Spring night: the music’s
a far cry from frogs. Wait, though;
it’s not that far off.
In fact, it’s the same:
“Here we are. And you?”
Sprung from that croaking,
all manner of beats and rhymes.
All manner of noise
and always the same:
“Here we are. And you?”
Spring nights, musicians
do their best frog-talk for us,
tell the tales we need,
always the same line:
“Here we are. And you?”
– w / thanks to Amy Weaver
Come fuck me till I become
elemental, tabled, bedded,
unstable, rare, noble,
and inert after as I rest.
Come fuck me till I become
Greek pottery,
amphora so well-curved
my age means nothing.
Come fuck me till I become
not human, I don’t want that;
I’ve been that and I need other,
I need the old and the unimagined instead, so
come fuck me till I become
the newest element to be revealed,
the old bottle holding new wine.
Fuck me from science to art and back.
Dark Matter
