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from Alien Memory Machine (serial poem)


Everything has gone


there is no
there is only

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

it’s in the air between
you and me baby
a special way
of exing 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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