Saturday, 22 February 2014
48. Play and Play All Day
Here, then, is this place – singular & banal
The last point now of where we are written to.
We are in a cafe, upstairs, in early spring rain. THE POET is trying to write, against a low volume of voices, a hum from various essential machines, & the irregular rhythms of newspaper pages turning & coffee spoons clinking. This is a common set of conditions, unmeant, unplanned, gently forceful - background contingency, like all geography.
Time to tell. Our movements are our own now
Moving in & out, Poet, from that universe
You write with.
– But listen (we speak)
What mad, sad voices then are these?
What is desired, for God’s sake?
What is to be made of your silence?
A THIRD POET:
What is worth being made memorable, and how do you get it?
A FOUTH POET, FROM A DISTANT TIME:
“Where are you taking me, and for what purpose?”
ALL FOUR POETS:
What you do, fails; what you don’t, fucks.
OK, true, let’s push this out then now –
If we’re ever to leave, you guys better
Stop licking each other’s pus, for what you’ve got
We’re told’s a privilege – then live it together now.
THE POET (BUT NOT IN OWN VOICE):
The very taking of chance
Inserts us into time – into
The present. To take a chance
Is to enter the moment in
Relation to it
– it is, as
Musicians would say, a
Matter of getting in time, a
Matter of being with it.
FX: SOUND OF MOCKING LAUGHTER, FOLLOWED BY MISCELLANEOUS AND VARIED WATER SOUNDS INCREASING SLOWLY IN VOLUME THROUGHOUT UNTIL END
OK then this calls
For rapid improvisation
Out of the decaying categories of selfhood
Into constant fluid process
Escape now into the poem
Securing a non-delusory identity for ever.
A FOURTH POET:
“I can only say here
That a poem is never ‘THE’ poem
But only a small fragment
Of an infinite calculation.”