I am done with dissonance except where it captures the complexion of what surrounds gives taste of the chaos that riddles through
harmony is the thing that must nourish, bring together harmony that feels like impossible belief
when last, if ever, were woken by wings hovering above taking angelic form?
just add a few Pratt and Whitneys and there you have dissonance
what you figured might be Michael, Uriel, Gabriel drowning out the room with clamour of regular comic superhero (or, indeed villain) elevated to cosmic, epic, mythical proportions by virtue of three- act structure, and titanic movie screen
already you can see it touch it smell it feel it, let alone hear it
this dissonance, every tiny breath of harmony here in me, here in the poem
what am I saying? a mysterious collection of texts appears housed quite compactly in a mysterious bookcase (in fact the fit between books and bookcase is, uncertainty theorem aside, mathematically exact)
my fall from grace was reading these books, taking from this tree
though the fruit was gorgeous waking up from violently lucid dreams and vomiting over the bedspread I figured there might be some value in the sacred prohibitions against the blasphemy of writing reading
but who wrote these books and who wrote the words leaking through the brickwork suddenly manifesting themselves on the walls?
I write down my dream but then read further, find, it was already written suddenly the term “intertextual” is no longer just radical polyphony of meaning but being stretched and pulled apart by the conflicting gravitational pull of dramatically dissonant worlds
I burn all I have written the storehouse of my life stacked in a pyre having failed the inquisition
we are all locked in a fiction, a forever thread-creating, fabric splicing brain
I blame you Mr Wells, blame you Mr Raine blame you Schiaparelli
dug all those canals in is brain
and above all, I blame you Mr Bradbury filling his head with Martian mushrooms, telepathic Martians losing a war of colonial conquest
most basic parallel with Earth history a writer strolling across a desert plain munching on a Mars bar (overhead the irregular shaped Phobos and Deimos) might feel compelled to make
poems 2 die for 