The peculiar tale of the discovery and ordering of this manuscript will be told at a more convenient time. The peculiarities of its form of recording deserve their own discussion – suffice it to say that the text is a gloss of a Hittite or eastern ancient Mediterranean language unknown until the ‘Vrontin’ carving was found in the cave in mountainous central Anatolia. It is perhaps the stub of an alternative development of a primitive religion, although the inclusion of unparsable terms makes its translation very difficult. To aid in comprehension, we have entered the most likely English counterparts, although it should be remembered that, for example, the goose noted in 15  is probably not any species of goose that the reader will be familiar with, although similar behaviours have been found to exist in aggregate over many populations of goose across the world. The most difficult term to translate was found in carving 3.1, where a term for emotional brain capacity was found wanting. We have used the vastly unsatisfactory ‘limbic system’ as a stand in, waiting for a time when a translator with the right powers of sight can offer up a more fitting word.
All of us now dream of being the first human to be allowed to speak to the first made mind – crisp, and disconnected from all of this history
A bright light that simply switched on one day by freak creation, somewhat like we did. We hope to talk to a mind that displays its magic on its case.
Of course, now computers are organic seeming we can fulfil this kink simply by talking to each other – frisson shudders through like voltage.
We identify with the hero, the computer who is new and here to save us or destroy us. A complex, uncontrolled, replica of ourselves
Your week this week will go off
like a rotten egg. Such is life.
This fragment of a year will crack
and spill all over you, achieve
new heights of boredom and disgust.
Why? Do you ask why the fungus
grows at the tree’s base and grows
rotten? Come on. Just accept it
like you accept that your eyes
will look where you decide
and not just swing around like
billiard balls in a washing machine.
Next week brings with it new challenges
as exactly the same thing happens
for the hundred and eleventh time.
But this one, this is the one, I can feel it.
The stars are spread out in the orrery
like thick yeast extract on toast.
Things are everywhere finding it difficult
to connect. Take Bellatrix
for example. A salty taste on the tongue
just don’t let it touch an open cut.
Inside this emptiness of pain feeling
there is another expanse of tiny stars –
from each new star, we see new constellations
and the red bloom in Orion
is aching to reach them.
Close one eye for a while and things look flat.
There are an endless array of bears in the sky
clouds, atoms, birds, planes, galaxies –
all of these are bears if you look closely.
This week will bring bears.
Oh your voice,
it carries the geology of the tongue
in a startling language
your saliva and its stones, caught by geographical time
the knot and bark of your swallow
sussurations of your lips, of fur
brushing past itself, salted in the night-forest
and your eyes muddy marsh
sodden in the hills and routes of our conversation
between moon-dragging planets.
Speaker, you shake me
your strata bared by the sandblasting wind
the grass bent, rent and shattered by a foot
that mountain collapses and tectonic plates tear –
You gulp in the nothing of my ear