so heft your pike and mount your tuft – we are here to protect the tongue on its fleshy seat, the gold brain – the tongue being history’s web – path of words imbibed though threatened by being disowned, it can’t be avoided – you are reading it you are thinking through it and all thoughts and makings seep with it like god you just have to prospect

*

For a breath’s short moment, quiet streetlights dwell in misty drizzle, and quiet reigns in general – the humidity from showers and from clouds, unwieldy systems – on a night where we stand looking from porchdark into the rain’s slip and weave on parked windscreens and bins – the bedraggled cat shouts and calls its name or thinks it does, tail low and dripping – the sun warmed concrete matured now over these longest days, with water’s help, fills air’s odours – the tempo looms to a stop

*

I walked into the fog, slow in, slowing as I went, and statues of the ancient greek sort, colours lost, pale and missing limbs, dicks, noses, place – where in the fog, placed carefully and the mud and the grass lapped at them – the occasional strobe light pass hit the black grass, and them, watching – sometimes eyeless – working crafters built you, and we don’t now see why, but your blind eyes have our horror – I thought – a wingless and headless angel sailed past on a lost ship – there were bodies there too, my friends allies, countryones, laid out, dug – so lost, my tears, I hid trench deep

*

*

My ambitions are in this rock – they are slipped between vellum sheets – they are in this armour, this sword, this child – this is a hard lesson to learn as we live life without this other side of thinking, hope, building – a bright new direction within the world’s cultus, our life – we need the cultus to allow us ambitions – they can’t help but express themselves in it like warm cling-film expresses a cold face which pushes into it – pencil, poised to undercut the sword, falls, its shadow passes the blue, white, green, of a summer day in silence

*

The field held sun lovers on its packed dirt, plying the dry grass, mindless, mindful, and the thud and swervings of music would bless it, move it if you looked with small enough eyes – eyes dry with pollen and wind, hair on bare stomachs, leaves tesselate shadows over those reading books, screens absorbing the world’s performance, and the delicate whisper of natures engines, lesser engines – the blue sky would wipe minds with trails

Beekeepers watched, and bees, bees too watched, exhausted from their groundings – I lean and loaf at my ease, and pull the grass blade out, and wield it

*

Does everything look right today? The same as yesterday? The same tribal dance leaping over a field of tractors and red harvesters – the same dry wall work crumbling out, and yet here we are with silent armies, stationed at their footzones – skulls clacking and teeth well counted as the gull-harpies hawk over depositing digested scraps – we wait with voices as they were, exactly as they were, no damn change – yet all this hubbub, all this bright, angered chatter always breaks out – I hear On the Nature of Daylight and everything in the world protests against stupidity

*

A still point slips on sea’s surface – love songs and songs of love – warm wine, and the beauty of those whose skin reddens, or deepens in the sun – many stalls serve the sweetness of food from all zones of life – from the river, from the field crust, from the crust of other long days in other lands – and the salt crust of hot bodies while sleeping mats grow silent, back under canvas, as the milk goes off with warm atmos

Here water is the lost essence as grass grows trampled under boots which have their manifold causes in wombs, heartbeats, and rhythms, and there the tall crag peak of Darien

*

I am the seed of an English republic – there are so many things I want but I can achieve none of them, not because of the crown, but rather the very structure of desire just isn’t what it used to be – all these soft linen suits walking across the street, no-one in them – all those faint anthems and old hymns which it is hard to see as more than pain – I’m not a bad person

*

A bed in the darkening days and faint bodily pains – and wrongs shot into the brain like stone gaps in an ancient castle, where bombs have blown new holes

Can I be born? Just thirty years from now? – and know whether the worry was worth it? – in the shop today I found it – an almanac which glowed when touched and it read you – unexpected – since of course it’s normally the other way round – or at least we once thought so – it spewed out a series of tones, and this crystalline conception of music undid my knots – I sighed and saw the things I needed

*

This field is my carpet – my feet grasp the soft strings like late morning lovers grasp each other – perfect – the thoughts are dulled by softnesses – I have hurt so many people I have been the moment of deep decision in the quiet road – I have tattoos I never chose – but all of this could fly skyward towards the sun’s violent love – feel the warm beam of an autumn day with the radiators on just cut into us as we melt like butter in a microwave – before we know it, we have gone into the warmness, as things rage on

*

*

In the inn on the town square, talk falls through from the other bar – we talk in a charred pub room – leaving the deer skulls in their mounts, we discuss the crimes of our lords, inexplicable foreign wars – but then we get onto last things – the meals we would eat at last times, yeah – the meals we were made out of – fish and chips and tea scald and beer, ingredients cut off from history – we talk of Anne Lister’s cipher and laugh and admire the odd dog – across the way the sun is setting behind the ruined castle – we consider leaping the low wall – the sky glows and flows like milk tea

*

See where there is to get to: an new building, with old fittings – moments of loud, moments of soft quiet, just when it felt needed – a cafetière drunk slowly and music crackling with needless noise, and popping – care for the day, care for the one who fainted, or had panic attacks in the night – smiles for the most part, and odd frowns, and tears building faint and watery ramparts in the eyes – and warm skin which impresses each soft hair’s line into this tabula rasa – blank features echo irises filled with love – such things we can achieve

*

Late last night, I went out across the low mist of the field to sleep in a bare bed, with an old mattress – I met my friend, with whom I lay – she asked me what I wanted to – I said nothing but drew my eyes close to hers and felt her faint lips and a breath infused with life, a warm life, in ancient concepts – I drew back and sat on the side – the potentials of the world grew so vast that, crushed, I could not move – her hand on my back was welcome – it was not what it should have been – a morning sun dispersing damp where cold dew drops leave the bent grass

*

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