These beetles rise up on the
shiny oiled chain, over the cog on the
landing, from the humming boiler room below. All the rooms are
served by conveyors. Each beetle measures twelve inches in length.
My grandmother built a rococo
altar in the hall. Each of us knelt
alone on a narrow strip of carpet. Each strip of carpet was
patterned in red. The aspiring Christian crashes upwards, splinters
entering his body, as I discovered when the child Jesus intervened
in my dreams.
Judas lived in the dining room;
he was a waxwork but was capable
of propelling himself to my bedside, and his greasy hair hung
over
me during the night. In the dining room he kept jars. Each jar
was
five feet in height, rounded at base, made of glazed earthenware.
In my sickbed I would plan flying
machines while the snows outside
melted or froze. I gazed at the long horizontal beam of the
streetlamp, yellow on white. I heard the trains, like big bands,
in
the distance, wailing. I dreamed of my father, floating, wrapped
in
towels, apparently only nine inches in length on that occasion.
The corridors were polished,
although dark. I could not fly down
them as I hoped. Their length was uncertain, probably hundreds
of
yards. Outside it rained or snowed incessantly but the house could
only travel in one direction, towards the north.
1 - INVISIBLE ALIENS SLIP THROUGH
OUR NORTHERN
LIGHTS
I am glaring down from 100000
feet
through thin splintered strata
of stone-green sky
through split laminations of the ice-green light
through slide after fractured slide of hard air
into the snow drift
whiteness is all
all light is glazed
light waves and ghosts move more slowly here
I burn with a dry white light
I burn a green hole in the sky
I can sift and destroy any grain
of snow
it will burn before it arrives at the snowdrift
but I cannot make out the grey
mass of my dreams
the yolk that wobbles inside my shadow
as my blur grows sharper
Soon I shall fly in my sleep
like a floating stone
2 - BREAKING THE LINE OF THE
SILENCE
Bearing down from 2000 feet
the snow has stopped crawling
all over this secret wasteland
but even behind smoked lenses my eyes burn
the huge white ledge of the
ice age horizon quivers
these motors cannot hold
perfect pitch
one overtone can be lethal
over the snow drift
I do know which machine will
design my ghost
3 - BENEATH THE PERMAFROST THEIR
ENTRAILS BECOME
ARTEFACTS
From here (at 1000 feet)
the snow makes no move
under the crust (snow/stone)
any deep shelters or caves must be ice-packed
their stalagmite horns point inwards and downwards
perhaps someone claws through a seam of black blood
under the surface of the drift
perhaps some kind of inhabitant uses this snow
to preserve or compress his dead women
under the weight of the green stones
no one has ever existed perhaps
-
a shape steps out of my shadow
and moves
the snow makes no move
but this point keeps moving
my blurring dials waver like
a single insect
white is the colour of cataract
in the blindness that flares up beneath me
something small and alive is moving
4 - THE OPAL LIGHTS OF ALL POSSIBLE
DEATHS IN HER
EYES
Between the vehicle's scorched
rim and a page of snow
there is less than one tenth of an inch
pause
I sit in the infra-red glow
of my hot black cell
the starlight makes tiny holes in my hand
footprints are making a final spiral
around the blind side of the hull
towards this cramped blister of one-way glass
a girl's shape steps out
of the shadow
between the time-warped plates
of this craft
and the stance of her pelvis sheathed in green leather
seven, eight, six footsteps...
her lips moves as she stops
I cannot read her
her fingertips hesitate over her breasts
I am not he who knows
who knows what she is
this new untouchable animal found in the snow
no way I can open the scabbed
hatch and go out
only this ship supports my life
my backbone is force-fed with black spinal fluid
as the needle retreats from my scalp one more time
no way she can stumble through
the gasping airlock
this ship supports my life only
the young milk that climbs through her platinum spine
might change in this air charged with iron filings
this air filtered through tanks of crushed anthills
this air that changes each second
with the spores that drift from my mouth
between the filaments of her
body and mine
between her taut network of atoms and mine
between the spasms between their fragments of light
arc-lights flashing on the highwire
grid
the high-tension fence that slowly sags
over the edge of our snowbound mass graves
the black thing that is
nothing speaks again
as the knife edge of the galaxy turns
as she removes her dark glasses
the snow flares up
as I turn on the strobe in the
cabin
her body twists I look through her eyelids
how can I ask if she sees me
watching
the opal lights of all
possible deaths in her eyes
5 - AFTER THE BLACKOUT THESE
LAST READINGS
I am flying stone-blind in slow
orbit: 10,000 feet
the stone falls in shreds for the last time
I am drifting whiteness is all
She is somewhere beneath these
heavy stiff sheets
when she sleepwalks into the maze of my cortex
she does not undress
for I unidentified flying observer
must grope out of flight trance
at random but frequent moments
to find the same pattern still fading on the screen
the lines of force that flow
through her solar plexus
flex steadily towards the north
it is time to retreat through
the tunnel of sub-space
return to my home built black planet
retire to my sinking black palace
to record this last rite
I play myself back into darkness
RADIO
Music of the squat white
stars
and the cackle of strange vessels
scratching at my earphones
a whole galaxy muttering
(and I've lost the code)
Wrapped in their slow burning
web
the dying gods breathe in and out
eating their last laugh
for the bubble in the final trumpet mouth will not burst
and the flower continues to fade and unfold
with a long bang
(but we've lost the code).
Too many metaphors have
died in our bedclothes
around midnight
The latest: a large ulcerated mushroom
which lolls on its thick puce toxic pillar
that was first excreted from the tissues of the mattress
one recent and notoriously dank night;
and this excrescence
(which will soon die)
is not the last,
will not be the worst,
A well-padded voyeur
- with a zooming lens -
might have beheld admirable things:
on the 77th night
a large quartz globe
screwed into the bedframe
pulsated with a dazzling orange glare
on the 99th night
a turbulent hump of stained banknotes
and other discarded filters from our mucous system
are pulped by a jet of blood from the bedside socket
two hands mould an idol from this papier-mache
on the 144th night
a thunderstruck Christmas tree was rooted to the quilt
tightly strung packages of maimed meat
were bending its centipede branches backwards ...
on the 666th night
the whole room was passing through a black hole
in the antimatter of the ant-speckled bodies
small clusters of stars were observed
on the1000th night
a thin male demon had been crucified on the ceiling
he glared down at the snowscape of the bed
as yet unpunctured by mushrooms
on the 1001st night
despite the slow dripping of blood or water
from the chitinous corpe of the un-dead demon
despite the high whine of the overdrive
that propels this bedroom through the infinite darkness
despite the steady tremble of electrons
in the hand of glory that illumines these mummified lovers
- a translucent globe of electrified opal
(some old stone too heavy for God to lift)
has gently settled on the bloodstained pillows
Tonight the voyeur sleeps
in his leather-lined grave
Tonight the nite time
is not the rite time
to screw together
the weather-beaten portable
altar
on which we perform our burlesque black masses
Tonight we shall sleep
without our false noses
between clean sheets
without our blue auras
between clean sheets
without orgone receivers
between clean sheets
with no sweat
Out in the perpetual rainlit
city
two rusty ghost box cars are conveniently coupling
and the hoarse alto of a railroad
horn
hovers round a flattened seventh
My devil's nature may
be huge
and all cold
but we've got to keep on
keeping on
keep on
keeping on
The throne room can be found
beneath the city surface, an
octagonal chamber at the intersection of eight tunnels. The floor,
walls and low flat ceiling are all plated in heavy sheet iron,
patterned by a large but finite number of rivet heads. The sources
of
light are outside the room, somewhere in the tubular tunnels diffused,
diffracted, perhaps. A dusty glow, faint and red, intrudes from
the
mouth of each tunnel.
Narrow slots traverse the floor.
They run from the eight dim
openings and cross at the throne room's centre on a small rusting
turn-
table, which does not appear to move, yet slowly and noiselessly
turns, clockwise. At the time of writing, this imperceptible movement
is the only activity in the throne room
In the mouth of the northwest tunnel, a throne is stationary.
It
is probably no longer in use, for the rich upholstery is stained
and
slashed, chrome has peeled from the bumper around its base, and
the
panels of the high hack are buckled and scratched. Yet cables
still
festoon the canopy and hang in clusters from the spiked skullcap.
It
is vacant. Few have glimpsed an occupied throne, either in motion
or
at rest.
A smell of scorched rubber enters
the air. The studded walls
vibrate. From the north and east, a rumble of approaching thrones,
The time ship keeps shifting
on the surface of the glass curve
in an eternal parabola
through all strata
under the beds of the fossils
between the crushed artefacts
across the petrified marshes
past the sunken monuments
around the dull red core
(the inflamed red heart of all dreamers)
the bomb-shaped time ship keeps moving into the clay
The captain, permuting his log, a pastime,
sits naked in the control room; a glow
from the master panel; wet blank view ports;
What exists out there? Nobody knows, no
sounds; image scanners outline a grey sun.
Down below: a thickening layer of sand
in the engine room where a tree
has begun to branch. Twigs flex and claw the eggshell roof.
Strands of hair around the bronze terminals,
a scarched switch, bent pins, shattered sockets, dust
swims over relics of rape.
Seminal fluid evaporates,
the first mate's lust became myth
His blinded victim wanders between mirrors, crawls
on corroded catwalks towards the motor cage.
Under the rotors she lies and waits.
All the seeds are dead.
Silence.
Her thighs close.
Glimpses of white limbs ( discs spin near her brow)
In the bowels of the ship, the time tree grows.
The warped geometry of dark cabins
contains passengers. Few can remember
their outlines. Some have lost senses.
The Captain crows in his nest.
He is the last member to remember.
He keeps the charts, the maps,
files, tables, crystals, cards, creates the logs...
Giant spools roll through his mind,
holes and gaps gape through his grainy dreams,
time travelogues
again and again
re-reading the book of gnomes
we searched for omens:
there were reports of huge cogs sinking on the horizon
again and again
to re-condition our reflexes
we dissected robots
some protested but tests succeeded
again and again
to revive the old pleasures
we destroyed wide-eyed girls in the smoky enamelled chapel
the soft ashes choked us
TO BEGIN AGAIN/TO FIND A LOST CONTINENT/TO REFESH THE SPECIES/TO DISCOVER THE THIRD EYE/TO GO TO BED WITH ANGLES IN TREES
- was that the clean draft of the manifesto?
I cannot live it
you cannot live it
s/he cannot live it
we cannot live it
they cannot live it
The old terror catches us up in its paw,
the act is ruptured;
as the perpetual shit turns and tumbles on the screen
as the screaming alarms announce time
as the time ship slides and shudders down a rubberised vortex
time flips/over/blinds/my eyes/ are black spots
long gropes
where is the god
where is the man
where are the sibilant guides - our voices -
time drips inside the ship
hollows stone minds
(I am inside the ship)
the ship keeps moving
My armoured brain reverses through sepia dreamscapes;
the brown light breaks in through slits in my blistered mask.
The shuddering gearshift is probably locked in reverse -1
can still sense the slow motion of my scorched shell, the
odometer whirling me backward through the rusty haze,
while the blue fumes on my breath leave soot on the
dashboard.
In retreat, everything changes.
The blur of letters on the inside of my turret are now
cryptograms. Last orders and prayers can be safely mouthed
backward. The caterpillar tracks cover the same ground,
meshing firmly in ruts of fused sand. A clump of molten
signposts comes into focus.
There are tliousands of thin red lines scored on the
flanks of the dunes but veins do not pattern this desert. My
vessel crawls into the bed of a shallow canal, on a pavement
of crushed prosthetic limbs. (A foot or a hand still occasion
ally flickers).
The trails of intricate rubble
intercept. The oasis.
At this spot, an enlarged insect
might collapse beneath
its own weight. On reaching this point, the whirring carpets
of enemy spiders would revert to wild, run wild. From a
small but typical, tilted maypole hominid relics swing in a
bag of webbing. The ornithoptric men crashed in their
thousands.
At this point the windscreen begins to shiver. Soon all
my components will start to vibrate at the same frequency.
Before us, the desert is cobbled with stahlhelms.
In this deep shelter
(a converted washroom)
the furniture of survival
sustains me
I can work here
wrapped in damp polythene sheeting
only loosely strapped
to my cold cracked throne|
I can write my last name
on the tiles
in dandruff
Left alone
I can fumble
with the four last things
NUTRITION
that toothpocked hose on the faucet
is flooding my palate with dregs of plankton
the world is eating the sum of its parts
INPUT
the grey-green egg of a cathode tube
keeps me informed and well-lit
with the dazzling striped light of the weltschmerz
the airwaves will soon resume normal shape
OUTPUT
the keyboard of the teleprinter
satisfies my tactile itch
each word jerks off into the void
I'm a poltergeist with a bren gun
EXCRETION
I'm seated at the end of the food chain
on the site of the earth's last closet
after the labyrinth of jaws and colons
a soil pipe down to the Silurian
MY SPECULATIONS ARE VERY LOUD
Can I shield my sex with plywood
from the oily feathers of the Venus Flytrap?
Can I smell out my own body
before the nerve gas tickles my septum?
How can I hear the music of
the fleas
and a few trees strumming in the whirlwind
before the firestorm melts these lead walls?|
I TELEX THIS MEMORANDUM:
the smudged drum of the printer
unrolls:
this is the whole picture
INSIDE PASSIONATE GNOME'S HATE
NEST WE DECODE PAPA DADA/TALK TALKS ON HI-JACKED SEXPLANE PLAN/FILTH
TEENS TRIBE FEST/
GOLEM SURVEY FOOD FREAKS KILL/FOOD KILLS/ANTHRAX PILLS
KILL/ MUD MURDER RAPE RAP/RIP'n'REAP/MIZZ PIG IS TUFF TITTY/
DEATH FREEZER/COPS NAB VD KING/CZAR DOOM STRIKES STAR/
DEATH SUMMIT LOVE/GARBAGE STRIKE
DEADLOCKS/"THE FOOD KILLS"/ CIRCUIT NOISE/CLEAR CIRCUIT
/J EDGAR BEAVER ORGY POLICE RIOT
"TOO MANY WRONG FISH IN THE SEA" /RIOT FREUDS ROT WRIT
UNCLEAR
FBI NIX IRA DNA NIX ON IRAN AND GB/KGB DNA
protein police food slayings/security masks death public issue
DEAD AIR DEAD AIR
DEAD AIR DEAD AIR
I type the four letters with one finger
far below
in the depths
of the plumbing
a choked spasm
first blood
then water
brims over
the bowl
morsels of underwear, dental
plates
the sooty filter of a gasmask
a contraceptive bulging with tobacco
the pulp of a thousand oil-smeared publications
dance on the spume of the dark liquid rush
before I die, floating downwards
on the quiet waters of this septic tank
I'll at least be certain of the time
on the kidneys of the protein clock
on the golden brown crystals gather and thicken
IT IS NOW THE HOUR OF THE GREAT CONTEMPT
IN THAT DRONING CITY (THE NEST)
each vox is a fuzz box
dead centre point
where the young insects feed
in the mouths of the ancients
whose masks smile and scream
dead silently
and I am trying (come closer
my love)
to talk gently
IN HELL THERE ARE NO ECHOES
footsteps stop
outside the door
where no switches exist
for breaking the circuit
of the systems of lighting (and power)
there is only a hand
on the handle
there are no echoes
stop
do not be hysterical
WAR GAME
playground frozen
white on black
flash
scorches bulb ice hot
blind men lead blind children
(slow motion)
in wavering circles past a scorched
flag
ring dem bells
UNDERNEATH THE BLACK PLANETS
(revolving, invisible)
doom city exists
lost citadel
crushed by the counter-attack of the forests
near one broken dome
(stained skull, opening
slowly to the sky
vegetation has crossed the perimeter)
she waits for me
I come each night
with a fresh mutation of flowers
cannot console her
FINAL NEWS HEADLINES
on the fifth side
of the empty war room
we found the tapes still running
(machinery survives intact below the surface)
SURVIVE/SURVIVE/PROTECT/SURVIVE/DO
YOU COPY?/
IT'S TOTAL/OK U.K./HER AGONY/MAGGOT TALKS/USA
DEAD CHIEFS PEACE PIPE MISSION/QUEEN
CONFESSES/RAYGUN OVERAWES THOSE GAYS/KEEP
CRUISING BABY/IT'S TOTAL/BABY GUERILLA
KILLER/BURN UP/GOLD MENACE/GOLD BLOCK/THE YOLK
OVERFLOWS/HOB'S LANE RAPE/PRESSURE
INCREASES/PLEASUREDROMEHORROR/IT'S
SENSATIONAL/SHELTER GIRLS/ALL SYSTEMS GONE
PINK/WHITE OUT/GROUND ZERO APPROACHING/KING
KONG BORN AGAIN /OPERATION GOD HITS OUT/WAR
IS LAXATIVE//WAR IS LAXATIVE/WAR IS
LAXATIVE/TERMINAL ZONE CONTACT/DO YOU READ ME
FAT MAN?/HOT DAMN GONNA BUST MY GUT/IT'S
BREEDING SUN POWER/STAR POWER/SUN POWER/
BURN BABY/BURN BABY/BURNBABY
BABY/BURN BABY/BURN BABY/BURN
BABY/BURN BABY/BURN BABY/BURN
BABY/BURN BABY/BURN BABY/BURN
BABY/BURN BABY/BURN BABY/BURN
BABY/BURN BABY/BURN BABY/BURN
BABY/BURN BABY/BURN BABY/BURN
BABY/BURN BABY/BURN BABY/BURN
BABY/BURN BABY/BURN BABY/BURN
BABY/BURN BABY/BURN BABY/BURN
BABY/BURN BABY/BURN BABY/BURN
BABY/BURN BABY/BURN BABY/BURN
BABY/BURN BABY/BURN BABY/BURN
BABY/BURN BABY/BURN BABY/BURN
My old age
survives my ice age
in this cryogenic cell, my dead
egg,
where my stiff self has exhibited his torso
for a number of crystalline seconds (wax aeons?)
in this black-domed museum,
my ex-mausoleum.
The rhyming clocks have stuck
in the hall of fame.
Their silence signals my liquefaction,
as gas giggles again in my gut,
while an eye bubbles softly in its steaming crater,
and my iced cage defrosts in a flood of blonde ligl
the seconds dribble afresh through my gristly heart
... I yawn
- these resurrections are turgid,
but that long peristaltic worm of the dream
can stretch my rigor mortis no further.
Muzak flushes discretely around
me;
(the senses are making a judicious come-back,
I disinter them with care,
they wear grey).
The Museum swirls and settles
around me;
(after centuries, the right cue:
The Curator selects his seal
of survival,
in turn, he returns to the Dioramas}
There were no clues in my sleep,
just a mumbling shroud.
There were no blues on my astral travels,
only the had seven-handed boogie
rolling and tumbling on the spiderman's keyboard.
There was no news in my black-out
but bad news: a giant dwarf
is at large in the cosmos.
There were no innuendos in my
visions;
merely the hollow scream of an android,
her buttocks tortured in a web of black'nylon
while from (concealed) wailing wells the warbling oil
overflowed the slim font in the nave of her ghetto grotto
at my command.
There were no allusions in my
trances,
simply a reference I still can't trace:
like the vast dirigible bulk
of God,
the Black Museum swims through the abyss
Those dream directives outline
my future:
my old rope knotted with nibbled femurs,
my worn shaking pipeline of silver bullets,
my frayed hose fouled with electric eels,
my ancient extruded intestinal snail,
my venerable treacly umbilical serpent -
that inches its slow tangled weight through each dusty archway
towards a winch at the sacred pithead
of the savoury midden I channel within me
that secretes (inside me) retrievable secrets:
the shrouds of monoliths
the flesh of pyramids
a Tibetan book of mortuary
cosmetics
God's pointed hat
his luminous nose
a banquetting table once
graced by harpies
the wrist of an almost perfect lead woman
the Fuehrer's Tarnhelm
the bottled oracle of Panurge
my shrivelled grey apeskin
bag of soul crackers
a vulgar gold-plated coprolite
the Wolfman's mohair suit
Count Dracula's tapered silver boots
a monocle abandoned at the
centre of the earth
the Stone of the Philosophers
a plaster model of the Smaragdine
Tablet
a sedan chair used by Barabbas
the indestructible food of
my Golem
a clock that exploded in the midnight hour
a rusty capsule of an unclaimed
time-ship
the Abyss and its daemon Choronzon
an abbess and her corpulent
demon Glasybolas
my succubus writhing in a white lace shift
her sisters in the flaming robes of their Klan
a dollar bill smeared with their menstrual blood
the skull of a squashed cat gorged on goats' kidneys
a well armed tabernacle
a cold brain purchased on
the black market
the rugby songs of Valhalla
(on vinyl)
my ancestors' rag-time death-march (on wax)
the half-molten trigger of
a ruined ghost-trap
forged tickets for the Day
of Wrath?
the limpid hull of a young
girl's spacecraft
its cargo of hair-nets and blood-stained mirrors
a saxophone bearing an ancient
curse
the dark glasses of the High Priest
the world's roaches in perpetual
motion
finger-prints of the walking dead
all your obituaries and babelgrams
all my unedited unopened letters
the foxtrotting spider I
have trained to draft them
the drunken dragon that prefers to burn them
the eraser that rubs out
human filth
the back-firing death ray that's strapped between our legs
a black uncut book of new Alephs
this revised catalogue of
dark arcana
and the word, which mouthed backwards unmakes the cosmos
ad infinitum etc.
I, curator, catalogue-maker,
am sole exhibit in this Black Museum.
I shall soon clatter through the empty halls,
through renewed old ages, past the dark glass cases,
down the long balustrades, through the blank chambers,
down misty cloisters, around hollow pillars, running
through the vacant hallways
trying to invert the word, and its small black noises.
1
Be prudent:
This planet has a beginning
a middle and an end.
At the dead end, dismount,
walk through the burying ground; touch
the mound
at the base.
Look up at the tower, the grid
the silvery hairy antennae.
Watch the panel on the plinth,
the dials, the frozen meters, the icicle spiders
reach solid state.
the absolute is zero.
Perfect machines contain no moving parts.
2
Do not panic, do not be pagan.
Be prudent, Avoid convulsions.
Hear these instructions. You must not forget you are approaching
the dead end. There will be no more signals. Follow our signs.
The
handrails are provided for your own protection. Remain on the
path. Avoid spoors. Do not be disturbed by your guides. They are
there to help you across the final meters of the midnight zone.
Abstain from beans. Do not remove your masks. The guides will
intone your names when the time comes. Do not remove your
gloves. They will be specially treated for the final handshake.
Do
not expose yourselves. Do not accept any immodest songs,books
or
pictures that might be offered to your at the wayside. Protect
your
nervous system. At the dead end, on the ledge of the dead end,
STAND BACK
The slim end of the shining
edge is hardened, serrated,live
3
I arrived at the dead end
several days ago
after many evolutions
after ritual purifications
after stamping out my birth mark
after slicing out my tumours
after smoking out my nest of serpents
after hammering my shadow
after burning down my shadows
after cutting up my writing
after breaking my assemblies
after erasing my warped tapes
after distilling my bodily fluids
after savaging my dogs
after draining off my cesspit and smashing the sump
after smashing my crutch and cane
after scouring my fleshpots
after strafing my floodlit bed
after testing my gold guardians (chuckling in sulphuric acid)
after ticking my clown to death
after strangling my private puppet
after stuffing my corpses with fuel-soaked rags
after digging my own cave
after flooding my charred ark
after the purgative flood
after human sacrifice
I came to the dead end
three thousand light years
from the Vatican
where all the parallels converge
4
Infinity is dotted with rotating
corpses...
their domed helmets sparkle, their tangled lifelines
unroll from concave bellies
and particles of an enormous query
jerk through their barbed electric fibres
The transmitter floats a
few feet away
from the rim of the dead end.
It is spherical, compact and far too small.
© Paul A.Green.
Thanks to Contemporary Poetry of British Columbia , Prism International, DNA , CBC Radio Anthology & Ideas, Poetry Review, New Worlds, Tangent, Underground, Synthesis, Label, where these texts first appeared. Also Angels of Fire & The Terminal Journal for subsequent reprints.
Original DNA recordings of Directions to The Dead End, The Gestaltbunker & Around Midnight now on line as mp3s at Culture Court
