The Hive

I

A tentative turn where ideas and prophecies,
may say truths shine.
A gap from here to where it blinds
when at one point the momentum can whither.
If it whithers, it may well die, and what a pity
that such momentous ambitions of beauty may well die.
So fragile are these plans.

Giants with porcelain organs,
limbs that burn in the sun,
Bones that crumble, at each step,
Arthritic joints that rot, and grind.

And to nourish these possibles, integers, factors, parables We act as frightened doctors, who learn on the spot
inspire a remedy, a diet, a poison.

The pharmekon prescribes, and we carry on,
The porcelain heart begins to drink real blood
and it tastes good, our monument,
May live, to experience while eating grain
Or small stones and fucking seriously the life of dry dusted misers
and live, to live in straw houses with mice and dirt and blooded Gods.


II

 

Script

That’s 25 frames per second, multiplied the minute unit, then by the approximate time of a film (Approx 92 mins). So we have 138,000 frames, images that the script writer has to envisage, account for_ to emote_ to choreograph_ to compose_ to sound_ to persuade. Director, story boarder, actor, writer; if they have anything about them, this script should coax their minds to the land of mescal, to the fields of numbers, to a ride that hurts the capacity of our drenched brains.

If the $ign is manifest in this equation, the trip will not take hold, and the visionary; made of wood, trying for gold, will die of high blood pressure.

As opposed to the exalted poetry of the possible

The delegation of brain-storms electrical tropical exports from transmitter & reciprocal neuro-peptide to soul dancer. The film is not a $ign. The film created as poetry, from first image of the 138,000 images to the 138,000th image. Will stretch and drench and ply, pry, cut, fuck, drown, bemuse, make leak, the skull, with shit so black and blue, yet golden and sweet, that an outing like this, grows addicted, in awe, in love, with the next; outing.

 

 

Us, The Greeks, The Kerouacs?

They were beginning to read each other’s writing
And they realised it was holy.

Fishing in dense waters, encroaching on God
Souls to deliver own souls,
Deep waters that drown those too young.

Scaffolds hold the air in place
Fires burn the air higher

And as they started becoming,
Startled starling roamers, as amoebic at dusk

Refold, the scaffold like linen face cloth.
Tasting yesterday’s water

(Rough and raggedy)

They began to tell of visions,
They began to raise themselves on imagery
Primal, ordeal, not souped, not cordial
But visionary: Bemused, deluded, but really so.

Encrusted by sugar coated spheres, denser still, planets,
Where even irony could not deliver these people
From that behind the scaffold