billyfivecrows

(We spin time in the death of comfort, us,

Able self to speak for no one.)

The seasons divorce the remnant of label.

A sound gathers in the arms of pain.

Streets are a whim to the likes of palace

Nothing spins, nothing's still. Traverse

The issue, curse the simple shoulder

As it's seen. Mould the boundries

Into spectacle; inbetween make green

Ice of frond and blonde, blood. Touch

The scar so it opens with a start. Heart

To heart, Hera and others bake bread.

We're all fed, feeding each other

Twists of dread and the air I breathe

Is yours. Surrogate social, the spindle

Of flax upon our backs, we share the wait.

Simple fate to be alone and question

Our home, its' mate as our dreaming.

"It" and who knows the destination, the hunger as

The genders are thinned, then begin at the ending:

"She likes and wants to know him if he
Is free of environment, a shell,
A container for service, act and comment.

I watch, myselves clustered
Around a crown as though it gives
Off warmth, a fete to roast meat

With out here, wild among faces..."


'03-'05


***

That has to be the age of overcome
The systems which are the ceiling
Which are on the run to destroy
Humankind's nature
Humankind's inwardness
Humankind's ability
What for me is the capital
And which is the side effect
Last not least destroys the nature and us.

-Joseph Beuys

(sound sample from 'The Healing Place' by David Sylvian)