INFRA NOIR – 23 Untitled Poems
The trauma recedes
into an equipping learnedness.
Not to yield to.
Not to wield.
Its partner will come
in a devastating minim.
no hiding place
no boundary between
troubles and peoples.
Where once there
was sorting sanctuary
now an impending
resides alongside me.
One day my
replacement will make
a move and finish it off.
mental age of ten
often in charge
he’s got props
his queen there too
a tacky tribute to collect
a void hole to abide by
The catered-for states of unlaid proclaim a deep pubic
Callous rapport —
Peasantry- inflected genotypes —
Peas with fleas with flesh
with fast imperious astrolabes –
All among them drowning in paper tubs amongst
swathes of shoeshine wages lashed for longed-for rage
of cyclical repeats prior to trauma flash getting you off
in an egg timer eternity
a sudden suicide
a breach hole
excavated by a narrowing
domain of manoeuvre
no body movement
no stone in a clear inflated
breath bag passes forth
between us as an offer
it’s just experiential slaughter
by fearful certainty as
wards off non-being
as a mysticism and not
as an apt to be helped
form of pre-alienation that
grinds into wholemeat
the dessicated body fluids
made to ink and to paper
to impress upon us a
numbered tattoo to stamp
to sound and run aground
the silence of our
the sand a liberatory moment
a chance to come back
from a prior beyond
Butterfly quivers –
whistle of hyped drone
Bemoaner’s quag –
dew of expulsed arclight
Battles coagulate –
arrest of auto-castrated boys
Vicious projections rent a hole
in the values of
an over-archaic heart.
Viable dramatisations dispel the ache
of rubberised flesh
stretched to proximity.
Verifiable introjections deflate
the hope that holophrastic heresies
could ferment revolts.
It’s all made from cemented intents
in cemeteries echoing with the words
of the deceasing decreasing in inch by
inch of ink and spittle and regret in a
patchwork gyration of historic shards
sent into gloved centuries of seeming sane.
bullets ply the sand
embellishment is unnecessary
executions eliminate sorrow
holy bark stripped of
meaning except for a resin
stain and a stone etched
circularity of lines :-
marker of stillborn territories
They’ve depopulated homes,
abandoned them for caverns,
caves, basement hollows,
ashrams of deep wardrobes.
The death of the family resounds,
attends a civil breakdown …
the drive in the institutions,
all defensive and prehensile
implodes in an unbearable
defeat of warmongering defence.
Children, better off now,
without mummy-daddy forced love,
see their impotent fathers
unsymbolically castrated at the
hands of pink gowned women
in a clearing near a quarry where
passports burn, hair is shaved
and condoms get pinned.
Children run amok in their own law.
The breathless breeding ceases.
Society unreproduces to produce,
at first, clam-like people followed by
dolphin worshippers who whittle stones.
There’s a need to be a race of women
to bear and be born in empathy,
to eat placentas in the desert.
The last man hangs from a steelwork
construction of perfect precision
(a final attorney-like act)
his last money-shot did not fertilise
an orchid, a plastic bottle, a
molecule of brine that tips a wave.
Men have fucked phantasmic holes for too long.
This is their apocalypse.
To enter the void of their own unquestioned desire.
In the dusk they had to pay their
wives for spit-in-palm sex as
interminable 3D epics flickered in an iris.
What sweet strings benumbed them then?
The TV blue of separation?
The wilting flowers given to prostitutes?
Time weighed in ounces of sweat?
Abandonments for the greener grass
of a childlike, mother-protected, hope?
So, despair at such arrangedness coupled them
together as it did the cattle trucks of capital’s bliss.
The men were hunted
They wanted to be captured.
Fornicating in unifier irrelevance…
forgetting the saliva taste
the ear-hole hair
the pimple betwixt the blades.
… erotic protoplasms gasm a cosmos
with their random pinball couplings.
There’s a surplus to this pointless
This surplus amasses moons.
I can only be what these
acculturated words make of me
a broken subject: un-unique
and spurning the edited time to pretend.
a spoken subject: exposed banal
bereft and plummeting before expectation
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One thought on “INFRA NOIR – 23 Untitled Poems”
good work .greets from max , holland