Beatbox (after Aase Berg)
by John Wilkinson

 

 

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

The singing black box
         forgives,
a million limb-pyramids
         twitch but not in time,
time won’t make tracks
here,
to the funkiest black box,
none have a scrap
         left to throw,
what is the toll
taken on the scrapyard,
the shipping crate?
                   Nil.
         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
hunches.


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

Imperial
         Elmo
Chemical,
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
         perusal
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-
landish 
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