william orbit mix

U2-One
--
after the dance
some uninscribed body devises an image on the floor.
after the dance
some inhibited eye tumbles closed too slowly
after the dance your
ownership is more denied and confirmed than my tongue can follow,
ink blue circles devised along my shoulder blade,
indigo symbolism inscribed on the curve of my waist
dark color stained on my iris.

I am
tired. The dark quiet alcohol
hung around my neck and my hands
cupped around the neck of every man there
at some brief course of the minute hand.
The marble floor is my mother, holding me like
a cold, white, flat womb. Your hand is a journey
inscribed over the iridescent purple painted on my
shins, the inversion defiance of the dry salty white
of sweat on my temples.
I am.

after the dance
we cannot recollect the strewn pieces of our
inky selves and assemble them like a hypodermic
electric decision around our stormy imperfection of
motion. and
after the dance
we let pass an hour on the floor-
waiting for our bodies to forgive us.

I am
unabstained. The brush of spread hands
streaked the taste of blue-purple across my
forearms onto your forehead. The pulse of
lost time
rearranges my perceptions
and sometimes I ask forgiveness of my body
for the open walls of my ribcage,
for the urgent lift of my lungs in the ribbons of
dark air.

Kino-Eyes, part I

Canto IV

She put her head to one side.

It was glossy like a black car in the sun;

her movements were clear-spun languid,

the color of the skin on her wrists.

She had a smile hiding somewhere on her lips,

the slope of her feet, the outline of her ankles,

the little symbols of life and girlhood and convictions

hanging, dangling, vibrating on her wrists and arms.

Canto X

That you feel at all-- that is

the greatest sanity and the wildest insanity.

Sterility, steel, bodies tangled up in heaps

after the machines of war have passed by,

and your heart goes on beating,

your heart goes on beating like

an untuned drum.

Canto IV

They asked her to pray when

she was on the verge of tears. She

betrayed herself, but not sorry. She held out

her wrists for handcuffs. She slid her hand up into her

black hair, felt her rough scalp, the hiddenness of

that, and her heart, and hummed to herself,

some old songs about nails and stones and love

and a new one about a bare scalp and bandages.

Canto X

You get scarred, you get scarred

on your body where your shoulder becomes

your back, where your cheek becomes your forehead,

where your jawbone slips back into your skull. You get

scarred, the way knives slip into bodies that have been

pressed resisting against the wall.

the apollo program was a hoax

http://iplaybass.flyingstove.com/Music/Refused/The%20Shape%20Of%20Punk%20To%20Come/12%20The%20Apollo%20Programme%20Was%20A%20Hoax.mp3
open this link in a new window...
--
You wake up; for him it's like the end of the world.

It's like we've never been sleeping.

I mean, I can just barely hear you, the way your boots take you up the stairs, the way your voice buzzes against your throat, the way you laugh when you're not amused, like a little gold knife. I can barely hear you but my head roars.

My headphones roar in my ears, the room is full of red-gold light. It suffuses skin, obscures eyes, closes the spaces around us into a small warm circle. My fingers trail through the shadows, the music, the melody that dances lightly over the darker-eyed bass line. And I can hardly hear you.

The way we converse, like a cough. Did I tell you about the red-gold destruction of our city? The war that drummed through it? Our house spilled out on the streets. Your house turned into a crystal museum, broken glass. Did I tell you what the soldiers did to my sister? Or about the indoctrination of your brother?

My head roars in the silent light. Your head is pinpricks of dark hair like sandpaper that your father wouldn't understand. My father wouldn't understand me either, western ways. The boy I am with who is not of our faith. You, with your inked skin. Your mother would say to mine, "Ai, our children, we don't know them anymore.". My mother would say to yours, "They are lost to us; my girl and your boy who used to play so nice in the backyard.".

They do not understand us. My mother would look at me disappointed; "Nice girls don't smoke." You father would wonder why you aren't married yet. Our mothers would not understand how we see each other every day and are not in love. They want grandchildren. They wouldn't understand how we dance. The silver studding my ear. The slope of my shoes. The grommets in your jacket, the letters on your arm. The mock prison number on your close-cut head.

I can't hear you through the way we talk, like spilled bitter beer. Red destruction, gold. The war of western drums against our parents. We can't understand them, either, we who left before war broke our window and splintered our walls. I wonder about what the soldiers did to my sister; if it changed her too badly. If the indoctrination made your brother a stranger to your parents.