as to /

what you see - the surface (of another) is hardly it / you always see beyond your focus
) outwards ( and beneath is what you already know up front / like the clothes worn on
a body (it's called the showing) get that for a turn around - there is nothing beyond
(Wittgenstein tried this one on) so why would you bother to inquire? at the heart of
things / everybody kneels and pants / the hunger is immoral (and insatiable) so you
have to divert / Darwin was on the track here - make planes (not the flying machines)
for to throw off the stench - and there assemble the structure (the world) in Venice it's
called a mask - in delirium the end of sickness (for mathematicians it doesn't really
exist however to keep you quiet they will concede function / though really why would
you bother to turn your gaze from delight / the rest of us they will tell you have been
looking in the wrong way) / what is the absence of (?) - and you wonder why it is
ingrained - so // there have always been beings who structure unique (only as a
defense against the metaphysics of solid things) and you can learn there is no place -
so anywhere will do nicely thank you very much or like my father you can reach
transcendence a spiritness (completely hidden by the appearance)

what is behind / what is behind / the eyes (the field of action you might say physicists
like to think they've got it cold - in fact they don't see that you can't see the seeing /
OK back up Shorty / imagine little wire like figures (without minds) moving in relation to
(there is no substance to these things) they are pictures that have no referents / lights
(that are never seen) so / at least there is happening and it has no hold on itself / (blind
as Saturday night) yeah OK so why the anguish as if nailing it would stop the
sweating and dreaming with no logic the point is moot

(I was going to say it's about separating out what's already separated out like saying
what happens when you distinguish one colour from another / you draw a line that
must already be there)

there are some women who only have intelligence left. they are skinny boney and
brown as berries it's when you come to gardening as the only thing that makes sense /
they have large eyes / harbouring a wisdom as cold as fruit / children gone as never
had or hadable (it must be a relief) carving anger into a figure that stands on the
window sill hollow eyes seeing only the outside (the last demon eating from a bowl on
the kitchen flour) and men as if they never were shadows passing in the flicker of light
down / through Autumn trees

the leaves on the path alone / true consolation

dissatisfaction is any movement away / therefore time is a deduction / in the logical
and economic senses positions are held in / and let go the point is everything falls (not
just you) and the next world into place (don't sweat it you haven't lost your mind just a
step or two) and you had all that space in that one instant? hard to imagine hey - and
some want to tell you it's cause and effect where do these people come from I ask you
the rubbish heap is just bits that survived the world's loss of itself and it's replication -
there's always a cost / the skinny white girl says opening her legs and her smile is
already died for (so when do you start paying?) the way of things is an illusion there is
no change beneath the days (it's only light that gives the appearance of corruption and
birth) in a dark room you have a chance to review / the crime was the beginning / (full
stop) and the thing is no-one did it / and so entirely by accident you've stumbled on
the origin of laughter / (is the fire of light) / drunk eyes see with delight

and the sickness? - always before and after just the way of it if you watch from the
farm house the road the line where nothing comes / whoosh or goes / a solitary tree in
the dry dirt / like there's a reason for something (legs can only hold it together for so
long) and then the other world closes up tight / you never really know how to get out /
not to worry Murray you don't appear to have suffered at all / that is from the inside
out / as to - well we won't go there now will we -

and there is an image it could be everywhere and it just connects to one girl (no
wonder she took to the night and the hopeless attempt to shed pride) and after years on
that corner only the light burned brighter

we know everyone has reasons / and everyone knows there is no reason / imagine if
the truth did not flicker (what a state we'd be in) Jesus only the dogs would know (it's
called a joke) you see the point is not knowing / so your biso would just be the same /
with the same cunts beings cunts and Saturday night at the local with Myrtle (true
love_ it would seem withstands every configuration of plagues / God only knows
where that door leads to last time it was the street but that was before the stars were
shut down / Maurie said it's finished but then he might be right off his head I would
bet the dream ended in the last century and you just stopped wishing / strange
calmness in the Burra / no more poker night they tell you at 6.00. p.m. / now there's a
sign (and like them all sign-ifying nothing) I say stick it (what the gang at the bar have
had to face is eternity) light as a touch

perhaps we just fold down for a time and by chance the drugs start working again - or
some such mistake occurs you see the idea of it staggering to a / or dissolving itself
into a what? is too much of a stretch in this day and age of wire like things behind the
curtain making picture shows you think you're watching (the facts are quite simple)
Lulu tap dances at the Ritz at 4 in the arvo and only Benny the taxidermist turns up
to watch so there's never really been a last days / show closing (though it's in
someone's mind) / and yes it's not good to be trapped like that / but hang it all who can
bear the cross let alone the hanging (around) / and as if leaving means anything at all -
some people are sick in the head / they think death is an opening like there's a
difference between things yeah right

horror shudders down the street (the world is unaware)



(c) greg. t. charlton. 2007
All rights reserved.

Road Songs 1. Killer Press.