THE DICEMAN SQUAD
left to incident and best to go in a mob/tooled-up if you didn't want
with the townies and I mean no offense by that term it's like old
bikers and scooterists we
were in it together we're all older and wiser now and get on just
Gladiatorial accessories. Knives, smokes, sticks. Extimacy. I'd like
a photo. Something that
holds the mood. The texture of. Mind articulates newly where there
is true coincidence.
Where roads parallel and roads contrary converge. Picture holds the
moment, the peripateia
of moment. Thalamus/cubiculum – a secret place of my/the mind,
stored and recalled by
the craft of mnemotechnical invention. What emerges must be one of
a sound, deadlock, a
star on the pane of self as sky. A twist in the mobius band. Lacan:
knot topology. How do
things stand from me. Stand me?
Ah well. There was a killing to be had, killings.
Rear mirror with its curvature imperfect eight billion words of sorry
shaken shaken so unsafe
correct me cut me. Adrift days always looking for paraffin. One time
I went out and drove
drunk could've died freestyle can't remember where the place was jumping.
with the blue angels or so we were led to believe.
In fire once we took control of the chanting. People were burned before
night a song went why you wanna talk about it tell me take it. In
a place called the scrap yard
disco with a billboard "see the real car inside."
Remember birds roosting? On statues. Starlings all at once, blotting
out my sky. Bodies
clubbing in plastic-wrap to dance. Where have the birds gone? Is no-one
scared of lightening
It was much about
being seen as seeing, matches in different colors, the poor man'
s sparklers, little demons or cannons, blue red yellow, everyone had
their own favorites with
hindsight I reckon they were all the same, just with different finery.
I'm left always with a
vision of broken glass, telegraph poles at a slant, ash and cinders
on ice for traction.
Playing all day
and saying, I do believe you are my enemy
It's all a game of chance, of release eventually
I thought, I'm not cutting anymore opponents, one time I stuck tissue
paper on someone,
wound it up set it down let go the whole body concertinad in a mess,
and I am supposed
to be sorry. But I am not always sorry. I was in a kind of swerve
a mistake to another mistake see how a mistake can be made in the
instinctual dark falling
under the band of sense and surely what has happened has happened
but yes often I am
sorry in every single way I know in one crime after another all joining
but one not yet found
Deviance is a freedom enjoyed in a city of lightly engaged strangers.
I wear my wartime coat
in the wind and sleet. I may have held children or near-children by
the neck. That was belief
among the vulgar, perhaps in part still.