The
23rd Litany of Bugs Chakra
And
when you know the reasons, call me
And when you find out why,
drop me a line
In the beginning
Was the rock
And
the rock cracked
And the crack was good
And the good got
high
And the high was bad
And the bad looked ugly
And
ugly was the Father
Which art not in Heaven
And when
you know the reasons, call me
And when you find out why, drop
me a line.
The
Beach
Llandudno Beach.
Crystal
rocks emulating the moon.
Anthropomorphic cirrus warriors
transmutate
in the salty breath of Neptune’s toothless
smiling mouth.
His gums are covered in a cooling layer of
rabid foam.
I
hear his tummy roaring from the depths.
Why is he hungry, I
wonder?
Could it be for my soul?
A young man walks
by carrying a book.
“What’s that book?”
“The Beach.”
“But you’re on
the beach.
Why do you have to read about it?”
“It’s
better. Double whammy.”
He walks out onto
the sea.
Out of the corner of my eye I notice that the
waves have petrified.
The young man carries The Beach away
from the beach and over the horizon.
A helicopter buzzes above
me and down past my line of vision.
There is the sound of an
explosion.
Brittle pieces of crystal rock and sea strafe my
face,
whittling these cheeks away to the bone.
Beneath the
surfaces of the shattered beach, rocks, and sea
is the trace
of an earlier, erased surface;
itself the representation of a
long-vanished text
about beaches, sea, sky, and rocks.
This
is palimpsestic.
I close my eyes but there is no eyelid.
I am both the film upon which this image is impressed
and
the image itself,
curling spatially
onto the patina
of
my eyeballs.
The illusion of interior exterior is
exposed.
It is clear now that the moon was always
emulating these rocks
emulating the crystal beach
at
Llandudno.