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,
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.
I dove into my phone screen and saw
a dark sub-ocean coordinate
array. And deep in there, on the floor
a body lay. A small child’s, with bone wings.
I swam deeper, pulled on by sunken
stretches of blank curiosity
to touch the faintly drifting feathers
on the salt pool’s slick gradient skin
and caress the pearly eyes of him.
Small white suns in the skull’s curved paunch
I saw a face distorted by love,
love of the new, of being’s faint tricks.
Such tools we build ourselves which fail
in their dull original purpose
as we mould ourselves into new loves
new desires. And unfelt weirdnesses
which creep up on us like sharp sunlight.
Before I could move my air ran out.
I am Dedalus, my own father
and I told myself I should stay hid
from the blue light of screens at night time
but here we are, again, myself trapped
deep in the trench level, and me here
waiting for the slip realisation.
In the sky, the faint edges of clouds
provide a reference, a soft guideline.
They see the faint splash, and carry on.