Tuesday, 9 December 2008

The Condition

The human forms itself by television
Sequential 'Love Poem' becomes balding surface
Chopping onion rings that shrink
Burn and compose your dear eyes and skin -
Light becomes clear and the human form is,
At length, part of the song -
Only the song and nothing else.

A poem of 'ME' and nought else,
Shit indulgence of rubber and Lords
Shit in the process of hypercondria;
Shit thought-process processes the fateful shit -

The skin, the granite, are similar things;
Unrecognised: the 'US' is a great familiarity
To say the least, I'm held down
By walking bleak townships in morning light,
Poor young fellow by first light
Is taller than he really is.

Never that place in humanity
Is a real place to be secluded;
Humour and horror and red-faced
Understanding the 'Poem' by artificial light
Of treason - a kind-of exception
Walking out on the human a'ghearrach.

It seems to me you've lived
Your life this far: the form -
The form to wait here until completely ready
Or necessary to present the world all our habits;
The form in its naked reasonable face and body
Slender and firm ready to pounce like cats,
The form made of grey and usually no other colour,
The human form owes something to time and hell
And sexy electricity of warm adventure,
The form behind eyes schools and tortoise shells,
The human form in a style of public squares
Hiding our very decent pubic psychosis,
The human form a neo-joke
Grinding our ligaments into flour and then bakes
Into bread ... And nothing else.

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