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. A chaos of significance.
The guitar is a universe
that grows in the air. It is here
in the park, in the trees raptness
to the wind. It is in the move
beneath us, of the dirt and stone
bassline. The voice also becomes
a timeless concept, borne with time
when space itself became vocal
and elements harmonised from
the raw newness which was pouring
from the gaps between strings. A voice
of violin becomes a strain
of primitive object in the
clearing between trees. I claim this
origin of tones to be so
essential as to be veinlike.
You cannot take it from us and
leave us with eyes. The grass has bent
under thousands of intentions –
each competing for the title
of the most complex object in
the real. And each most beautiful.
Nutrients flow in paths that forge
bright thoughts and so I am heavy
The aspects of attraction aren’t all nameable, but they are all relations of one to another, which is to say ‘subjective’ or experienced. And they are not only to do with the individuality of the person but their surroundings, which is to say they infuse and are infused by their surroundings. And they are not straightforwardly physical attributes like dark hair, or dark eyes, or boxes to tick, but storms or nebulae which can centre on such things, stretched over you and the world, which are to some extent, lesser or greater, sourced from this body, not that one.