By | 1 February 2015

The light lasts into everything

Bare ruined wires where late et cetera: too *smirk* simple
a substitution. Once upon, the grey machines we dreamed
(o orange glow!) were happy & made us so, no. Really. Dis-
mantled with a hammer yr VCR yr diskette (non standard)
yr tomb for the unknown camera. What country, friends,
where analogue means proceed by metaphor, (dis)simulation,
illusion; and digital, by hand. An exchange, sweet birds,
subject to defoliation. Twilight of such (or say, second life)
such fire, red standby – nod, wink – an unfading sunset.

The Scots form obsolute apparently arose by confusion with absolute

False as etymology: so they say. The machine that dreamed
us was well-made, with hope & kindness, even. Sweet bird
of power: when it flies out, we move through skin, a scribble
heatseeking. It should be over now, older than, old as, safe
as. Back it up &. Remains remain &. We. As species, assimilate,
this gift for saying goodbye. End without world, (new or else),
as wild hope, koan left behind in the ticket machine & now settled
beneath my debit card: VOID VOID VOID VOID. Open hands I
– icchantikas – long not to long for. But, but we bear enmeshment.

Another child of silence

Let go. To be/to not: equally problematic. All the violence bird
caged in me in bone in this this strike at. Leaves a. Is similar
to itself in all iterations, similarises, mimetic. Pain’s a settler
beating pathways, cigarette-cherry alleys in the brain after sunset
don’t go there. Down there. That ride I’ve not thumbed long since
w/ all my girl fears that have no expiration. White stucco safe
deposit box in which I store; Nora this and Nora that, birdhands
remote controlled, unchiasmatic. We are incompatible, system
so crude & yet. W/ my quiver of needles, I’ll take that outside-in.

Together with you the chaos makes sense

Why why does she call the nights “wild”? & twice. Militant/simile,
insistent, exclamatory. See leaves rattling the polite white settlement
window, no nuits fauves: incommensurate obliterations. Sent letters,
her grammar granular, sublunary, just a little sugar, that biscuit
that will bite the hand. Void in my mouth, ejecta, named meshuga
showing strange faith in speech acts. Not your Rilkean ersatz elseher,
yr surplus unplugged cunt, “redundant female artefact,” system
down, hanging blankly from the socket. Will this unplayed dead
do? Do hang: bare ruined wires a frayed. & so I put my trust in end.


The first, third and fourth stanza headers are misreadings, or mishearings, of lines from
(respectively): Rebecca Solnit, The Faraway Nearby; Jacqueline Rose, Women in Dark Times
and Maja Borg, Future My Love.

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