Report from Iso-Man
Again the Woody-Wood-Pecker
Early morning laughter
Is a good enough description.
This heart pain is not a medicine.
Waking that day you, you expected joy,
Because everything, like headlines,
Was day after day - and you couldn’t.
You had hoped for ebullience
To blaze out of crannies, but instead,
Or because of, there was only a clever clue:
John the over and under man who could have been
At Pompei - of course because you thought of it
And were trying to impress them -
But the women just turned away.
And oil was oozing like erotic black stuff:
The next day, which blurred into mirrors,
There was a terrifying rumour of a man
Who reacted. All this reminds me of-
That day she and I (young) (silly) (hot)
and (rashly) - wrote A loves B on the sand,
When she was certain: but I have tried
To control that part of my Universe.
But the waves? It has all ways puzzled me,
That that thing we did, which was a spell,
Was erased into our lives - but the next day:
We made it! There were millions and gifts and guests;
And I caught out a lot: laughing, but, they, took:
Absolutely no notice. So I went right to the top!
You were so proud! You looked at me!
Yes, and then I returned to the then-now
And those bloody Woody-Wood-Pecker birds
With their early morning madness. They clacked.
They awoke and it seemed all surreal and giggly
About a meaning they kept from me. . . So I,
Asked for assistance, but there was no one,
So it became something rushing off just
As I was looking carefully into and prying
And wincing at the blurr: which was the rev,
The rev, the revelation which soap-Slipped
Whaaeee! out of my hands, fuck it, so I returned;
But they saw and - simultaneously - turned their
Backs so that a certain percent say of the subset
Of x million of the subset z, quite at once
Slit their throats. Death was falling all over
Itself all over the bloody place.
Then I remembered - the baby waving bye bye,
And the little hand, but I was not repeat not
Fooled. I grew up to be a rugged All Black
Or something, but I never forgot the Fifth Curve.
So. I had exhausted my options.
I took some annual leave from the human vacuum
And began to recreate The Hand: the gigantic Hand
Old-growing in centurious seconds: became.
But then it wrink-wrenches clamps shakes
And began to dissolve.
Or it gets weaker weaker weaker, slowly:
They all watch, they are tranced -
This is a show! The brave fingers
Like a fly-spray dying spider. . . at last! at last!
Give up, and the dolly: the dolly drops!
Squeaking with freedom! The Head.
The Head is feebly. The Head turns. The Head.
But twenty stories down, and squashed across
A car, the dead dolly is dead, so dead -
It declined to comment: kept dignity;
Refused to be drawn. So...
So we filed it under Section Z2347.