From Deadly Pollen
You return to the stupa, yearly,
to seek your return. You wish to
come back as forest deer but
that deer is extinct. The stupa is a rock
upon which your dreams founder,
yearly - you return that which
you do not have. Meanwhile, in the
West, under ragged skies and beneath a
hundred spires no longer dreamt of -
attendance comes tumbling down;
each stone, unturned, in an emptied
space within a space caved under.
The stones collected. Ground
levelled and swept. The first cubicle
erected with four windowed-walls,
an open doorway. One man
on a step looking out to sea. Civilization
open for business. Soon, marble
was made smooth and square. The Idea
locked into permanence. Curiosity
stimulated commerce; others came and
conquered then went away.
That first step never forgotten became
a throne - historyıs seat.
"With digital, there is no past,"
says Jean-Luc Godard. Either way,
the button is redundant. Voice-command
is thought - the fear deep and futureless
as history, desire to appease which
remains featureless, not the disorganized
weather it truly is, as much a part of
the breathing stars as constancy of rock.
The 'Mr Whippy Man' weaves
Greensleeves in and out of suburbia; a
caravan in search of a trade-route
via the village that never existed.
How is it the floating island
detaches itself from horizon in dream -
its first appearance, otherworldly,
but of this world, a wheel loosened
from the worldıs ratchet, out of time,
riding above it and inhabited by
folk fixated upon a particular
theorem-thought; elevated imponderables,
whereby you access this island by door
set underneath as you sail under?
Islands, a dream of round towers!
the sudden rush of water under hulls.
By Stephen Oliver
QLRS Vol. 2 No. 4 Jul 2003