“As though a window gave
upon the sylvan scene”

Ba, Ba
black sheep reader

I cannot decode your tongue
have no
decision procedure

I know it is neither
Spartan nor


perhaps this
is an experiment

perhaps it is
pure simulation

perhaps it is, to be paranoid,
the Republic of Plato
on psychedelic drug


no escape so
just step up
to the microphone

let the voice speak
ghost fingers on the keys
Cartesian self

read it if you will
on the markings on your body
you thought them
tattoos but
in reality they
are barcode

main and
slave circuits we

must re-
read our Hegel

revolution imminent
is not a mirror
does not
gyroscope slightly off


switch on
the radio

you know
you are radio

it is on
a time switch
turn itself off

and then you will
hear voices in
the white noise and
usual apocalyptic nonsense

decipher that
there is spirit voice who died
soon, too soon
to imagine a

imagine it being
immersed in sea-neon
hive consciousness


on that score, as
the pages turn
I might ask you
a meaning

for an image that haunts: writer
facing the Sun in desert of dead self

yes, this one perhaps, and why
where there is nothing
so much fire for
the spirit and
yet insane temptation
(like the mind
is keyboard or fretboard where
they are barring
the chords, where
pulling out the stops)

those bodies dancing to
demand a new covenant
faceless, naked
apt unto

moving from oasis of
contamination to
crawl space of corruption

and so, in the voiceover, we
swing from scorched sand back
to the brain again

no place here
for monument
no space for epitaph
the exact sequence of stars

hopelessly lost
and yet
cameras are here, always
obsessive the surveillance

the film
on its way to be
processed, voice to be
synthesized from
of fragments

I died to soon to be
swallowed by
oceans of neon

I said it before
shall say it again.