MANUSCRIPT:
PEDESTRIAN AGENDA
© Luke Buckham 2001aworminmywall@hotmail.com
Luke
Buckham
Manuscript Contents:
1. Pedestrian Agenda
2. Unseen Bell
3.
machine
funk purple: anesthetic
4.
Yearless
5.
techo
interior, steel sky
|
UNSEEN BELL
unseen bell clangs through nerves previously
thought dormant
and skin that will never wrinkle
hand left on stove burner
quiet sperm nostalgia trails
leading to some forgotten bathroom
we rode a tinfoil kite into a cigarette
billboard
and were free to ski down mountains of ash
black lungs crying on a buried sidewalk
the town is a mile higher than it was two minutes
ago
riding a smell of gloomy triumphant concrete
toward the cringing sky on a swell of tar
bristling with flagpoles
brandishing uncooked tv microwave dinners
this is our version of a young goat on an altar
throat slashed neatly
but there are granules of blue computer screen
glass
in the jugular veins casually opened
black river crying through dusty attic mirrors
& photographs of your visibly aging self in
unrecognisable uniforms
we are fucking on another mountain of ashes
we are wearing bells on our ankles
to warn the grocery store that we are coming
carrying double-barrelled shotguns loaded
with shredded magazines and
BLACK WATER INFANT'S EYES AT DAWN IN FILTERED
SUNLIGHT
;IS ANYONE STILL ANGRY?
static slender no breasts transparent teeth/peer
into throat in the cover story
words are diluted thoughts
walking down the leftover street alone in
headphones & secondhand silk
is a diluted dream
but gorgeous enough to guide brain fever firmly
into the android ceaseless phone ring morning
you wake up at 3:34 a.m. doubting all your
possessions
THAT IS NOT MY CAR IN THE MILK-TOASTED DRIVEWAY
THAT IS NOT MY CHECKBOOK SLEEPING ON THE DESK
THESE ARE NOT MY CLOTHES THAT I REACH TOWARD
WITH A WHITE CIGARETTE LIGHTER IN A COLORLESS
WALK-IN CLOSET
THOSE ARE NOT MY MAGAZINES HOWLING LIKE AN
INFANTILE GOD
ON THE HUMMING COFFEE TABLE
THESE ARE NOT MY RAZORS DRIFTING IN A SOAPY RIVER
PAST THE STOVE IN THE DAILY STERILIZED KITCHEN
in the rusty belly of the stove my head sits on a
cookie sheet roasting like a cow's
when i start laughing like a tickled baby
and walk off the simulated cliff porch
like a lamb in a tailored three-piece suit
and wait for the stormclouds to hand me my many
keyrings.
drive
drive
drive
i am a videotaped beam of all-devouring light
the booth at the railway station is empty when i
arrive
the attendent's chair smoking like a frayed cigar
who will hand me my ticket while i weep like an
ancient child? |
