A Collaboration with George Angel
his words, my image
Heap Is the Punctuation of Tumbling
"Ask a drum to expectorate.
Hammering has made me
As stupid as a reflex.
Dust is the grey matter
I am left with.
Blockages of breath,
The debris of honking,
Make radios almost pastoral.
Leaps to connect minutes.
Like voices calling out to each other,
Across mounds of shoveled noise,
They stutter and fall short
Trembling, muted by syllables,
Spaces drilled into
What is opened out of, rubbish."
my image, his words
"I carry the street in the rain in my hands.
The sun had fallen out like an unspun bulb,
Like butter icarussed down into my bowl.
The valley in autumn another nestle just,
Glistens the shatter of a frame, shadowed
My brow, the falling away of the street
In the rain, the facades thicken my fingers,
Seal me away beneath a silent gaze,
Its pane of milky light between us.
To balance a membrane mesmer,
Meander your attention over the motif
Light curdles out of the surface
Of the air spilling between houses
Where I carry the street in the rain."