Or lost without drugs | like sailors without ships | or even | seas | Where’s the world? | the victims ask | at the silver moraine | of forbidden wars | If there are no images, we cannot | share | and what is a voice without | images? | Holed up | in Delirium B for many days | trying to organise caravans | to cross the desert | to reach | Delirium X | that is | one way of killing | time | The black oil of print | floating on the water | of their reading | and the soft syllables | of the infant Judas | years to go before a Christ | but much easier work than prophecy | and the weather good | Affirming | this place | by never reaching it | cool nodes of silence shine like metal in the darkness | the calm of true modernity | exchanging money and kisses | understanding the potent, inane | collection of rubbish | and with a disdain for monuments | forever making plans for the new forever | Oh! | I found a sea

He understood | faith absolutely demands treachery | to make it faith | The victims | slowly evolved | into different victims | or into perpetrators | the generations floated | like drowned sailors | or astronauts in space | round and up and round | and down | revolving | changing positions | played masters and servants | quite seriously | You built | a cathedral out of sugar and putty | and dead mice | buttons | dust | the fluff you find inside | acoustic guitars | cirrus | bottle green | stained glass | and, naturally, I | put your cathedral in a book | a silver book with a single page | of wizened studs in stove pipe hats | and fairies with hand-tinted eyes | and narcotic wings very | slowly | slowly | beating… | The sea had long | evaporated | petrified trees of monstrous coral | dotted the sands | brittle branches | broken off | It’s like us, I guess | and our “thing” | if it is | a “thing” | Growing too serious | we know it’s time | to swell our ranks | and recruit new traitors

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

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