ForkWordPoems by Inchiki |
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Prayer from the Terrapolis{Terrapolis; tεrəpəlIs, n. A city that covers the Earth.} come with me my son and I’ll tell you something I heard believe that is the world is round, rolls toils and round that its city lets roil and seethe and breathe and blow the boil of a thousand timepieces running useless I, dressed in rags, a plain old fart, say “let the world know itself through art” will you like me a drunk in the sunken quarter lie shat in the old town, a concrete tomb and dream a nightmare under spy satellite? a nightmare blowing cold and warm fused to a candle burning in the night air, fondly forgetting the never – lying breathing the never never fever I dream that up to me through the dark street walks a man like myself - “yes Sam. Listen twice.” he says his is the eye that never sleeps as still-backed water reflects a moon amid oil rainbows + star ship skeletons that star that in fever I dream and cry “favour me master . hand my hold & inform me” blissed by pills I have an after-life taster and see God Eyed Theo the Styx river burning rafter swaddled you waddle to Memphis missioned to evolute or pollute a prise from the mouths of black holes we are parts in all life’s common strain all sprung from common media we are the spores exhaled across a dish by time Invented, just as when you are hearing this in some other life and I am just a fiction - and the spark in my eye is as dead as nova [plant me there one foot deep - unsoul me] our rivers stopped running last year whilst they rinse space with their wings & construct citadel piano lands radio shacks and far away Salome’s yet here under Gibralter I rear you my hands planted on the wheel of your life I fear for you. Ruining string, we bail air while they lifeboats return for the preciousthing return to drink and mate like flies on a pond with a belch coloured bilge whelp – burp! heaving out to the sky from the city gullet I will you will not live in a polis that bleeds ruddy car cases into the rivers and rots frond-like designs touching the stratus, fit to amaze in blessed metal and noise and nuclear light, the thrum thrum of reactors tiding you to a sleep filled with implanted wrongs. Can i not place a ganga stone lingam in the hand of the tiny baby on my knee? Flogging the greasy air barely awake - to him I am a remote abstraction of care outside his understanding. gather him in coils of hope I tread the mortal stair and carry my boy into time though know nothing of what lurketh there ☼ Supposing there is no end or beginning the universe not expanding from some big bang but brought into largeness through perspective and so light also relatively ageless and always fresh as when first flicked (first is always the bastard) An old man running dough through the spaghetti machine; a universe branching and unbranching; both are wrung like an idea from foam. ![]() Rhymes for a Mood 2007 |
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