Who creates an artificial womb?
Who spends their time in a room
of polished plastic thinking – fantastic
I’ll first make a womb for a sheep
Then later, for other things
like a car or just oil in a sac
then later still, human wombs can dangle
growing the next crop of office workers.
does money do that?
And then automatically flash pictures across
all its wires
so fast that progress happens
And no one has to do
Thinks – first I’ll make a womb for a womb
And then grow wombs from them
but what was the problem again?
Today… what did I do at work..
But someone’s made a womb for a bomb
That’s a little strange
What if it goes off?
We can save with a womb
But carefully, oh so carefully
Don’t get over excited
Womb-born hearts still pump, pump
And bleed nicely
Getting born is just slightly more difficult.
We’ll just straddle the knife edge of getting born
What am I?
My breath is the sea foam’s subtle churning
My breath is the bird’s automatic babbling
My breath is the cloud mist’s clenchings and unclenchings
My breath is the thundering star-wave thaum
My breath is the forking of lightning angles
My breath is the forging of mountain’s face
My breath is the sand’s tumble-glass roar
My voice is the sea whisper slump
My voice is the crow-cry’s arcing
My voice is the cloud gaze recognition
My voice is the thunder’s propogation
My voice is the forging of elements
My voice is the landslide’s destruction of roads
My voice is the pile’s piling angle
My brain is the moon’s towering amazement
My brain is the bird-brain’s response to a jump-scare
My brain is the sun, and the astronomical unit
My brain is the twinkling of nuclear despair
My brain is the electron’s earthquake fizz
My brain is the shading and curve of space-time
My brain is the hourglass curve and falling
What am I?
In the jangled clouds and beams of april
We walked the inhuman boulevards of Paris
We stood on the île and, pestered slyly
We reluctantly left a lock, engraved
With our names. We shouldn’t have.
When arguments began to stick and curdle
When our insults began their moth-flutters in the air
We tried our best to break up, it was no use
We would fight in the night, rot in our sourness and split
Only to wake again in bed, covered in rust.
Something was obviously wrong, the rust stung
Left sores where it touched, got in our crevices
So we first disliked each other more and more
Til pain, pain was the everyday way of things
And the friction so great we ground each other to stubs.
Snapping off one day I managed to run, return to the city
Again I saw the Seine and heard its whispers
I approximated the key’s trajectory, looked:
The water boiled and surged in whirlpool boils
Nothing. I saw nothing but the dirt-flow
But then, sudden, surfacing from a deep sound
It came: whale mass of iron, clumps of lock-keys
Heralding an orange trellis of rustwater currents
The lock-demon, the million locks key-keeper swam
A trembling mass of promise from the murk.
I gazed, terrified, amazed at this dark mound
Of keys. Its breath shook the waters, it rose
And groaned like the under-guts of Paris
Numbered on seismographs as an underground train
I realised then we had made a terrible mistake.
The cold mind of a philosopher
Might freeze love with a snowflake gaze
In the same dull ice that crystallises
Faultline truths on a heap of life.
Til hot dogma deigns them to preach
On politics, bearing confidence of the freeze
But narcissism is neither hot nor frozen
It’s just the mark of a certain childhood.
And poets who take their inspiration
From ‘religious sentiment’s’ gloaming cocktail
That quaintly drinks the soul with ecstasy
Til verses drop off the tongue like gold bricks
Think maybe religion is a knot
Their young life and guardians tied them of
And now its blank mythological verse
Finds acceptance among drunk critical cousins
These tender artists tend to sit
On good old knolls by the zenoic pool
(Far from the muddy estuaries) and swill
Till their daisy heads fall off and rot.
What is the real? What makes this real?
This telemetric poetry real?
Whatever it is it vanished after
Reading those who click and splatter
Anthropoidally upon the page;
Is it a certain semantic field of earth?
A subject, wombic matter of the birthing of the present?
Bleak bus stops and financial crash
Impacting on a brave new young.
Is it urban hopes; a singsong illocution
And a lack of rigid form?
Must I be complacent in my shambling edicts
Of what the world is, encyclopediac beings?
Vast endemiological stalactites
Falling slate-like from my pen?
Or is it tangled sex-tape thread and other inscriptions
Of modern desire, the breakfast business
and typing stunning empty letters,
Sent to other Londominium adresses?
– – –
What does it mean that you dip-dye your hair blue?
What language of dying do you speak
Here a girl passed, she the second, establishing a rule.
Do you enchant my imagination in dark humid-evening orgies
Do you bathe in chemical baths to preserve your heart
Does it invite the sudden stranger to embrace you?
Are you a fan of runic authorise, of ringing fantasy multiworks?
The labyrinthry of your follicular intentions bemuse me;
I read you like a torn-out page.
Does its length correspond to your chastity?
Is it blue because you want me to notice?
Well I notice, I’m dull as a blunt arcadian pencil
Sepal, shall we write?
Oh your voice,
It carries the geology of the tongue
In a startling language
Your saliva and its stones, caught by geographical time
The knot and bark of your swallow
Sussurations of your lips, of fur
Brushing past itself, salted in the night-forest
And your eyes muddy marsh
Sodden in the hills and routes of our conversation
Between moon-dragging planets.
Female, you shake me
Your strata bared by the sandblasting wind
The grass bent, rent and shattered by a foot
That mountain collapses and tectonic plates tear
You gulp in the nothing of my ear.