A poem sent here in homage to Douglas Oliver (if he'll have it!).
ZEROES GALORE
The zeroes count, much more than you think
you don't think and say fuck it. So the beaten
path like an egg beaten is indistinct, what
parts once defined are, you are now
shuddering under the steel cry fork swept across
porcelain you eaten, teeth set on edge of zero.
I feel the world there. Which one mangled
Arab had co-produced but zeroes
you see and maniacs, one or the other has to go,
and fire may yet often be amorous,
the parts of its illustration used aptly, we have
the credit to say distinct things (if not
ever to be them). Zeroes also mean jobs.
To descry in each passing face the one beaten face,
owns no zeroes except ones seen passionately,
what could this consciousness rise up
to annihilate in fatal and glorious sunlight,
by love bound together, the expugnation of all fire.
And by cubicles kept apart, given a free say-so
please leave a message, where did the days
go wrong we tend to ourselves and zero.
The eidetic cutback is moral: a new car in the first
place is too fast. Secondly we throw you
and I ourselves out wildly, drive the night sane.
Where should we go, zeroing in on fire, numb
faced and by that hated fact so brilliantly outshone,
so far well, nowhere. There are a few
odd billion zeroes more, or less autonomous
men in the Iraqi corpse-oil-and-sand-pit. A zero
tolerance state inverted in The Arts, that shrinking
crescendo the light renounces I can't
touch and wake you up myself flickering in
and out with my vague face singing a part
never can be everything, were zero you the one
beaten face perfectly one part one
sky returned fireless anything more than
one death for everyone, finally you
might end, and our requiems then starts reversible and
lovely and the hope won't also end, I never shall.
A stupid gun laughs in a woman's face
fire contorts her, it is a way of letting hope be just
someday and its cold light stacked up in zeroes.
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