On Not Giving an Account of Oneself

By | 1 February 2017

for Dann & bindlestiff cyberpunk

I am telling a story without prehistory.
Pocket rockets of pink, the go to temple
of gum blossom. Rays of morning sun
settling on the driver’s side. By way of warning,
I would say I am impressionable.
My inability to assume greater agency
offset by being ‘on board’
with the attention economy. Pieces of intelligence
fall as spring rain, once more unadvertised.
Breathing in damp grass simply
the work of motor neurones. Be still,
be mine, my Dixie flatline.
Road trip vs the more anti-natural commute:
is this shorthand outworn for the human path?
Paddocks disguise a different kind of sprawl, post
the muteness of winter. A Euclidean delisting.
Might I take a wrong turn
at the object of temptation? Mud-spatter
on the high chrome gloss. The tattoo of razor girl
making out with the console cowboy
just visible through the rearview mirror.
If I took a peptide for every disappointment,
would I fail to replicate Love’s focalisation?
The foreign object unlodged, made mobile
in my basic needs bloodstream. How to drive
beyond an escape clause of origins,
of having started out all wrong, a problem
to be ‘found’ somewhere, hand in glove,
with my infantile life. Outsider bespoke:
That was then, this is now.
Listening to bird song. Again.

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