(following on from the First Seven Sevens)
These under lands, the vast
withholding orphan data,
brains meshed in wire.
This is not 2009.
‘To love your mother
tongue is to love all mother tongues.’
what language contorts to depict.
Mangled jokes & mating calls.
Silence is a rhythm too,
resists being thought.
‘To love your own mother tongue is to love all mother tongues’ – Anjan Sen
come on now, talk
about your family: sister’s cursed
before all coordinates
have even been sown down
every man father
every woman mother
No, screw you, Oedipus.
‘come on now, tell me about your family, your sister’s cursed...’ = Pavement, ‘Silence Kit’
he had all ports open,
a bloodless coup.
tomorrow sees him
They mistake words for things.
Won’t say ‘I’ any more –
how could you?
An artist wants a world
different from how she finds it.
Those who profit by their careful errors.
An exhibition of picture frames.
this is our address:
morning fed on a seemingly low subject:
“Drink me,” male voice requests
– static dream moment –
the nauseating businesslike tones
employed to recruit her
have slid through my mind.
targets, alphabets, numerals & flags
the presentation so literal
flat & given.
morse flashes & flares
the winking light that terminates.
Below: 'Seven sevens' by bricolage.108