Even as we arrive
As yet incomplete, the misery of refurbishment
provides what she wants in the form of a world sheet
whose building blocks grow thickly as in a church.
(She worked first as a model, not a local one.) The point
particles reduce the immense valley to a characterless room
without the protection of extra dimensions. Three
children sick, she wrinkles her nose and orders noodles.
When the calculation is done, the elegance and flexibility
of her approach – the sky low and black over the country –
makes me shoot up taller than the other boys. Throwing
such a ball inside the hose proves testable. The wind
comes in from the sea like a machine gun. Isn’t that far away?
An ant crawls inside, very complex, covered in the sweat
of four deserters from a children’s ship which is my dream.
Naked, tied to a bed, in another context it might look grubby.
We arrive at the source from different directions as tiny,
vibrating objects. Come here and warm yourself. Early on
when I played the event horizon, I could split and combine
on the street with my companions, well-spoken ladies,
black holes or fuzz balls, emitting and absorbing fifty
voices together and then two or three at a time, enough
to eat in any case. That morning we got up with the rain.
She grabbed my umbrella as I walked along the street.
‘The road is not far but where does it end? I’m leaving you
this lifeboat’. There were orders to follow, the ones
I thought had disappeared with the loss of our ship.
Lunch was brought in. We thrived on multi-tasking
though we were both afraid of the water, now empty.
He raised his pencil so that its shadow fell.
Dreaming of a perfect happiness, he died
with the brain of a child.
He can remake himself where there is silence.
He rises to his feet and draws the curtains open.
Can you see the blood on his mouth?
A seam runs through each of us. On our errands
we move to no purpose. Instead of unfolding,
the events add nothing to our story.
He fingers the pencil with a mocking smile
shimmering between loss and disappearing again.
He has no idea where you are. He dreams of an image
that would be the automatic singularity of this world,
his legs weak beneath him. On the edge of Milan
they stubbed out a cigarette on his butt-cheek.
No one intervened, though there were eyes in the dust
which came from their shoes walking away.
The tang of burnt flesh where he dreamt
of a world functioning without him. Under the eyelids
the real subject of the story is fog.
You have to pay for any kind of dirty behaviour.
Abandoned in a doorway she becomes blurred, dissolves.
She reeks of cigarettes and piss. What the hell.
But should we rescue absence and emptiness
on the miracle of a whim where technology
is caught in its own trap? Laws, institutions, work, security etc
but I didn’t come here to talk politics, I came to get laid
before leaving for the station, the coming of despair
quickly stifled up the alley past the hotel.
How can we talk to our teenage children?
Their shadows ripple on the cobble-stones
among the glass and cans. The sound of high heels recedes.
Yet somehow he got back, flowing in all directions
came full circle returning to himself, to his past
like a dress rehearsal for a play he would never be in.
Under the window, almost invisible.
[Ian Seed is editor of Shadowtrain books and webzine: www.shadowtrain.com. His poems, fiction, translations and reviews have appeared in magazines such as Green Integer Review, PN Review, Shearsman, Stride, and Tears in the Fence. His first-full length collection, Anonymous Intruder, is published by Shearsman books in 2009: http://www.shearsman.com/pages/books/catalog/2009/SeedIan.html]
Copyright © 2009 by Ian Seed, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of Copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author.