well, welcome, Birk,
and a special warm double welcome which i'll hasten because of the no doubt few precious moments you'll remain on poetryetc, dear boy.
of course you'd know i cannot resist the invitation---well, any invitation, of course---but most particularly one which allows me to destroy most of your poetic lines and create what i want out of the remainder. so, since i seem to be on a strange timer warning me that i and my chair, the glass of pepsi sitting nearby, the entire house peopled with little furry ones such as rabbits and bears, the neighborhood known near-formerly as darlingpeopleton in what you commonly, much too commonly call uk will blow up sky high from gremlins' placing pipebombs in trashbins and then exploding them in a ritual ceremony understood dimly but somehow vestigially by ukers to celebrate what americans simply celebrate by wearing orange and black things and thrusting forth big brown paperbags and then the gremlins, with a maskey wink (tuff to manifest to the frontdoor-holding-open-householder) demanding, no,extorting, horrid globs of plastic candies. did the lovely lyrical sentence actually e!
nd here, i ask patrick mcmanus who i will be embracing at last at last at last? well, if not who the hell cares, certainly not me. to witter and wit damn it, here unfolds you, dear birk's poem as it should have originally been written by you in your immensely talented poetic manner:
It is raining in that country.
There is weather outside, like history,
demanding to be let in.
Sometimes, when the light shines through you,
irradiating muscle, cartilege, the jump-leads
of nerve, the gauze of skin, the dumb beat heart,
I see, as in a blinding flash, the Divine revelation
made flesh,
Like megatons of halo.
The rain is over.
Cheers, DA B,
OmniP aka Judy from UK
>
> From: David Bircumshaw <[log in to unmask]>
> Date: 2005/10/31 Mon AM 04:35:27 EST
> To: [log in to unmask]
> Subject: Fugue
>
> (this is one of several slightly different drafts of a current piece I'm worrying at - the full-screen width lines btw are slightly longer than I would have them on the printed page )
>
> Fugue
>
>
> It is raining in that country. Cats and dogs. I can touch the curves in your voice on the pet-lovers line. The blood is everywhere I whisper. On your pillow you murmur Taste it - it is mine.
>
> Carnivals of carnage on car-parks and streets.
>
> *
>
> I know the ways of kebabs. And the evil eyes of knives. There is weather outside, like history, demanding to be let in.
>
> *
>
> Sometimes, when the light shines through you, irradiating muscle, cartilage, the jump-leads of nerve, the flotations of offal, the gauze of skin, the dumb beat heart, and all the other addenda and etcetera and excreta
>
> I see, as in a blinding flash , the Divine revelation made flesh.
>
> Like a hundred megatons of halo.
>
> *
>
> That: this. Tvat tvam asi.
> *
>
> There are tyres in that country, and turning wheels. Animalcules are remarked of with suspicion. In shop dressers' windows, the police pose as models. Go nowhere without your private pocket calculator.
>
> *
>
> The rain is over. The all-clear has sounded.
>
>
>
> Best
>
> Dave
>
|