In a dream, riddle-full of dark
and industrial violence
It is night, like in Cloverfield –
I am observing guileless loss
Someone dies and someone screams – no
don’t look over there, it’s not worth it.
I close my eyes, twist my head round
and wake up with pain in my chest.
As I question it and question,
the dream does not become clearer
It is images seen through ice –
I need something to make me smile
The note was sent by me to me
unsigned and without an ending
The black morning drags, and I toss
thinking of the curls in your hair
Never leave me, goddamn it, swear
that your post-entropic body
can justify the invention
of the lost world-eternal space
Swear it. My thoughts grow so sluggish
crawling around your end// a void
so sharp I am cut in half, now
when time has yet spared me. Amen
I wake in the dark and get up.
My heart palpitates. I listen.
My arm is cold, and the bird song
is half audible – I listen
There is a noise out in the air
I cannot place it – a night hum
beyond the cars whining – the woods
is a valley and they echo…
A high pitched hum – a dead discourse
of a ghost who sits in my sink
and mouth open lets out this noise
I avert my mind but listen
Yes there are new air raid sirens
being tested in the morning
over the cold roofs and wet fields –
not meant as a warning – merely
set to register the white flash
with a note of receipt so faint,
stride in black across Odessa)
en deuil, les victimes à venir.
As I lie still, I can hear it –
the vedic wind resonating
on the moors, a landscape om
The Past is a Dream – it recurs
exactly as thoughts from a dream
as droplets from a cracked clay vase
in a forgotten desert spring –
drips from a rusted waterwheel
in a green abandoned valley.
Pigeons courting on a warehouse
in the golden morning let see
the past through this hectic event –
Always bowing, no matter why –
bowing to each other – honour
of one pigeon to another//
Isn’t it mad how supernovas
burn in incredible vibrance
and leave civilisations there
in their path like a residue
All the material on streets
of red brick trentes glorieuses
is the debris from a power –
Strange things happen to the star corpse
I make tracks out from the city
and hear fireworks in the cool dusk.
Ribs of light. Le Petit Prince walks
alongside me with his flower
Silence at night is a blank hex
something never meant. A ragged
breath was meant to be our white noise –
our cousins holding each other
The grass (which I imagine long
and paper thin, the pelt of earth)
is carving the air into noise
under the hectic stars. And we
lie rumbling and vibrating each
time the sun collapses, and all
the other times as well, our beat
and breath the bellows of our heat.
Our hearing is still a tension
that can hear. The walls just standing
in their cold brick heart, we have called
tinnitus. The whine of our gears
and the ruckus of our machines
– the fingernails, the comfort rub
of a duvet against toes, as
the delicate attention bears
upon the slightest thing, leaving
reams and reams of analysis
of the breath’s passage in the nose
and the roaring brain in the dark
Justo Judicio Dei
condemnatus sum. I dream that –
due to some sin I am sprawled out
on a sofa, weighed down by wings.
I have been turned into a large
butterfly, whose wings were not meant
to be so large, and now crumble,
leaving pearlescent blue-green shards.
Rain recedes against the window
or, more likely, just a grey sky.
“SHOULDN’T YOU BE AT WORK, MY GOD” –
the knocking on the door won’t stop –
The sigil daubed there has not helped.
I must drag myself leaving trails
of mother of pearl to and from
the porch. In my dreams trains crashing
roll across the fields, crumpling up
like a broken display case. See
the big pin through my insect heart?
Why do I feel it’s all my fault?
Then Enya’s voice, like a soft hand
is firm and raises my head up –
there is a council yet to hold,
a voice that all this strife can end
Accosted by a dark new mood
after a dream involving fire
towering above the georgian
terraces, and Bon Iver grown
cold and unfeeling, exploiting
my love of their music for cult
ritual aims. A horror dream.
I sit and feel real horror, as
the dull news legitimises
violence with a short sound bite
‘I’m just saying what everyone’s
thinking’ and that’s that. What the fuck.
I can’t defend such a robot
action (in the Czech sense) – playing
clip after clip of glob brained dullards
who believe solely in themselves
like a kind of solipsistic
brick, thrown through the window of my
mind. The clouds darken but the bright
and constant thereness of all things
is there like a bed for my brain.
Insects want platform for their buzz.
Insects can’t abide the changing
language. Insects click and stutter
Sometimes, particularly after bouts of prolonged unspecified pain, sometimes I feel like my body isn’t mine as my lips tingle and a virus makes its lonely way.
I lie, hot under the sheets and think of manipulating your body, the soft human fur over the slightly sweat-damp skin, the malleable hardness of your skeleton and its firm muscular grammar, I imagine grasping you and laying you on top of me like a pillow or a cat, and it is a sweet dream, as sweet as the dream that first drew together the word sweet, the sweet of bittersweet, and dream, the dream you can’t tell is unreal, and never want to wake up, this sweet and this dream, together. And I imagine or hear your voice singing, please, please, in all languages, over and over ’til your eyes pierce me and I burst.
If I am desired in my dreams with no resentment, then it is possible. I have reached a place of acceptance, where the moths land and scurry along my skin, and I watch them, feeling love. Later as I lie gazing into the sky I watch unfold a vast pink rose on a teal field where the night stretches over like a duvet tent, and everything seems okay.
The kind wasp woke me –
it knew that I had dreamt
so its wings began to hit the glass
’til, bruised of life, it went
to a mouldy corner
of the blackout blind
and walked along the window sill
until it left my mind.
It must have had a séance
amongst the piling tread
as I later found it curling there
dried out and dead