those crystalline nebulae spinning
in frozen suspended cranial reaches
atop a plinth in the Museum of Man
just off Piccadilly Street in the
Burlington Arcade now the journey
of pulp pressed against the screen
and pushed through the bleach to the
day's beginnings in the wide margins
of the writer's mind before breakfast
here exhibited finally as one bound up
abducted from the Silk Road interconnections
en route to Charlemagne's court at Christmas
those disappointed horrified monks who
so assiduously crushed lapis for a blue mood
on the backs of Cooley's cattle dismayed
now the chance will never be given again
the pages of history fluttering before them
like endless autumn can you hear them
laughing their holy laughter now
as the willing page is free no more
the blank fibers that displaced monks' vellum
and before that the neolithic carvings
and thumb-framed etchings that pictured
the sublime mind hungry for more
than meat or fruit just to say
the word blank was an achievement
now here the achievements encased
and labeled with the digital bells
ringing out from their silicon miniatures
pathways to a future already here
No comments:
Post a Comment