the deer inside itself

By | 26 February 2008

inside a brown name along an objective spine
the self of a deer holds like data
like a sheaf of sugarcane-as if? still being put together by science.
thats you looking in, seeing yourself, then trying to brush yourself
away out like a fly fire. comparisons are oiliest
near the barbecue but no apron will help
now, in the virtual forest where meat is half of
greet: 'theyre like humans but outside language…'

somehow they got, in that position, the postsingular or thresh & grain.
alleluia at least he hoped so?
when we shook-hands we made the most-of it.
we went to the market, we met a gypsy on the way,
she said we were married. its possible possibly
yet at times my mind quakes like its under unknown water,
foot by foot, it removes itself from itself, & killed, by hunter,
& still standing, leafy twig in its teeth.
if you finally say something dont bother.

there are gold coins, like spoors all over the forest floor
music hands stiffen at thoughts of fur.
the deer is swimming it is dilated
with blood & thought, perhaps best left to reality?
which isnt starting, not anytime soon anyway, the restlessness of being peaks
in the wind. the box the unimprisoning box:
the fawns are in it, the stags, & the does
milk sloshing in a bucket. the body costume, not character.
all your fire reports on knowledge reduced to a smell.

there are two ways of going
at it call one attentive. paradoxically its the one immersed in emotion.
words fall into your head like green fruit, like gull feathers,
& its true without you knowing it
who could pretend to hang out in
that hot slimy place, a belly. we became lightning, cold
lightning; i saw smoke move from branch to branch had i seen a ghost?
ears, come into play. a memory of easels set up,
& wildlife documentaries with celebrities & military logic.

dad says come on be seasonable
what do any of us get by staying still?
footrot & frostbite thats if were lucky? but we werent
to hear, a song that started eons ago. a silent song a
drawing of a song, a surveying & surveillance &
a-con your smile, has evaporated in the mist:

'so do what you want but know
what you are doing, my home
my garden i know its fantasy
i try to kick a little
real rock into it when i can
sometimes though, its all mind.
its spooky waking up, finding its as
you left it like a protected exhibit.
we never see our own tape, or our blackout
the acclimatised birds are stirring.'

they, at nest, work it out.

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