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Sunday, June 10, 2007

Room 50

Poem 29

The sounds were gritty, gratey, because I
got a herd of cows with cowbells
and their tinklings went thru an electronic
gate. Pure resonance and grainy grittiness.

Then by accident, a fluctuating series of harmonics,
so that the tip of these waves would trigger
the sounds. The gate: rushing into the storm
of ideas, the electro-acoustic, shattering

The tired, metallic beast,
wounded, struggles in civilisation’s mass,
the great moral clamour.

the scraping awakening, where he is

red-eyed with his robotic sorrow.

How to inveigle the meaning, the concept blocks,
the wriggle-writhe - here: dab yellow,
dab black. (Dab).

Go back thirteen paces.

The god of music
spits his teeth into the wind.

What have we achieved?

The children are surely safe
and the stories of the mangled parabolas
secrete inside themselves..

The blaxities charcoal soft swirls
and the jaggeries, or the coiling resplendence -

the bare, tapered bone of intuition’s precision.

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