Coming from Buffalo
in electronic thunder,
Moose sits on a bridge between nowhere and anger
in the tumbling down of numbers
a regular formula
he had about the morning rush hour –
a Moose species
in phone-land, locked down and gated,
bets against himself
all spontaneous and specialist
a long way and back again.
Looks down on himself: he is muted,
spewed forth finally from heated tunnel –
each bump a jolt concentrated
and without thinking
in a glass eye of blind tempo,
tools ready, eyes ahead, weather-beaten, almost military.
The memory of Washington
Each morning in a mirror:
to make a million.
As we crossed a trackless plain
directed by camera –
our only record
as we crossed a trackless plain
directed by camera:
A cluster of legs accelerated
numbers heated by bodies
heated by bodies
ready for the quick stamp panic attack
of gas attack.
Repeated and played and watched
by men and women tracking us
senior officials with senior and sensitive facts
about our lives and loves
repeating to themselves
it was good for us to be watched
and after the attack to conclude
there were now less of us to track.
With bills to pay more bills
Along a stony path of i-o-u-s
The good doctor would say to me:
‘I have a giant conspiracy to make you happy.’
Is it easy to use the spring, the safety catch I mean.
I guess I owe to you a snafu or something:
A pup to stroke like it was new,
A forget-me-not or two.
Hey, Amigo. Yes, Gringo.
You and I we travel in tunnels.
They say this stuff makes you invincible.
So both of us in shadow –
the brain controlling sums alien.
These sums measure the smallest tremble.
Amigo, I notice your hand upon something personal.
And after we are done, I forgot to mention
I’ll be waiting.
Escobar, Jesus is coming.
So show respect.
Assist me, assist The Magnificent.
I am invincible on ground unlimited.
And I sit in tower with cup between industry and dust
organiser of the money shot.
In each face
where once were words now is humming.
He is? Tell me he is.
He is: “es nuestro amigo”
We told you before,
Escobar, Jesus is coming.
Gringo, this wall you said….
Amigo, it’s likely to account for many dead
but who cares / what the heck.
We have this tunnel of ours:
to enter together and lie there flat wanting,
the sweat of coke, the sweat of ambrosia.
It could be quite a party and I shall lack little:
Escobar, I hope you vote for me.
And you one day for me, Gringo,
when America is Mexican.
In what seemed a time interminable
This is how the world ‘beginned’.
Let it describe it –
Had the start and no sin.
If you stumble around darkness,
It can be quite harmless.
In tints of Eden, sketches,
We was completely liquid.
Shadows but happier
Completely innocent. We was.
We hadn’t learnt to spell or think.
To be precise we ‘knowed’ nothing.
Hadn’t put pen to ink
Or even tried to.
Me and Me in conversation.
A big bang,
Quite a picnic.
And what of the budded stem? Gravity?
All things to all them.
Until the sun cames up
And everything was bright.
Even the restroom but not quite, not quite.
And all the loving I could ever have
In one night
Came from the California light.
Your ears, your face,
all soon will be blessed with giant squid.
A vampire in sucking cup,
eight arms and tentacles full of blood.
About being mounted on a stalk,
the suctions, when they get you, almost talk.
In circumference lined with hellish teeth,
the mouth strange parrot-like, something of a leech.
Guard your home against this tick,
It does not share your bread for all to benefit.
A big sponge in the deep,
our squid communes with government
to tell us what to think.