We met as phantoms in the mountains,
Unable to avoid the transnational arm of sleep
Of whatever city we got raised in.
I had such a beautiful dreamtime, an electric field,
My only weapon against it was to escape
Like Fantômas to the mountains where I met
Failed companies still operating under rotations of
Wild & loaded faces. A party danced nightly
In whatever settlement arose next.
Driving hard down the rue we strafed & founded
The ghost of Baghdad, a bag-heavy breeze
Of phantoms to maintain, & that we mooned,
Howling up a storm so that landslide myths would soon
Descend on the Coalition of opulence.
But that city’d been razed already
By the ELK, the Electric Light Korporation
Illuminating bones with a muzak unknown to me:
A silent fountain able to maintain
Despite the holey cluster the church had become—
Towering opinions having bleakly caved in.
Now everyone wants to sit in the rose
Of Venus: hermits are smitten by her ravines, suburban
Drunkards burn like moths in her brambled gin;
Needy men gyrate then faint on end
But no waterfall can compete on Stag’s night as dear old
Diana swallows the mature-aged sex industry
In whatever gun city she gets a raise next.
It’s a slippery slope, a Humming Flower production,
A piquant high of opals, as though the sea level’s
Risen to a newfound mountain peak.
Sometimes the ocean darkens, full of deadly schrapnel,
Orphic oysters berthing with news of forever
On our razored city shoreline—
It’s a furphy the Centaurs defecate on
From the height of the Collapse & into the Gulf,
Another mountain to climb for the Falling Man.
Roland keyboards on “beast mode” amplify the shock,
Sounding like teeth-plaque, like a bum-rush out or in
To whatever position will arouse me nix:
Fire drills ring out!—but I keep sleeping through it: I’m a wake
On an invisible pulley above a valley of tears, hanging out
With Fantômas of the mountainous Allegories
& we’re watching the latest TV wheeling & dealing
Over Libya from a romantic holiday chalet,
Our waterless eyes like onyx as
Craters explode & palm trees curdle over the edge of
This railing, designed for & streamed to those who dream
To meet like phantoms in the mountains
Of whatever city they got raised in.
Note: this poem is an inversion of Villes II by Rimbaud
1 May 2015