Scrabble

 ....

I’m playing scrabble with the Alien.

I’ve got Q,X,Z,A,P,M and 0,

but I don’t know

what he’s got. I’m Greg.

I put down POAM

but the Alien greened me.

I’m on guard against niceness,

or those little acts of kindness —

like decapitating an elephant.

I and, you know, don’t talk much.

He’s prbably a queerfuck.

Wa’ abou’ ZAP or ZAM? Eh?

Next year I’ll go in the door.

C’est ne pas une pipe. I’m alive.

If A is dependent on B,

And B is dependent on C, then -

 ....

the degenerate wind, fouling, is

whipped by storming words

 ....

stay close....

The Fear Of Nothing

I could see her yellow fear
—the worst fear: that of Nothing.

And I felt the pulsing, the pulsing:
and I saw through her eyes
the wheat fields flaming away
to the purple expirations, the Darkland.

And via her eyes: a Bright burst in her head.

A child, happy as hell:

And then the evening quietly died...

And I listened in. I heard
the thud, the thud the thud:
and the pump the pump of blood
pushing darkness through -

And the foreign songs: "Ich ach eich zeibeit."
(it sounded like) and she imagined
the children, massed, and trapped in cities of electric wire, singing:

But it all going faster, and more and more madly.

And I saw –

I saw the flares, the grins, the lights –
the blood waves: the Dark Ones, the click of guns;
and people turning inside out:

but, I swear - she was beautiful.

At once the many mad heads
pushed up into different dells
in the middle of the night
by the body of the One in the nightmare dead.

I see her, and I see her not -
her enlightened eyes, her smile,
her creatureness: her soft, soft,
- and gently sexual beauty:

Outshining eyes, bright bright -
white and perfect as cathedrals her teeth.

White beyond white returning light.

Her youth her hope her pride,
the plum gloss flush
dark on her cheek, luminous, like
that face on a fine-webbed canvass,
made glow to lumen by love of artist:

Red yellow brown brush touch,
a God-fragment, gold, and startling as West-low –
sudden as your car turning to down sun.

(Eyes blind blazed dazzled dazed.)…

And her litheness: leapflow onto graceflow,
alluring, cat-deft, cat-quick, cat-leap
of her gymning smooth...

…as a clever egg might roll over and over - and down a smooth.

She, all 'shes', waiting:
Bright eyes lusting all 'bes'.

Just eighteen, so quick, so excited about it all —

But no.

A dark dead grey dread something
turned over to show its body's face:
to stare and stare from red mad eyes.

Those lamps of black gone black mis-shaped -

and as evil as hooked wood… rolled,
up-rolled eyes: the whites now green, now cyan,
now red….

And like a low, unstoppable tap, tap, tap
dripping kill-drops, or the infinity
of a wasp needle, pressing in, injecting –
like the Icheneunon Wasp into wood grub larvae –
Green paralysis, in. In. Yes –

Rolled from somewhere this Coldness to stare and stare:
Some ghastly grisling thing, into her.

Yes, yes, the Strange began,
the Yellow began, the Chill began:
and the Faces, leering, of all the Ever Dead,

(Thank you Mr. War): and the forests
of hair on a planet head –
that shifted down, and all she could see
was the Great Curve of Mars —
and the clunky clunk round round up down of the ever spinning blurr:

The merry-go-round of madness.

the red spot, the yellow spot,
and the Night, growing in her eyes -
and the distant laughter: like the booming
of a hammer on hollow steel.

And the flashings, the faces, the waking to eyes in a head from which
the doctors had extracted the brain...

Yes. It took many years. Gone. (Gone).
Grey, multi-wrinkled, shriveled, like
a sucked fruit, and drugged, and drooped,
and nodding —

She tries to read now, murmuring, muttering.

"Yes, those children who sang were in prison,
they were not in school, and the light wasn't right."

Today she will talk to the voices.

She, who only read of Auschwitz,
listens to GerFrench nonsense,
and wanders from the yellow waves
into the dark tunnels of the nerves,
which, multi-branched, are hers.

She fades, dies out, flick!

I did not know her
or meet her,
but I see her, and I listen, and I look -

- and in this dance of death I hear her.

R. Taylor.

20. 2. 92.

the machine music moves mechanically as it must because it is
beautiful and is based on a legal system of repeats but nothing is
yet for sure why should it be after all the law of torts and the
thinking Thinking Thing is there, and we are part of it despite
seclusion like a sheep's or a Boffin's head, in a vision of perfect
symmetry held in a white drop as if we could know it all, and there's
need for change, but who looks on, and who is who who he looks at who
he looks is who - but we need all these people who don't agree because
of the machine, which, despite its penitential and inevitable
inefficiency, is heard to cry out at deep of night to the Great One
who is probably dead and ensconced in a dream of lubricated, or
lubricious cavortings toward spittle. and flesh, words that send
shudders up my spire wire's spine loom; one would naturally much
prefer to be the vision inside a technical robot, whose doom scenes
see wire mass everywhere, and, how does the spider know, because he,
too, is a constructor - or is it because the music nags us back down
the drain pipe into a parallel universe of incomprehensible equations,
or a crazed jumble of electronic, electrical, and machine parts
pushed into an eclected enclave, whose triumph is its denseness, or the
enormous significance of an endlessly looping musical track which your
great great grandmother could well have enjoyed:

some post-Stochausian, post – Varese etc, not something tame like
the Songs for a Mad King: but it all passes, even the wind machines,
and the ape-shaped eyes, thoughts of death, leaves, corpse valleys,
memories,inscriptions.. .you turn back to The Romantics, for there is
something about you, something nobody can see:
as if you were the one in the
centre of a gigantic sound-shriek, and batting up all hell, and no one
gives a fuck, especially with everything turning into grey gold

. . . something like a cat looking into your face.

to understand what things meant would be tragic. A failure
of nervousness. I can't gesticulate enough. Ape me you. Thus I.
Disastrous. A bolt. About this time the green and blue music
entered on harrying tip toe to a grandstand cacophony
as if a nation had been slaughtered. Reality kept on: we
couldn't fix that, but there were pressing intrusions. I want you: you
want. He wants, she wants, they want. Everyone wants. There is a heaviness blacks the land. What is it with you? It's...Christ it's getting hot. Plant something. Are they caming? Will they be caming? What's that? Who's this? And so on as a thousand vermilion vermin settled in. Ours of course to laud and chuckle over as the chairs rock unattended and vacant of personas. The wind, apropos of nowt, whips the air and all become involved in the drama with the chilling fingers and maybe the Laocoon. The death that young men yearn for. They keep wandering. A hundred thousand died last week and things are everywhere. And they flash or wink in a violent opposition of clangs, bangs, and clashes of shatter-light. All this and more: and still more, setting store and we are thus bereft to consider the clammy cells and the days of April: the days of yore when petrol pingle pangled out of Big Tree Cans until you fucked with various heads, fucker.

But all this is much more than it is. In fact it is much more than more than what it is. Much much more you whore. All this being more: I being you and you seeking me and us as we seek you and indeed ever shall into endless edges. The great sea turns white. And why shouldn't it? Nothing is. And yet the Thing playing about his frontage had sleight. Some sort of lusty legerdemain. Les Main Sales. They are. It all started with: "You dirty boy." The house leaked like a palindrome; but never completely as if a savage and incomprehensible music (nationality or race unknown or irrelevant) was and did deep-guide her quick hand, and the subject of gluttony shifted, till one, flicking back a strand of hair, scraped back her chair and vanished by virtue of defaulted surprise. We linguists. I, by the way, am that to be and verify.

Richard Taylor

maybe a shadow sleeps in your hand, but it is not known to the divergent multitude, who are cross with destiny. Our quarrel is not so direct, or our bubbles so gloating in their rise.
…Once I stood on hills, high in corn, whirled about in black by yellow crows, and did different. Things. The sob suppressed shall burst in thunder yet. Soap. This anger transforms, and many new eyes appear, as daisies, or freesias. You planted light, and reap now torment, now torrents, now rocks.
  No way is safe except all ways: and we are forbidden motion. Things nowadays tend toward minima, and you, you sit alone: tape or pen in hand, and a book, and strange internal forms do crowd about: those those these these; less-comforting- than-the-flesh: and listening to songs or modes that ring, recalling the dying generation's that all, all neglect all, and the dark and clapping coat a-stick, & such arms in arms, and the joyful bitter hope of gold, beat into music: free in the holy fire outside desire or any gyre, keeping awake….these strange sounds that ring from those who live and have learnt to sing…

   You, of course, are dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead to the world: skewered, sliced, sacrificed, shorn. Spat out by those you had trusted most. And so should you be!
  For how is it you think you are so important: with so many syndromes, diseases, shootings, atrocious accidents, massacres: in fact, the summated enbloodment? Eh?! Hmm!?!
  Words are thus evolved: or invented 'in sudden throat', for evil or 'good' occasion. (Evil vile and virid (yet red yellow bright) amphispbaena sleep about as if in the dreams of La Tentation de St. Antoine …)
  all this said, and, if acknowledged – let us note – those of us who are alive – how the sky is so blue, and the shrieking has subsided.

  so. I shall hazard forth, – e'en as the great and holy machinery of this creaking orb doth shudder with Begin – with slobbered forebodings of joy and joy and more and more and more to come…

The Waste Land

April is the uncruellest month,

Breeding mixing stirring feeding

Lilacs land memory and desire

And roots are dull with springing rain.

We were caught in a coffee quandry,

Tranced into the Hoftgarten,

Where sunlight and sun surprised, smiled,

And let us chat in Russin unt Deutsch,

Unt coffee flowed into ourselves,

Warming firing, and we stopped,

When April, with flaming hair,

Broke out in joyous French. Fear

Caught me by my tickling scrotum.

He, she adjured me to calm

As we sped on the sled into the terrible dark -

High high in snow freedom.

Deep at night I invade my books

And Westward walk

In that awful other season. Some go North.

What clutches grows inverted trees

Wierdly from all this ashly crumblings?

You. Yes, you - to you I speak. You

Will never have the knowing. No, no,

Never shalt thou know: for in your gloomed

Skull a pantomime is played -

Outside where beats down heat

There is no watering place, no holing up -

No where can be found the leastest trickle

In the rocks of gods

In the garden of rocks

In the harsh unshadowed land

Where I have forgotten

How this strange conjunction

Of striding morning shadows,

Inverting rising in meeting,

Was revealed to me - in a handful of-

A man with a blazing brow

Showed me fear in transformal

Primal dust, until, after the rain of red rocks,

I writhed in Wagnerian,

That Hitler (and I) so loved. (But we both

loved/feared grails and waters.)

We reappeared at the ending time,

And all applauded -

The the dew sparkling hyacinths

Had you shine with smile,

And another god impelled this All-

And vast the silence, the heart:

The sacred sacred heart

- We were unsighted by this fire.

Vast sea, empty sea -

In your green visions we untounged

- Searched we our hearts,

Nothing knowing of the core, the centre,

The nexus of stasis,

The thunder of the drumming of unsound.

Das Meer is unt Leer,

Unt Lear was crazed with blinded knowing -

(This much we know, as we are darked.)

Madam Sosostris had the flu,

And coughed like a wicked witch.

She was a bitch and played her fateful cards.

All the ages, all meanings, took on new life,

Including Thunder, way over Dark Mountain,

And we crouched who fell

Back into our fervent religious shell.

(I Tiresias, drinker of waking blood,

Wither in all dimensions, being regenerative

Corpsed was Clov's word -)

Uga uga jug jug jug.

Life life life - sex is fill of complex -

Broken bottles and Cleopatric rats.

Fear The Dog, Watch It Phlebas. .

Da Dadhatta Dhayaardvam.

Raise to 3 powers Shantih.

What Happens

The boy in the ancient castle of miracles
wanders the hexagonal cells
of his erotic night in a dream of bees
with The Key to the unknown room.

the flat girl with the flaxen hair
awaits in the fable of the burning chair

The man of paper burns into curls of words
in a petrol death of  cindered skulls.

Old Rumpole mutters and mumbles and rumbles.

"Who", they ask, "is the what of that why
gone when? And where is the who of the what of the which?"

A thousand bodies jerk in a simultaneous electric death.

The immense precision of the vanished hands.
(This is the millionth law of the year of The Beatle.)

"Something jerks out there in the swamp."

Andy Warhol beats like a mutation on
a bent and yellow spattered Campbell Soup drum
that is hyperbolic in a dream of concrete.

And it is the time of The Rat as fat as a god
to swallow towns, wars, and mapfuls of land –

And it is time for The Boy –
and it is time for The Light –
as if we were alive –
and it is time for The Bees -

and the songs of hexagonal delight.

    Absolute Blackness

Beside the dream streams
Where the many eyes watch,
And the shining forkings of rivulets.
Erupt in babblings.

Here you awake and find
That the great sky of the world
Is lustily writing poems.

Your death had been one of millions.

You know absolutely nothing.

Once you were lively
As shipfuls of bees.
For example, you could affirm the truth of taste:
And you transformed
Into the way things always
Like scissors, or sexy girls,
Disappear when you want them –
Into the way things always are.

But, you disbelieved the random sky,
Lying about clouds and blueness.
Something – it is long gone –
Drives my clamping hand
To crush a daffodil.

You are all these things
Everywhere perceivable and something
That increases inside you

Your absolute blackness.

January, 1991

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