Beatbox (after Aase Berg)
by John Wilkinson



Place your scrap into the
         singing black box,
paper slips shall billow
world-building blaze & blare –
         every scrimp
get deep in hock
to the black box  –

The singing black box
a million limb-pyramids
         twitch but not in time,
time won’t make tracks
to the funkiest black box,
none have a scrap
         left to throw,
what is the toll
taken on the scrapyard,
the shipping crate?
         Let me hear.
Not a scrap, a fortune cookie
slip won’t mend.
Nil, I say, nil.
We dance against pyramids,
whiter than white.
         Nothing sticks.
The voice mausoleum

Had a skinful, true.
A husband heart, dumb cluck
gorged annulment, rapped
in a stiff glove, a cape,
most he off wave & flukes
         to boot, to bone

the chock-full beauty sea
giddying on a gasped beach,

volcanoes of withheld speech,
growths of shut-up
flap the esplanade,
a torque spanner, calm
settles waves, catches
on Zone 2,
         painless interfacing,
should I address its punctum,
fissure glass.

Death watch bells, imperished

Eyes from under

Borromean knots knot.

Walk about the black box,
drag slow,
         drag your heels
in the shade of high
rates of recall.
Resolve, rotate
about your sepulchre
         to be a palmer, seek
directions to the out-
place to be continued,
strung out without limit.

Part buried, part
indivisible skin, he in part
/talk of violence/
         lined their own
fingers, tamperproof, pulled
the undertow across floors,
flooding caskets.
His hands sewn like gloves,
fingers scuttle
itching out epitaphs,
         sowing strings
purplish mussels populate,
soft-shell crabs
bunched & beating
blood-jelly rockpool-grips.

Shingled the shut music.
Box leaves fell.
Plumps on sewage.
         Fistular pluralities.





Also by John Wilkinson in ActionYes #5:
An essay on Spirit