the ghost of tomorrow morning

Against all probabilities,
the project of infinite text production
continues, albeit with an upgraded,
unfeeling analysis mechanism,
for I am haunted,
sleepless,
by the phantasm
of the feral cat
I drove out into the orchards
and abandoned
like a sick lover
on the merciless jury of cloud and owl.

Such tragedies of the hour,
shipwrecked, as we are, at the end of empire.

I am faithless since the gods commenced peer-reviews,
since the coins bear our master’s face, but not her wraggly toes.
I lack faith? But what of my belief in our total collapse?
In the end of the human? Aye, praise THAT!

Is there hope? We must kill our gods to know for sure, and we
only say “god” because “howler monkey” was too ridiculous
to squeeze into the holy books–and is a recent term, a
private term, meant for specialists, not like “god” which is
intended for the opposite.

Will this make sense? Not really. But infinite text production
has other virtues, such as:
THOU SHALL NOT KILL
WHAT THOUST BARELY DISCERNETH.
And, the far end
of the universe is still and silent. I know.
I KNOW,
BECAUSE
all our silence,
all our stillness
had to go somewhere,
had to be filed away SOMEPLACE
when we
at this late hour
(as I say, at the end of empire)
were pretty certain we were done with
silence
stillness
FOREVER.

Oh. But the children next-door-but-one
are loud and nervous,
are chanting in monotone,
“…go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep…”

because

THEY are sacred howler monkeys
THEY are the buddha moths
beating their
black-lungs-for-wings.

Perhaps children ARE dentists’ drills.
Perhaps dentists ARE masons,
very specialized rock workers.

no. Not “dock workers”.

The autumn sun is out
but she’s a crazy bitch
–perhaps that isn’t fair,
‘could just as easily be a crazy bastard–
The autumn sun is out
but s/he’s a crazy bastard-bitch,
a junkie sun, milquetoast solarity,
shining, sure, but his/her heart’s not in it.
I might burn but I will not be warmed.

Fuck, but the 21st century is replete with
garbage weather. I rose to showers,
now the sun, and by mid-day
the flowers will be open
like Gaudi’s phone booths.
By evening it will be snowing.
It is the indecision marking the,
as I say,
end of empire.

poem inna poem:
you were born well inland,
in a land-locked well.
only now does the treacle
deploy its cloying spell.

what?!

BOOZE!!!!!!!!!

end of poem inna poem.

I was wrong about the stillness.
Moments, edges frayed by receding cars,
or the approach of children.
I swallowed one–a moment, not a child–
a cloud of ice cream clouds,
a birdsong selling nothing
at the zenith of the calm.
The clouds look painted on.

These arias, breathed through tree-tops,
sell less than nothing,
as though each one,
EACH BIRDSONG
has the power
to scrub away
ONE ADVERTISEMENT
ONE LIE TOLD BY A LOVER
ONE MURDER JUSTIFIED BY GOVERNMENT
(of the many which make up the
OCCUPATION
of my soul).

Birdsong.
If you listen long enough
you’ll be light as air.
[theatrical note: “light as a feather”.
“light as lead”.
“light as light”.
“light as death (mine)”.]

I think you will ask me to dance.
I think I will stop thinking.
I think (in polytone):
“…go to sleep, go to sleep,
go to sleep, go to sleep,
go to sleep, Missy!”

Ah, I see now:
my thinking is hurting the plants.
This thinking I’ve been taught,
this thought, to that thought,
is wrecking the place.
Cell phones are killing the bees.
Honey, oh honey,
soon you’ll be a memory!

I love every bee,
every pure heart
sunk up to the sex in flowers,
every ardent fuzzing,
coated pistil to stamen,
lust is hard work:
we do it willing,
charged with a unic’s horn
and an endless ardour,
into the very face of Death,

“Hhhhhhhuzzzzzzzzzz…..!”

Good-bye, bees!
You were Hannibal’s elephants
to my toasted breadstuffs.

I love every cell-phone
because I cannot hate them all
because that much hate is deadly
–a black flower bursts into flame–
and my soul be done, undone.

I was a bee, I guezz.

I was a snake, I guesssssssss.

I love the cell-phone people
because I would survive their chatter,
their CHATTERCHATTERCHATTER
CHATTERCHATTERCHATTERCHATRE!
every empty phrase,
each pointless ring,
the endless interruption
–broken, derailed trains:
whither were they bound?
we shall never know.
It is, as I say, the empire’s end.

I love you, insanely loud car stereo,
for you reveal meditation’s impermanence,
you tirelessly illustrate
the gang-fear injected of my soul,
a game of make-believe made real
by imploding empire
and voracious greed:
all is ghetto now,
ALL IS GHETTO.

I love insane car stereo,
I love you, urban youth,
joyously going deaf
as I joylessly fall mute,
repeating the delicious phrase,
the delicate pose,
the sculpted body,
the hungry sex,
the empty stomach of the (actual) poor.

I love beat-box-on-wheels:
a genital gently stroked
but never fucked.
One gets anxious with all this
AROUSAL
without
RELEASE.

FUCKED
is to capitulate:
others wish to mimic
the sex-call;
once you blow your load,
that’s all.

I love the end I Love

(oh look,

the moon).

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