Into the West

“(…) he dreamed a moment of battles his soul survived to wander there.”

Malcolm Lowry, Under the Volcano

 

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this is how it works:

soft plastic phantoms of the past

assembling proleptic flashes of sub-poetry

& retrograde evidence & representations

of my edited emotional history:

 

your languid shape

backlit against the flat sky

your pregnant drawl

shallow & corporate

in scientific locution/

my memory of you

jells into fiction

blotting out over

& beyond the live flesh

& the cold shadow

of your hands

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Peter Bies © 2010

 

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Ohlsdorf Oblivion

 

“And this is how I sometimes think of myself, as a great explorer who has discovered some extraordinary land from which he can never return to give his knowledge to the world: but the name of this land is hell.”

— Malcolm Lowry, Under the Volcano

 

 

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yellow tomb stone

 

 

silent shadow

 

 

in the late afternoon:

 

 

I feel cold transparent hands

 

 

against my brow –

 

 

something was missing

 

 

when the world was new:

 

 

God with green visions

 

 

mumbling to himself

 

 

about the wanting

 

 

leeches in the flock – – –

 

 

walking out of this world

 

 

I drew angry patterns

 

 

across the flat grey sky

 

 

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Peter Bies © 2010

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Suburban Ghost Town

 

“Je préfère mon nouveau dégoût à l’ancien goût degoûtant. “

— Isidore Isou

(“I’d rather have my new distaste than the old distasteful taste”)

 

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burning phosphenes/ bursting

out of space-time swept out of

deaf & senseless suffering & I

am dreaming up liquefied tales

& in hung-over suburban ghost

towns/ I’m trapped in my blunt

& tawdry/ reality/ chase/ deep

cortex throbbing/ in a sloooow

pulse – – – – – –

 

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Peter Bies © 2010

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Spectres of Prozac ®


“It slaked no thirst to say what love was like which came too late.”

— Malcolm Lowry, Under the Volcano

 

 

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& loving me is a mental health hazard, Elaine

 

I kept you fighting loud proxy wars of love

 

in supermarkets, gas stations, in bleak

 

all-night drugstores & police stations

 

in parking lots & emergency rooms

 

 

 

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I can hear your voice in my mind

 

like a hiss of serotonin static

 

our love a limbic tinnitus

 

of fear & anticipation

 

slowly cross-fading

 

colourful slides

 

on peeling

 

wallpaper

 

 

 

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I watched the whispering infrared lights

 

sunk flush in your flesh

& beaming messages

 

high on ionized cell fluid,

 

we rode the gamma ray backwards in time

 

past a billion battlefields of the future

 

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Peter Bies © 2010

 

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Fall-Out Shelter of My Mind

“I’m not talking mystical ‘greater awareness’. I mean complete alert awareness of what is in front of you. LOOK OUT NOT IN. No talking to SO CALLED SELF.”

— William S. Burroughs

 

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here’s another one out of sequence

here’s totally out of synch/

rich radio static & pieces of space

& pink noise prints in negative

& trance music stirring the senses

spool it off / splice it together!

swap voices & sort out my things

as I’m going about my 1 life

in what is to be the final days of the

world as we know it & I am

the last human robot to go/ & I’ll be

leaving all of my memory

snug in my self-imposed exile/ the

fall-out shelter of my mind/

here’s a base from which to operate

/ & I’ll be leaving all of

my mind stuff well on its way to

become subject matter

of dreams, art & history/ just as

I am beginning to put

faces to the cast of characters

starring in my nightmares

& – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

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Peter Bies © 2010

 

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For How Long Still, Elaine

 

“The need of art for an objective correlative is perennial.”

— Wayne Shumaker, Literature and the Irrational

 

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for how long still, Elaine
will I, your loyal prey,

seek comfort

in true time
& the smell of fresh, fragrant graves?

the twilight has died

like your lush, phosphene

after-image – – –

trying to recall & no words left:

are you my victimizer

or the goat being scaped?

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Peter Bies © 2010

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Glowing Mushrooms

Life feeds on negative entropy.

— Erwin Schrödinger

 

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(for the sake of my
missing cause & empathy)

I seek out glowing mushrooms

radiant in the cold ancient sun

 

on broken plains & faded shores

of mean old cities – – –

 

the day is fleeing
into the jaundiced night

never

catching up

with the lovers

 

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Peter Bies © 2010

 

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