So rent me a gap in the earth, a fissure in the alphabet. Why does anyone bother to speak. These tedious books, ancient murmurings, glyphs and commands. Posterity is leaking. I have scraped a stiletto through my songs.
The books of the future have crushed the brain of the past. Real people are glued to the windows, streets on all sides. I have learned science in their cracks. Speak the language of the dead. The pathetic evocation of love under other channels, radioactive spheres.
But the distances are insurmountably scratched. Like an Englishman in Bedlam. The time of the Pharaohs. Lenin, his subterranean jail. Stratas of voices, piles of houses, eternal city, night without end.
Listen, poets & domestic jackals, prize-winning fiddle-di-dees. Speak collisions of moons and comets. Speak dead stars, iron filings, fantastic lies.
We don’t understand the slaves in our mines. We don’t understand each other. Explain your word for dictionary, for jetsam. Who are these dead walking through the room. What are these spheres of metal and gas.
London - Moscow
1871 / 1930 / 2009
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