Shadow Time (1 - 4)


First thought: in a greenish room sleeping under the sculptor’s shelves. This is Cat’s Home where the little mogs scratch against the door like Lovecraftian intruders. On the sill a crumbly plaster statuette of Diana dances among her deer against the plate glass of night. A brass angel extends elongated arms to define his/her spaces amid the cardboard boxes. I draped my clothes on a plinth. The night hums in my ears. I’m boxed in the box room.

Poetry makes a come-back:
back-story bytes of roughage
slippage and clips out-taken

at the liminal, my outer limits
so words buzz through the airway
like giant bumble bees as fantasised by the blind
dancing sigils of terror

The Dear Reader
stumbles all over my idiolect
So we’re making a royal retreat into memoirs:

            Walking down the steep curved hill
            into the Edinburgh night
            I’m the sound of ’65
            going crazy with James Brown
            Liverpool girl on my arm
            Pete Brown shooting it out with retreating urchins
            on our way to the great gig

            Way on down the West Coast ’68
            Under the Tiffany lamp
            The Round Table gathers
            a coven of young testosterone poets
            Old Yates growling around his cigar
            briefing our global  campaign

            Paul Buck smiling down Camden High Street ‘89
            reassuring me all over again
            of my tiny fame

those were good engrams
but where to get them stuffed
alongside the daily transcription:




Fragments of a day. What were the active sub-texts? My ‘unconscious’ is possibly an astral hangover. It’s my smoky shroud. The narrowing bed in the box room will be recollected in tranquillity but in the historic present it’s bumpy. Writing gets easier as you develop grey hair and the internal NAND-gates break down. The riots go loop de loop. You voice over the footie until you run out of throat. It’s a talking cure you sell yourself. Quack, quark, kwik...

Grow your business in pots of our shit
is the prolonged mantra
Your experience has been thoroughly granulated

Seven billion vortices seeking attention
and public oxygen
as a forest smoulders here and there

            “One who has no god as he walks along the street
             — head-ache envelops him like a cloud,”
            saith the old hieroglyph

The totalled fug of an omniverse
pushes right down

flames crawl up a balcony
the graphics of raging

crazing the sliding glass
on that pixellated window on the world
as hooded zombies source bling
cocky as Bullingdons

survivors and the tortured old
scramble for the rooftops



The room tonight is un-boxed, re-assembling as a vast laboratory of empty benches. My nose points to the apex of a dunce’s time-cone and my hot body stuck in the calorimeter. The time-acceleration is alarming. Can’t you feel it? The old scenarios blip in and out, the succubi are fading fast...

Howl-round, screech-head antiphonies
skull musics, a shout going out
of all your hundred large tunes
at my topography of the hours

my prong stung me out of a sleepy-time flux
before I went narcoleptic
the macrocosm was walking on by
fusing its hydrogen and helium

seven billion screaming the name of god in adjacent keys
crack on the desert to release its guck
only tourists and civilians
will buy our Earthlet souvenirs

 so talk up the surplus stock
the arse-beads  and monogrammed tee-shirts
your royal mugs and cartridges
the enormous mushrooming cock

collectively dreamed each Friday
right here on Planet of the Nebuloids



A cat interrupts the written word.  Here it is Cat’s Home all over again. The silver- sculptor, Lord of the Cats, hammers away in his cellar, forging another cross, grinding a goblet for blood and wine to be raised during a jolly good lunch in grand stone forest-hangars, the doomed cathedrals. He’s just about up for it, all night.  He has to sustain the business plan, keep the candles burning as the hearse of dreams crawls towards me.  I tell myself that the fluttering planes of time can be controlled briefly by acts of introspection or insurrection, not sure which.

The phosphorescent haze
remix of shady times
I never quite ventriloquised
only went live
in nightly installations

my dreamy ghostbooks
that rewrite themselves under closer inspection
the words all pouring out like insects
decaying echo of the poetry buzz

susurrations of millions in shadow
hiss and babble of the unborn
we are such animals stuffed with memory...




[Shearsman Books recently published Paul A. Green’s collection The Gestaltbunker. Paul also writes fiction (The Qliphoth [Libros Libertad, 2007]) and plays for radio and  live performance, most notoriously Babalon (Travesty Theatre, 2005), a celebration of occultist/rocket scientist Jack Parsons. Short stories include ‘The Poets of Radial City’  in Unthology 2 (Unthank Books). In the last twelve months he’s appeared at the Hay Poetry Jamboree, Swedenborg Hall and Arte: an Elemental Happening. He used to teach media to blind people in Hereford until 2011 but now lives in Hastings where he concentrates on writing.]

Copyright © 2012 by Paul Green, 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.