" . . . . something frightening lurks in the song of birds precisely because it is not a song but obeys the spell in which it is emeshed"
“I ain’t faking, no no” -
but put a businessman’s
girdle round the earth
is a dream deferred
like all protest media
& sected corporate urgency
BANG
its musical voices
- blank -
it is not sexual
their guitar strings
a study in asphyxiation
tightened on the known stars
scrawled out, ‘their’
he was a big freak
transformed into normality
all the night through
a specific negation of history
& the sea
where scorn was
recent irruptions of unmeaning
flatter the official town’s
insolent noise making
secretly my small thighs
trickling down our
sobriety, pronounced
as their favourite line:
goodbye, sweethearts & pals
the wind shall blow hurt
inside every earth's
cut-price reverie:
- insert world of banking -
- outside -
pretending that people were
sexual gestures & thrushes
gargled with sweethearts -
I don’t eat your duty,
build money with a system
of mystical swine
& social trickling -
insert your heads,
have sucked your poem dead.
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