.
I’m not ironic,
I’m American: meticulous, direct! Driven
to depict
the private flickers of the blast of my Big Bang,
my solo sonic
boom. Here’s what I discern. What else
but a ‘void’ can one face? What
else but the unemployed
infinity
of nothing could I be the child of? When ‘infinity’
and
‘nothing’ pause together in a clause, Famished
Mind wants
so for them to cause orgasmic spasm,
seething warring
parts – BRING IT THE FUCK ON
.
and NO! –
pitched to an untoward extremity. The true
Identity of
Trinity therefore reveals itself in God, whose
word-made-flesh
turns out to be a pedantry furnished
in burnished
diction, supernal grammar, eternal alphabet.
God’s a
school marm. Wet or dry, we’re a marvel of
a spinning
lingual vacancy, hollow unity, a Source-Void
paying us
an adequate annuity that with impunity permits
us to
reflect upon the probable delusion we exist. What
.
greater manna
could we wish? Could there be more
to learn
than this? Not so’s we can see. Freeze if we stay,
burn if
we go, who cares, don’t know. But hush! Look!
I’m asleep
on a lawn at the back of my house, aged three –
could
this have been me, ‘neath a Mulberry bush?
We picked
mulberries, yes, from a branch. But not on
a prickly
bush! Full of ticks probably! What does it mean
existentially?
I’d have sworn what I knew was a tree.
.
Here we
go round the mulberry bush
The
mulberry bush, the mulberry bush
Here we
go round the mulberry bush
So early
in the morning.
.
If
there’s a god it got lost in the push,
lost in
the push lost in the push,
if
there’s a god it got lost in the push,
but a new
one is always aborning.
.
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