Distribution Automatique

Monday, April 12

notebook (poem): 7/10/86

The Statue of L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E

Give me your bored, your sore,
Your programmed synapses yearning to break free
The wretched syntax of your meanings sure
For we are as on a plain darkening
Where blind alleys lead to faulty cash machines
By sight- and not with a bang but a particle accelerator
Rage, rage against the writings of the bright
And words shall have no denomination.
Dead thoughts naked they shall be one
With the grammar of the texts in your classrooms.
TV, TV burning in the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could flame thy beerful robotry?
For we are as aspirin
Rolling down a flight
Of stares, plop, plop
Into the peripheral consciousness
Where ignorant critics bash from the Right.
One ray the more, one cathode less
Could half repair that empty space
Between our thoughts, the chide
Is blather to the Plan
And the Who if I shouted among the hierarchy
Of Hell's Angels could bear me?