Rite of Return for James Brown
 
That hit
into, no equal to it
that pitch, that blade-
cut into the
arriving
surge
horns and saxes
antiphon
in a shining thicket
that attack
off-centre, muscling
his whole back's
sideways glide
perfect
guiding them all
his suddenly
outside-of-themselves
singers
frantic finding a
whirling maze for steps
unwieldy
too crazy intricate
their bodies
baulked by the
weft-spell
suit-arms hanging
gazes gone
that shimmy-
writhe, feet to hips
that voodoo devotion
snakes for
uncontrollable
legs
that
flame in
what-the-hell's-time
sweat &
greased patent leather
that anger
for lost shaking
warning, imprecation
'shake the hand of your best friend
you might never...'
no equal
'NEVER...





 
                            For the Mobiles of Pae White
 
                                                       jouissance
                                the street sudden a blossom of fragments
 
                        substantiation suspended
                                                  all speech-marks opened:
 
                                                                      "
                                                                 
a flurry
                                                      snow of laminar perspex
 
                                                                  whirled
                                                       simultaneity  debris
                                                    summoned, all we've left
                                         recovered      shredded         lifted
                                                   invited to the intervene
 
                                     jasmine tokens a jazz-spun purple
                                                            plexity
 
                                                     these skywards
                                                              raised
                                                     those orange tags
                                                 of me you her he him
                                                             cresting
                                                      this luminous melee 
                                                           of scattered
                                                         scatter-tracks
 
                                                          these blinks
                                                       of op vibrating
                                                             into now
                                                                 these
                                                      clouds of knowing
                                                         abandonment
                                                                radiant

                                                     unknowing.





 
 
Helipad Holo
 
Hammock is our house made pure of it in noise: blades of son of man of gods of sons coming down pure skylight. Weighed in the measures like custom meeting language to exercise excise trickily. You couldn't buy this thrum if you wanted it and you do: it rumbles over the M62 and Rhubarb Triangle rampant speaking MEDIVAC, heading along through intercalated logistical rifts for a big heraldic setdown inside a circled H.
 
Space in different rooms comes apart and oscillates within its dimensions, tracts. Distracted from playstations, saints of shoot-em-up maraud the ginnels for cirrus permutations, blazons, rotor acoustics in passing voices. A contested haze of rising, robbed-out jargon, we hear it coming back amplified again over ringroad survivors and Ikea rejects, modelling moebius weaponry implied in every double-cross it makes; Hull and high water is the song in the offy and William Hills 'now' and what we call 'adays', and how many bets in the zone called o and what its numbers my high-five crew in the blizzard of tribute circuitry.






Don't Rain on My Pareidolia
 
If the dead can speak and the grass is green or moss in rain summers, it's the sense that machines can catch up with mysteries, the supernatural or trans-natural or post- . Butterflies die too. There are limits to metaphor and the chrysalis and trees and fire-released seeds are a few to rattle in your hand.
 
A raw dive's not an end-dive nor radicchio.  I sort a theme in vein interference from baby minders; apparent voices aren't heard. They're going spare in transparencies all over white noise in universal raw sash.
 
All across the waves trans-parent sceptics are raising the noise floor, faces formed in Wah-Wah crossing modulation & faulty loops. Amoebal sonic zones cranked up to a bellow. Post-mortem's  moritorium.
 
A focused sweep filter moves around looking for the passed:  the spectrum leaks audio, open vowel sounds, trance parents begin understatement as undertaking's shady sister.
 
A raw dive to the wreck of boundaries brings out the monosyllabic jokers with 'No, No', more pause than attack, more minimalist click than articulate. 'As above so below', so say these shy waifs who maunder, or effects to that sound, and manics rob out the acoustics of ouija; they put the jibe back in gibberish, the stir in mystery.  We hear their echoes they use us to locate. On their side of the sentence, their language is their listening machine with all the speech stripped out.

 
 
       David Annwn, 2008