This blog is the ends, not the means. A small poem for Saturday.
Green Screen Dream
Black marble matted with midnight swirls. Suspended, shimmering
Plotted upon green screen.
All that there was – Don’t wake me for pixels or continental shifts –
Puzzle me not for Putnam’s pickle
Creating new idioms and the vanity of metaphysical rifts
Small tears in space
I don’t remember
Kissed sweet and twenty
Squared by twenty twenties
‘A grain of sand’ on fifty miles of poetic obsolescence
Love and forgetting
Falling through a torus
and back to Brimsdown.
Back to the anthropocentric
He grew fond of the detached, atomised mental state induced through his forays with this GM hybrid. He virtually felt the cells, the tissue tearing apart, couldn’t he? Tearing apart from themselves, dividing, metastasing, the chromosomes, double helix uncoiling, undressing, and disintegrating into less than a handful of dust, less than nothing.
Sometimes he imagined his gaseous self moving through long-since inhabited, sprawling neoliberal dystopias, cookie-cutter stations freed from all greyed judgement. Stagnant ovens of any significance gleam without signifier. Just crumbling. Just emptiness. No markets, no delays, no one. The grubby, glass hangars and needles of tomorrow’s, yesterdays assuming a unknowing plain of bureaucratic cognition and veil of transparency to no humans. Just foxes who falsely assume on the utopian impetus of an ideology. But they don’t. Do they?
King’s Cross only remained the centre of the universe for the overwhelmed hubris of the commuter that bestrode its inward-looking (at least for the ubiquity of CCTV) expanse with the cup of one multinational coffee chain or another (it once mattered?), pawing at a frameless smartphone with the freed thumb of another. The ‘day-glo’ silk tie too, exemplifying another allegiance to one emerging micro-trend or another. All the while, confident that it could last forever.
He returned to the golden Miller-time hues of his small, brick-bared room. The phone was ringing. It was her.