Dance Of The Hours Around this stone
flesh is grown
as from a blue egg inverted
arises a mythical bird
living in a thrush’s song of rot,
dieting on fat worms.
In the mirror
within the white sofa
opens another stone
and grows turgid Doric column.
So priests and priestesses
cross the abyss,
well whet archaic smile,
blade to stone,
stone to blade
clothed in sacred fish flesh.
Under grotesque masks
blaring false persons
skeletons on every side,
every one a hard case:
non fui, fui, non sum.
There is no master race in abstraction.
On this planet it is survival of the shittiest,
consignable only to the room of repitition,
locked fast and key thrown away
again and again forever.
Only symbols repeat.
Like money earning interest
continuum includes manure,
fertile, blooming nature in every spring,
spattered with snow water,
colorless as bleached leather.
So we throw ourselves
like a living calculus
across the clattering speech
of stone breaking stone
owning up to nothing.
On that right angle
Pythagorean dangles
the music of fear,
animates the marionettes
of the condemned
dancing in the freezing wind,
dancing across space.
It is all rubbing two sticks together.
It is all heat. It is all growth and rot.
Why ask about beginning and end?
If you are looking for singing personal and plural
look here: we are all executed together
in multiples of three
dancing in the fresh breeze,
dancing across space.
[copyright EAC]
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