Thursday, February 02, 2012

a sad house in lava bubbles

the dead place the voice place
the noises of pigeons scrabbling on the roof chirping
in 1924/a man/from The East/with a curved sword
erupted on Trafalgar Square
his fontanelles re-opened spurting out lava
at passers-by and tourists
the streets sprayed with death
from the dead place the voice place
the tinge of grey that has infected your tissue
now you sit in the kitchen so strange looking at me so strange
the pigeons scampering the hot air balloons coming over
)'ballooooon,' we cry, 'ballooooooon...'(there is no pronouncing of this)(us fucking freaks always unpronounced(
us there forever in the hot kitchen your body surrendering
to insults to the dead place the voice to the lava
that erupts from a man's head
the taxis aflame the buses exploding
the pedestrians walking on fire unconcerned
us together slicing off our vagrant tissue
all full of ash and dead spots
knowing for the first times love
its slow necrosis even afterwards
then a startling moment when a man
you he says you, there in the dead place
I am gonna rip off your ass
this is what he says

[punctuation is direction of how to talk onstage.that's all.oh the other.also.the forest.breaking in]

the crowd goes quiet
while the helicopters descend to pick him up

okay, son, he's one of ours
they say, the helicopters
kind of a firework but one of ours
meanwhile let it spray

dead now all of it dead
from the far eastern tiles to the western outwire

over the sand-fields tonight again
London calling
stifled, dead


No comments: