Monday, March 02, 2015

a glimmer only that unvoiced fricative fetch and shade

think of hate as a compound noun
two words in one portmanteaud into sex
in the Germanic/Japanese as though
a martial art spirit wafted as burning money
fragments aflame along the alleys and cataracts
why anyway would they call it a stroke
and why so gentle so tender

as though some dark angel had reached down
stroked away the circuits but gently
through the skull something in the byways

the lanes the backs of beyond the wainscot
something frozen and haunted mid-afternoon
watching the smoke-ghosts of Shatin
the temple of twenty thousand million golden ghost

buddhas horseback for the racecourse
but look again stop and feel

as the money blows smokestacks for the dead
listen now listen there is nothing to hear
only the tiny shove just beyond the sensory
horizon for even sense has an event

horizon where we freeze and all is stop't
listen there to the dead money end of yourself
great golden one so in factitude great
that it takes twenty thousand million

facets to express the one nothing of the dead
the unstuck crusaders the templars hospitallers
undone unseamed from the navel
at the horns of hateen think there in your smoky ardour
of Burckhardt digdug his own ungrave in gravel

to Shendy and Orens they the trains a-blowing
what then? now nothing? so quick to end and so long
to fashion. think of Gorlice Tarnow. think
of the passion. think of biscuits
one might just as well. all for nothing now. all.


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