The Secret of Why We First Took to Our Feet
the brain weaves a strange kind of music and our bodies
seem unable to forget
the memory of what it feels like
to be properly seen
all I have said is truly a conversation
with light as a shadow puppet
among the living
we can find breathing but we can’t find air
that defective space under which
all our selves co-mingle
springtime is a time
of limited air
and many contagions
beauty is outlawed
or injected as a drug
and all our never agains
make breathing hard
it’s in the air between
you and me baby
a special way
of fucking your self
you’ve come to understand
the mask as an image
the image as a house of cards
a collapsible organ
in the centre of the chest
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we meet eyes, with the backside of a spoon
we meet eyes, and others, with the backside
of a spoon, we meet eyes, and only, to give it a chance
with our eyes and the dust and the backside of a spoon
and the dust still tastes like dust
and my mother is no longer making sense
alright lalala, voice in the everglades, trumpeted
like a spoon with careful smudges
to be redeemed like a moon in Aries
one shoe in the gutter with our eyes
our eyes and the same old fish
in the gutter in the image in the dark
a vacation in the marginal spots
in the simple songs for the dead
with our eyes our eyes
and the backside of a spoon
all of this is tacky like a hysterical
handful of clippings and the eye, the eye
gets seen, gets seen
with the backside of a spoon
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We the delightful people full on last year’s perfume can’t erase our fat cheeks, the celestial appearance of erstwhile words are stood on their head, with swallowed phrases, sit up carefully, less a hospital, the life of the death, the delightful people, without a joint or a joiner
the scene is snowy with Easter on its way, the window scene contains a man, no three men, crowding around a park bench cupping and ush ushing their way into the backdrop of milky puddles
standing on our head in today’s capital city, the fat duck with serene dignity is from Belaya Rus, is the cult, meanders around with his wallet, with attitudes, with fidgets, slips on the necktie, flash out the card, all the words fall into it and this is the life of a rising self desperate to hide its underwear
is the new cult, meanders around, in City Rock café, the other man has a cold
before the pregnancy we revised our titles
the sun penetrates industrial clouds and we can’t get beyond our pubic hair, sit down
and call back the kitty, privacy is shaken out like a dead fish, how we got that way, so much sweeter on a day with hot spots, thanks for having me on here, I see what you hear standing on the cold shoulders dazzled into speech, foaming on the lips of my father I’m wheeled into surgery, yanked into native elements, an overgrown parenthesis
we are delightful people, the voice of losers working hard at the impossible
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on the radio news from the BBC Chinese state media admit protests spill into the mainland
I’ve got nothing to see, no TV
in the surrounding areas, with troops, in the capital, still so nervous about the ethnic
in the uprising, before it broke out, a sign of some confidence, here and there
in a jubilee non-existent haze crowds the word hoard, crowds the grave, crowds the eye
the crowd is a mainland, an non-existant haze at the centre of the eye, a surrounding
what is reconciled cannot be fathomed, we are extricated and unfrocked by the nape
of our necks, by the palpitating and pulped, by the unwritten prescriptions
on the news, in the radio: are you feeling the crunch?
the man from Belaya Rus has lit-up, the man from Belaya Rus is in the haze,
I’m passing thirty-three, passing the Christ year, two weeks after easter, the curve, the heat, the sweat, the old squeaky bed
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standing
as it does
we should
get off
and crawl
I’ve got no-see TV
washed in a no-see haze
a coin in the mouth of a fish
word-whore, hear, here
in a leethe-mask
washed in a no-see haze
a coin in the mouth of fish
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the man is not the meaning, the meeting, the spoon, the mainland, the self-strangulation, the metered, the meted, the wetted
to get all myself born I crawled through the TV, I want to be where you are, on all fours, in the muck, on all fours in the muck