Sunday, August 24, 2008

Commons 49 - 50

the cuckoo is split
- the image, cracked -
so its easy to imagine
our masters do tell us
what we confidentially
inside their saying
what ‘they’, hounds
all thinking forgets
outside, o enchanting
we are sparkling things
this brick, for example
its crimson vitriol
their image window
the philosopher’s stone

as I was out faking
letters \ weirds wrecked it:
my character scoured
words gone, locked inside
the cuckoo has no eyes
or perceptual shriek
wrecked inside poetry
its tidal crust
where sickness came
we were documentaries
resident in a system
I can’t say ‘moon’
with a ribbon in my pit

" . . . . the cry of terror called forth by the unfamiliar becomes its name . . . ."

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