Singing to Lord Ganesha | pointing out the rise of titanic waves | kneeling before the little country shrine | to the thorn and the blood | People are like knots in a length of rope Hal said | When a person’s born, it’s like a knot tied in the rope | The rope is just the same, you see, there isn’t more or less of it | same length, same weight | but the configuration changes | Airport, busy over the Christmas period | bad weather causing cancellations and delays | Kids when they’re young | you buy them an expensive present | they have much more fun with the cardboard box | the present came in | Just an empty cardboard box! | And when you die, the knot is untied | and the rope goes back to the way it was before | The world, I mean — it just goes back to the way it was before | Terrible conditions for the workers at the gold mine | And the avant garde isn’t ahead of anything, it’s just another niche market | a quaint | cottage industry | Riding in the back | Taking a cocktail of drugs, why? | Watching clouds until you get fretful, forget | about the clouds, don’t even think of them | when rain coops you up for days | Hurrying to get on board | This is a new theme, but the silence inside it is old | The stragglers trying to press on | struggling through heavy snows | Those huge integral eyes | staring into the distance | It will be a long voyage | into those mountains | Gradually coming into view | and very slowly growing | a fresh idea of wolves | and shadows flowing into winter | a world, sleek and trembling | like blown glass | the cave with orchids near its mouth | and the bears at tea | fucking each other | then rolling away | into TV again | and all the sparkling | pristine connections | tarnish as they fire | peaks beyond the foothills | into a dreaming baby’s mind

There’s space enough | You can always add some more in if you want | More than enough | Maybe even too much | space | And it keeps growing | Stuff in the garage | jump leads | pliers | six types of oil | Junk in the loft | Aspects of China and America | She drove for hours in that old European car | just drove round the city, waiting for a story to begin | But when the vampire came in his ornate black carriage | up above the frosted roofs | the crosses on all the steeples | crumpled | one by one, in sequence, like a wake of shadow, the streetlamps | died | the mirrors cracked and cried in anguish | cut flowers | browned and withered in a matter | of a few instants | and on the mantels and the dressers | small mounds, made from the dust of petals | crouched and squeaked as the windows opened | and the vampire floated through | The settlers had no taste for it | that life in a new world | They soon got out | The main party had gone on ahead | as night descended | the stragglers had such pretty green eyes | and no one dared to link | the quiet beauty of the falling snow | with the name of a disaster

 


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

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