“With digital, there is no past,”
says Jean-Luc Godard. Either way,
the button is redundant. Voice-command
is thought - the fear deep and futureless
as history, desire to appease which
remains featureless, not the disorganized
weather it truly is, as much a part of
the breathing stars as constancy of rock.
The ‘Mr Whippy Man’ weaves
Greensleeves in and out of suburbia; a
caravan in search of a trade-route -
via the village that never existed.
*
How is it the floating island
detaches itself from horizon in dream -
its first appearance, otherworldly,
but of this world, a wheel loosened
from the world’s ratchet, out of time,
riding above it and inhabited by
folk fixated upon a particular
theorem-thought; elevated imponderables,
whereby you access this island by door
set underneath as you sail under?
Islands, a dream of round towers!
the sudden rush of water under hulls.*
Mediocre raiders lie in wait.
Teeth clack in sleep, dreams fraught
with ambush. Orders intercepted,
encrypted to the house style.
The litterateur tracked back through
his ISBN to no man’s land -
the robotic verb activated, sent
in under barbed metaphor strung out
where trees once stood as
camouflage. The voices from his
hill-bunker a wind turbine. Accusations
tumbled in the night. For months he
heard soft hammering, mimicry;
they failed. Could not beat back the
weather on his chosen ground.

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