Interposition 04

Wandering. A-calling. Every name. Under the sun. You can trust us; we’re not going to bite you or grab you or anything. But who would believe us? Who? What else have we to do but push and pull. Push and pull the ever weaker echoes of our past. And yes, it is all somewhat unbelievable. This fractured idea of the future. We carry. And we ourselves the future. Spilling out of us. Somewhat mucilaginous. Tremulously ahead. These fictions we hold. Oil spilling thick, like blackened mucous. Our thoughts. Our greatest accomplishment. The creation of evil. Swything. The ringwold. Unseen depths we cut.

Not to face the abyss but to rend it. Render the present with our dark voices. In Buchenwald, in Bloemfontein, in Buk Bijela, in Ross’s Landing, in Natzweiler-Struthof, in Choeung Ek, in Tjihapit, in Darnitza, in Bagram, in Kwan-li-so, in Doboj, in Narau, in Suomenlinna. Our voices echo. Pushing and pulling the limbs of already-dead puppets. Clearing swathes of land. Bulldozing prime real estate. For what can now grow without fertilizer.

In Gunpowder Park the power plant silt grew nobules. Along the Lee Valley. The firecracks. The military welt. The officers of the Ordinance. Lined up in uniforms no doubt. Pledge allegiance to this call. Not of the saltpetre, sulphur or the charcoal. Nor to the queen. Like them already dead. Great explosions. But no impact can these munitions have. Save limey pools…