Internal Weather, for Randolph Stow

By | 1 August 2012

I dwell in this bone-cave     rocking cup of skull
histories constantly re-writing themselves     weaving

‘brain-waves’          thoughts drift out from
a fatty backwash   veins crawl with grainy information

blood-cells pushed into the white country
in multiples of ten                           you know nothing is lost

we remembered     sand streamed in syllables
lines breaking into phrases          static-sparks         weather

rain splattered paper       torn memories     flicker
sparks ping against blue tats      a healthy pink tongue

touching porcelain    internal canals   gushing
  woven nests    waves of fine              fragments of shells

Cannot evaporate, can’t die down—we live
at the world’s expense         devouring         pale after-images

with a bad weather-eye      tails of the serifs
chalk-up        fine stainless blades       score the walls of

a typewriter of bones   tapping   Morse on the spine’s
fret-work       the philosopher’s a machine     ticking out days

skidding down aisles in supermalls      I stand in the hall
in a column of human breath       the sandy desert

polishing finger nails          hair combed and dressed
a boogie with Mondrian     over leagues of broken weather


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