There is rain inside the building | this is | not how the building was meant | to work

Take off my feet | Take off my head | Rest yourself | Trains full of nothing, coming in and out

Strangers, milling around on the platform | What are they making, all of them? | A silk of sutra

Rain inside the building and no end to the city | Take off your lips, let the kisses | roll to one side

You are engaged in an unnecessary activity | Put my ear to the egg, listen, what do I hear? | Is that breathing? | Is it the sound of rain in the hold | of a beached ship | stairwells twisted into spirals like shells and | dowsing for darkness?

This activity floats free of any genuine belief in change, it is pleasure, the interim or the end | Put my ear to the eggshell, who are you inside?

You read as the boat drifts down the stream, should someone put a gun to your head, it would be the same | You’re devoted to an order | Put my ear to the shell

This order is devoted to itself, it has no leaders, it has no order | It is an order with no order, it merely proposes itself endlessly | It has no leaders, merely exponents and apologists | zealots and zombies | and to revolt against it, we have irony | Put my ear to the shell, is that the sound of rain I hear, on the other side?

This is not how the forest was meant to work | Is that the sound of nascent wings I hear working? | The trembling | of the unused | lid of an eye?

Stepping on to a train, stepping out of a forest, stepping into a factory, stepping into a blue grotto, with mermaids and freedom fighters and pompous orators, the forest | has stopped raining out monkeys and parrots, it has become a refuge for dreamers and suicides, each season we will | sweep the forest for bodies | hanging and poisoned | cut and bagged | Who are you, inside your fragile | castle of shell? How big is your world? | A sound so subtle, vibrations | so subtle | movements | so subtle, they are like | ripples in a dream

Those who are about to vanish have no say in this process, it is a different order, but the order of our indifference is not like that, or | is it? | How sweet the sound of slow rain is, rain falling straight down, persistent, the incarnation of process | Inside there, I’m sure | I hear the sound of gentle rain | falling over the fields and the town | at night, and | in a beached ship | there are rows of glass vessels with slender necks and | rain is seeping into them | and you are suspended in the | sleep of birth

It is the arrangement we have with vanishing, a sort of | question of supply and demand | It is the nature of vanishing that | we cannot call back | what has left us | we cannot | make any further adjudications | we cannot explain | why the vanishing was | appropriate or | inappropriate, the vanishing cannot be | recalled | Trains full of people, floating downstream | each has a book in their hands, they are reading | The city exceeds the book, the city exceeds | the people, the city | is also on a boat | floating along, and the rain | takes off its lips and lets all the kisses | roll to one side

You are reading, it is like putting a tiny | stone under the wheel of a cart | or adding | a third wing to a bird | Hold the shell tight, treasure it, the egg is so beautiful, I | hardly want it broken into birth

You are reading, it is like | expounding a philosophy you don’t understand, it is like submitting | to an order you cannot enter | You are reading and vanishing, and I am vanishing with my | nostalgia for the forest and the gleam of the beaks | of toucans and macaws, and | the iridescent crescents of feathers | of imperial purple and petrol green, and vanishing | enters it all | with one of the | only true silences | Put my ear to the shell, listen, what do I hear? | Is that the | tremble of new muscles, the | glitch of fresh nerves | firing and fading and | firing harder?

When the gates of the shell open | out will come | the whole parade of existence again | trumpets | drums | xylophones | chimes | And when the gates of shell close | the old life will vanish, exactly as this | vanishes | before | your | very | eyes


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder (2012–present, ongoing)
(this poem, April 2013)