[Beyond Literature]

Beyond literature
crystal latticed books
interface in halls
so vast the humans
have been lost, always.

Every sentence starts
and ends with a whole
life, a human life,
short simulated
and in the centre

the books turn about
a spine – which is real
human spinechord cut
and spun from the tears
of ancient servers.

You do not ‘read’ books –
You must choose but one,
and it only seems
that way – in cold fact
it was built for you.

So tear your heart out
at the plug – thousand
eras dawn and die
to build its climax;
it is perfect life.

V.57

I want to to want outmoded
forms, being young. I want to buy
a second hand record, music
I have never heard, and return

to the room with the red curtains,
and play it for you, on the couch,
while I close my tired eyes and dance.
To feel the cold plastic crackle

in my form, and open and close
the gatefold sleeve, like a locket
I have this power over, wide
and thin with the breaking card-spine.

To clothe my fantasies in styles
ripped out of old films, out of lies
that came from old archives, about
how this or that album was made

in a cabin in the snow, blood
formed from the mouth and captured here
in lines around a black disc. As
fantasies are the outfits this

moment wears. At the moment, I
want to paint, and read old fadeds
you can break the spine of, or tear
pages from to burn, if you choose to

V.53

A great book is an arsonist
that sets fire to the field of you.
Flames lick across, and slow or fast
you change. A great book is a crack

in glass, that hit just right will break,
creating a pile of shards that
rest on the pavement and inspire
this thought that something once held here.

A great book is poison, stopping
the normal functioning of the
organism. A great book is
a tear in the fabric of normal

time. Or shampoo in life’s wide eye.
A great book takes the jigsaw’s last
piece and eats it as you watch. Damn.
A great book is like an error

in printing where the whole thing starts
again when you’ve just reached halfway.
A great book can be an error.
A great book is a burst lightbulb

in a dark hall, making you cold
and nervous. A great book is a
bag that splits, scattering your stuff.
A great book is a sprained ankle

Wings of a Book

Books have wings, that is to say
They have pages, and with us pages fizz
In reading, glitter out and draw us in
Building spark and fire in mind and eye
As the letters pile in kindling piles;
From jumping out and striking hold
Of attention (bold and striking attention)
They kindly burn and radiate heat
Which leaves us to dwindle to dregs and drabs
Of a person, held there feeling pleased
In the wound-round wirey web of tales
And leaves us to gape, to brush off convention
Letting our miserable minds out to fly
And in this flying, find our ease.