The Long Poem

long poem

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The  long poem is drawn out like graphite rods
raising my centigrade, my chaos of nuclear gasses
for my long lines are melting, the linear bedtime story
in the safe-rooms of Enlightenment – the  long-lost locked room mystery…
… collapsed in gulps and weights of hot metal, regurgitated gold bile
and the flower-bedecked raves are festivals of desperado recycling
the West is a boiled submarine
we tremble before the Unfuckables with kalashnikovs
hooting Allah Akbar from the high ground of digitised  martyrdom

*

a collective noun behind the mise-en-scene narrated our monetised death jump
(SHOW-TIME! sponsoring oil-drenched camels nibbling the Queen’s Baton)
you and I mean you click-through reincarnation as an addiction
self-flagellantes cruise lobbies of the dead
ready for to carry me home let’s give the Illuminati a go
all I can do is routine about Anthony Blair, the ultimate selfie, and his sacraments of bread’n’blood
…knavish red-eyed demon is a great traitor to these islands and should be quartered at Tyburn, his vitals to be thrown to the hounds. A pox on him!
telly-tubby antics  in the glassy desert…

*

The Peoples of the Book ripped up/off each other’s First Editions
each page from the finest skin of girls and babies slightly foxed
to fit their agendas of slicing post-human genitalia
Rival monopolies of the Near Death Experience
jostling in Jerusalem for market control as I fondled my smart slab
to flip into uploads:  severed heads/last night’s paella/bomblet celebrations/
poor little cats/the black/ blackening flags of St George,
even your personalised Russian bride in red rubber
but the Pentagon has Jesus on stand-by in a flying saucer,  all is well…

*

All is the omnivore stalking you and the kids in the TV movie they have made all about you
in which you consume your own toes and work upwards to fall off the ladder
slaving to my inner banker for quantified appropriate beans and re-formed porkers
I have no choice but to re-invent the author and slip into my own body for an ID change
lively up my personics to talk the walk-through (a blizzard of signals and fractured crystals)
experiencing quite an increase in Tulpa activity of late I got Goth Wookie
to centre myself into the exploded moment, it’s right here, in Hastings
in some fattened mums dragging their kids swollen with dog-food around and around
a circus for IDS the Quiet Killers of ATOS and government by egg-faced management

*

The long poem stretches me in nine dimensions I shall run out of space-time screaming
for refuge in a black notebook where I ate fast food at the base of the World-Tree
my footfall was in Malkuth, the Earth-Sphere, a sun-spotted day in London Town
humans in perpetual motion on the other side of the glass, sixty women a minute, the male glaze
over hijabs, those pert bums, the long march of my ant-people across Pleistocene ice-plains…
Are we, ladies and lads, a story arc directed by a future attractor, morphogenetic field-hands
on the bumpy time-scapes of space… Set the controls for the Black Sun!
eco collapse is a strategy of the world-mind/the cure for depression is jihad
my eye is in your black triangle – watch it…

*

The long poem is lined up against the wall to be branded before it is shot
No let us give a booby prize to the long poem it is more humane quite humungous
like a dose of ayahuasca  in the House of Commons Bar – George Osborne shitting in a vase
– the Woosterfarians yodelling this is not never the weapons system we commissioned –
meanwhile your long poem must get its marching orders  from Sun Ra via the Saturn hotline
at checkpoints for multi-temporal bifurcation/tectonic plate shifting/smash-up of the paradigms
where history splits its infinitives into moon walking homunculi/the intervention of insects
before the cells turn round and start wandering home to get spiked in the lobbies of Hyde Park
as massed faith school vuvuzelas proclaim end times and special offers on reconstituted flesh

*

The elongated poem voyages into blackness, all-corrosive nigredo ground-burst
as I’m struggling for my time allotted to out-think the blue sky-boxes, drill down into Being
before it’s even advertised by oligarchs banking their food against a collapse of watch-towers
no time to talk to a fistful of bent dripping coins  it’s red-eye alert in Phat City
sperm warfare those anti-sin ramparts excrete the gold bugs implanted earlier
don’t  filter my mucus my head is unmade like Tracey’s tarty old bed
the long poem must be uncompressed for I am the last of the Analogue Men
I’m spinning on the long-playing poem extruding my spider-map of bowels
from the epicentre of the galaxy according to latest reports I am going plasmatic

*

This poem is contracting as a consequence of globalisation saith the dead pundits
it will shrink unto itself like a reverse universe a glut of light on the Godscape
for the West has briefly fizzled and phuts into a great brain of dark matter
dreaming of Space Virgins of the Third Reich © and Barbie-dogs rescued on the Lost Ark
or the jingle-jangle Singularity, seven billion bugged copies of it rewiring our queasy wetware
I am in a force-field  of shadow photons, sickly as a puree of dead parrots
artisan cuisine for whitefolks  frolic  – the mystery brain has runaway with its night train
flash back to Children of the Lost Planet/Crash of the Red Moon/blind groping of the Triffids
my trove buried in our Gestaltbunker your ontology on the over-ride to a dead end

 

*
The long lost poem went time-worming into the wrong hole
for we are all coded from junk DNA bearing alien assembly instructions
my neurons have already made up my mind  but meanwhile the long poem drones on in Urdu
heat-seeking readers in Waziristan knitting their waistcoats of martyrdom
William Hague still sitting in the lap of George Bush his oaken mouth clacking open and shut
The Bush paints Antony Blair by numbers a brush strapped to his pizzle
and assorted  pre-loved naughty bytes are frantically sorted by the Tarot Readers of Cheltenham
– it must be in there somewhere that sigil of zero, the Salafist Dada Nihilismus…
HOW SAVE OUR CHILDREN FROM THE HEAT DEATH?   I cannot stop the Long Poem –

***

 

Paul A Green
Pic Claire Palmer

 

Paul A. Green  is  a writer based in Hastings.  His work includes poetry:The Gestaltbunker – Selected Poems 1965-2010 (Shearsman Books), as well as fiction: The Qliphoth (Libros Libertad); Beneath the Pleasure Zones (Mandrake of Oxford) and various plays: The Dream Laboratory (CBC); Ritual of the Stifling Air (BBC); Power Play (Capital); The Mouthpiece (Resonance FM); Terminal Poet  (New Theatre Works) ; Babalon (Travesty Theatre) The Voice Collection (RTE)

 

 

 


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