Spam Poetry

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— Bill Gates 

 

 

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Peter Bies © 2010

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Stage Fright

When I lived, I provided for everything but death; now I must die, and I am unprepared.

— Cesare Borgia

 

 

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the drift of the tale

just phasing past

vast floes of data

past the random waste

of redundant memory

into the white hot

bliss of oblivion

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Peter Bies © 2010

*** 

 

Into the Ganzfeld

“The imagination, the inside of our heads, really is the most vast frontier imaginable.”

— Terence McKenna 

 

 

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my very 

first body

& the reality of life, Elaine – 

I didn’t corner stuck to time &

the parts to which the I objects/

so helpless at the peak of force/

break from this wooden calm/

our fate

obliterated by the unknown/

though still completely calm

your eyes/ they told me all:

all time occur/

born half time

 

 

 

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I am filing our love

off to my I

 

& into the ganzfeld

 

of retinal empathy 

 as  sober sensations

 

 

 

 

unfold across time/

& the void, the void

 


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***

Peter Bies © 2010

***

 

 

Pop Ontology

Even sleepers are workers and collaborators on what goes on in the universe.

— Heraclitus

 

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&

the

Mad

Poet

cried:

who am I?

what is love?

who do I love?

what do I love?

what do I want?

where am I going?

where do I come from?

 

 

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who do you ask

& how does it feel?

& what is important?

ask questions, you say, but –

what’s happening to art? but is

ontology a movie’s hero? long fly-by

awful history movie of horror & disaster –

of mind games & terrific dreams/ the human

insect who knows a thing or two at best & the smile

in the Mad Poet’s eyes/ desire convoluted in the skeins

of time & emotion/ years spent in dreams & deep space coma?

 

Who am I?

Where am I going? 

Where do I come from?

 

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***

Peter Bies © 2010

*** 

 

Mental Bokeh

 

“The way OUT is the way IN.”

  

— William S. Burroughs

 

 

 

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my point of no return

your modular smile

freckles phase out

of piebald squibs

& my own light

 

 

 

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diminishing in perspective

the twilit tunnel inflected:

 

fearful over frozen cortex

I hear the coarse sounds

I smell the lead-like fall

 

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***

Peter Bies © 2010

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The Far Side of the World’s Mirror

“I’m a recording instrument… I do not presume to impose “story” “plot” “continuity”… Insofar as I succeed in Direct recording of certain areas of psychic process I may have limited function… I am not an entertainer…”

 

— William S. Burroughs

 

 

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hear the snow melt in the sun

voice the synapse in my mind

it’s just a minute drop from the peak

& there’s a friend on the phone

hallucinations tingling where I flipped a shilling

& what about the four ways to a molecular still?

my two brains & all

is more on the level

& apart at one time

to end the attitude of anyhow

more mind-noise spilled over

& engage to copy half an hour

of dreamspeak by malfunction

soft &  tender to the feel

of  four point questions

& warnings on the wind

 

being answered aware of the ambiguity

 

of the words

I grind

 

flying mothballs on the sloping flanks

of my aural bark

flickering shadows across the stage

dull claws scraping Cyclopean walls

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***

Peter Bies © 2010

***