poetry as audio - only audio - the tendons: physics between
animate muscles and inanimate bone - poetry as only audio,
poetry to be disguised without the skeletal alphabets -
never seemingly written - bounce drum rhyme -
repetition to no flute
or violin sound -
bouncing, ping-pong
of consonants -
the usual cliches -
listening to recitation like to classical
music, and felt no emotion,
only the mechanisation with
robotic churns of the body,
a voice above me, clouding me -
with each b and p and d and q -
at the new Bermuda -
passing through to either attend
each though and oar past the Stygian
thought - yes,
this is the city where men are mended,
spaghetti for the cowboy
and the poet in a western of Minotaur
vast west: imploring: western.
there she and he hang on a
scaffold - not a stage -
among the heads of chauffeurs
and aristocrats - upon the grand scaffold,
with the chandelier guillotine -
where tongues are cut off: as the people
feared: the stealing of truth: similarly an
apple in Arabia - hence the tongues roll
out from the mouth of dutiful thieves -
the grander good of the beheaded caricature:
spineless -
and each word with attempt
to be both meaningful
and knocks - to better resound
with meaning but still the never-to-be
syringe of sound - myriad of knocking,
thumping and whistling,
never to accept the fakes from the paraphrasing
and ditto:
they hunted the stones: alias
for the hearts-
so too, the fluctuations
of bemoaned cravings: settling into routine -
and the grand extreme rainbow of grey -
where truant light en-robes the eye with
shades rather than colours - where white and
black mingle truer, than into what the pristine
Newtonian spectrum arrives at -
oh or not so dramatic on every turn -
thus the voice, neither trumpet, nor the saxophone -
or agile hands and violins -
to the palette of niche villages -
hollowing out the angry mob -
and the secret heart, without an inner -
the voice above me like a halo
to suit man's comparison with
angels' wings - thus the halo,
man's comparative image of bleeding
out to do good and earn flight,
then the halo and the Berlin wall -
that of the puritan nurture of one's own -
thus too, a poet's recitation,
a claustrophobic immersion in orchestra -
suddenly a reminder of the conductor's
wand - thus an entire orchestra in
a room the size of a house, or the poet's voice
reciting in the equivalent of a matchbox -
equal measure of the two being comparatively equal.
so indeed, poetry should only be encoded
purely audio, never in skeletons of
numbing toothpicks scattered - A as three of them
and Z as three also -
but of course, no talk of urban
rivalries - of the softened heart to absorb more,
and even more - never the stone that's the heart
un-repenting to experience more, as ever the more
needed to claim a knowledge of life...
forever trying to make rhyme
the odd chance - to make rhyme the odd chance -
to not succumb to philosophical systematisation -
for poetry faces the fates of shoes boxes and
cardboard boxes stacked -
as they did: to succumb to
philosophy's systematisation, perhaps not rolling
the Sisyphus vocabulary - but conscious of techniques
in variations cannot be mended: why write
poetry by being conscious of writing a passport?
rhymes ought to be rare, spontaneous -
chance meetings...
chance kisses...
chance cheek against cheek -
so i too feel a voice of poetry
said: perfectly aligned to my body's movements...
unlike music, extreme in classical: to sway heart and eye -
of the voice: the entire body is aligned to move -
to never sit still... thus: into writing.
but poetic scores should never
be written... immediately: said...
and they should be marked
by the waking quake of idle fingers and the teleportation
from voice to encode into these zigzags naked for
the eye to see... or so it seems,
upon hearing... even though there is no excess of
narration - where each to his voiced concerns
does not obey to be ushered by dim-wit and the
intelligent narrator, as each narrator makes it clear:
mere puppets where characters should reside -
in each book... a character a poet...
and already that demand to
despise the god - with each narrator overpowering
weakling characters - impossible poetics -
if not merely puppets to coerce
the architect of movement - sodden prose brimming
with clouds, tables, and sunken eyes -
charcoal swans and cobweb constellations -
akin the two: but with each musical note
i count words equal - and the genesis beyond
the standard of civilisation, of the desert fathers -
then into each of the 26 limbs -
and the marriages of the 26 cousins -
the balance of the ratio 26:5 - .2 thus man and woman -
or in ratio or fraction reverse: until the last penny...
(matthew), or... because abraham obeyed me (genesis) -
strength in nothing being comparable -
and weakness in everything having
anecdote - amalgam - and a
sweaty amphitheatre;
from applause to organisation by arithmetic -
as from encore to echo - and the readied to cling
in the umbilical chord of history's hunger, of mother
earth and the blind eyeing the world through
both telescope and microscope -
in heart as both reside: with diminishing
vibrations - at last, the love least entertained
and embracing.