I’m wasted in the strange city.
There’s reason to be
& not. In the haze between
light & dusk. My knees are where
the heart was.
I live it still
like it is.
The pigs next door
are cutting grass .
What will the cats think?
of that?
II
Flat as a bedspread, I’m on
the Nod,
between blinks I know how god’s
mind works: is slow, an’ ee- zy Fuck
me, Son: you wanna watch where you’re going. Save the World,
then orgasm. Think of the children.
Recycle. Public morals Oh,
Scandal. What if I?
finger the cracks in
my cell, embryo. Decorate
the wall, paint it shit
brown
to express my displeasure. I’m not
young but
I’m an animal the in-
articulate King,
the Lord
in a manger.
Drooling on the sofa. Deus –
come, why-not. Now.
In a brand
Spanking. On a
Motorcycle ex
Machina. It
happens. For reals – I’m dead! &
the Hand descends & lo(l)! I’m on
the street again, Lumbered but,
ok.
Hi Mark, I pick up in your work, maybe incorrectly, but never mind – the desire to believe (in something of a boss/good judge/collective might of excellent souls), but unable to fuse a childs imagination to the appropriate facts of maturity. i might just be talking about myself?
that sounds about right to me, Dean. Thanks for noticing & articulating it
Thanks, John. I’m still fiddling around with the end of part 1 – (the pigs etc); I have an alternative, but I’m not sure it’s right. This is it:
I live it still
like it is. In morpheus
dreams wild pigs are driven off
the precipice.
Lord, what dost Thou think?
of that?
[this thing about the pigs is from one of the gospels, i think. Somewhere in the NT, at any rate]
I’m still spinning, Mark.