This started life as
Mr Brautigan’s Russian Submarine
I’d like to think (and
the sooner the better!)
that we could ask Richard Brautigan
to lie with this submarine
in a cybernetic meadow
and then turn it upwards
into a machine of ascensional grace.

This wouldn’t be difficult,
Not such a metaphysical jump
where war machines of dubious life
and difficult but seductive passage
live together in mutually
deceiving harmony.

No, not that but instead this
purest of pure towers
cinematically cut by the
Mastroainic, the Viscount of
surface tension and play
antoning grace and solitude
hopefully no longer
ruining our not-so-clear clear skies.

I like to think
(right now please!)
of Concordia’s submarine turned lighthouse
in a carnival forest and ultramarine sea
filled with pixels and electronics
where architects stroll agonizingly
along the Mekong promenades of
lives once rudely invaded by their wars,
past computers and androids
as if they were dead flowers
with rendered blossoms.

I like to think this is all over now
and we can reclaim disasters for ourselves,
for what is this talk of revival everywhere
those dancing figures and fugues of spent flames
those first principles of the curly-wurly
bars of smoke-filled eyes spiraling
as only language and tectonics can,
a straight cut, a suture
into the mould of that monumental-to-be
columnar helter skelter
coming down from miles above you?

Down the coral terraces and
rock compilations of minds unredeemed
into white Citroens, this the
contemporary typology in its
metaphorical and symbolic agony
running aground on Gigolo Island.

Will this lighthouse become a Safe House
will it guide, warn, mark or alert
those dangerous flirtations
with difficult passages where
the essential character cannot fail
to become this exquisite
Machine of Ascensional Grace.

I like to think
(it has to be!)
of a concordian light and darkness ecology
of the mind where we take
the steps necessary
to free us of our laboured
scholarship and imagination
and re-join nature, freshly submerged
in this deep, deep sea
and all watched over by this machine of
belated, accidental but loving ascensional grace.

Rc. 21.5.2015