brianbrock.com the priests know Jesus was just a man the philosophers know Plato was in love where do the rules of marbles come from? Moscow burned because made of wood every body counts a number somewhere in their brain as it climbs they disencumber falling, they fear pain every body counts a number adding to their shame subtraction, as it makes you number 'liminates your name you count, you count, you count a number we've made it now to three I'll count you out, so do not slumber I'll not sleep for thee every body loses count the dark horizon looms the asymptotes are tantamount crisscrossing in the gloam The body's a vestigial trait, a "little tail" beating time; the self a silly hollow bore, a spirit-voiced inverted mime. The heart is mostly metaphor, contracting slowly into things - the will is coming (running late!) to claim the song another sings... but I, oh, I exist, I do - they promise me I'm true. How soon is now sounds now: The cymbal sighs a filtered hiss, soft breath on scratching chords, unsteady static rumble-battered - sister's cast-off Smiths cassettes, objects obsolete. The sound dissolved in lived aesthetic - present matter absent matter, meant must do for accident. poetry is not for practice it's much too dire for life its suture is its structure knowledge is its knife no god may prod the poet's print the truth shall reason wreak the mouth of fury brays the brink where meaning bearing breaks and when the demon drops the pen for pittance of its wrack the pit of fury seethes again - stare! stare into the empty crack stare into the empty crack of hell it's laughing in your face your face is laughing in the well you're standing in my place and words can heal as well you know like the pealing of a bell you know I will hurt you very much, but only as your due. You've not yet felt the depth of touch, nor yet met you know who. Who has been to beat the deeps below the subtle stage? The able best but save for sleep, our meaning-muddied age. Did I say "hurt"? I meant to heal by placing words about. About your pout about our bout: now pout about "about". About this "I"? There's no such one! The terror-depths are vast - the never-severed tail of woe gives nothing you can grasp. You may hurt me very much - it's said it is my due. I felt the way you fight for touch, I've fought the way you're true. Truth is, you'd never hurt me, even if you knew, for "you" is just a metaphor to someone ("you know who"). Your metaphor's my handicap against the meddling rage: someone's swept up down below, someone stays at the stage stop. Stop. Will "I" "hurt" "you" very much? About as much, it's said, stop, as you would heal me with your touch - but, O tentacled reach, once I dwell among the dead - stop - may your fading furied fingers cease their scraping at my scalp - stop - Away now Villain! denim sleeves against the grasping corn terrier weftwise chasing scentless dirt marching oars pave the heaving green a stricken ash has crushed the ocean shore a happiness may be a fabric a thick grey wool felt decorated with colorful animals mewling gleeful bats and donkeys beehives sprout and bear fruitfalls the categories mingle in the yarns sky blue for fading flames green from left to donkey tail sunshine buried in the garden all watered from within i'm not angry, you're sad said the madness with a mirror i'm righteous, not bad said the fighter to our furor i'm not frightened, i'm fierce said the terrier to your terror i've risen from the beasts said the easter to her error our city walls have all burnt down buildings laughing to the ground the cloisters closed, the cackling clowns, the saints supposed to find the found i'm not stupid, we're smart said the writer to the word arisen into art said the builder to the board poems, brian brock, 2023