“The autonomous logico-fantastic machine is something I like insofar as (and if) it serves some real need: the need to enlarge the sphere of what we can imagine, and to introduce into our limited range of choices “absolute rejection” by means of a world thought out in all its details according to other values and other relationships.” Italo Calvino
you must have read this poem yesterday
or maybe you are planning to read it tomorrow
stop me before I ramble on erroneously: you may well have read the poem today already
perhaps you are ahead of me
just how it is how this machine works: nature of the game
it could be stone-cold fact
that you are always ahead of me
maybe you read it when I was undressed
might have told me I would have dressed smartly for you
or gone all Lagerfeld dressed to kill
but what use seduction when I may well be dead already?
what use putting pedal to the metal linguistically speaking upping the ante so that my words might touch you well?
you read this poem tomorrow
you read this poem how things at that moment dictated everything
there will come a time when you step out of your front door
only to find
the clock in the house old family clock, heirloom that both of them for all their differences obvious and concealed, real and imagined will both swear and schedule their lives by
only to find
heirloom, heirdoom, doomloom
time inside and outside could not be more relative
and there it is out of nowhere a growing pains singulaity suddenly extreme gravity cosmic, yes, but when you speak them in the boat whirling around the vortes just outside the event horizon
you will learn the apt term, which may, in this case, well be psychosexual
and there they are dictating, prescribing these great theraputic gentlemen
who never in the world did you expect to see in real life
persuading you, pleading with you imploring you
to find your negation of this house of fiction, parental palace of delusion
so deeply impacted revelation is going to be extinction level be seismological
and there we are (time as we now see thing quite unreal)
looking down from the reverse slope of Devil’s Peak out over the flat suburbs (dust and sand of ocean reclaimed)
but your mind is far into the interior digging up the bones that tell us pain is history; history pain
somehow they cannot convert your cerebral into spectacle no technicolour out there to match your austere
somehow intensity here has of necessity to be sharp and sweet
somehow these titanic currents, seas meeting twisting, contorting
all going to flow ultimately transformed in that wash
for now so precious little melding, blending hope for the rude rudiments of a comfort zone (plane almost scraping the lids off shanties take offs and landings whole other, true, South Africa cannot just wish away)
and there you are delivered of all our quandaries all our questions bitter conundrums
absorbing the crimson sunset light in your paradise of refuge
do you not think of us recall what was lived through?
take a last look our way
scan sky far to the West where Sun is forever setting
poems 2 die for 