29: voyage to the edge of the future, 2013

29: voyage to the edge of the future

I

outside 

the land stretches, 

empty, 

to the horizon

large swathes unmapped

the bleak, barren upland plains

dead still air

a slow whirlwind,

a silence we cannot hear

the sun pouring down from a pitiless sky

among brilliant rising and falling points of dust

the grass crackling underfoot

the red and rootless earth 

the streams have ceased to run:

stagnant water, 

slow and thick and foul,

stirs and surges

in the boiling lake, 

simmering, spouting

II

on the horizon 

beyond the mirage:

the border city, 

straddling two deserts.

the city where memory is traded for forgetfulness

the city which knows only departures, no returns

the city in the wasteland of indivisible existence. 

the city that sleeps

profound silence 

broken only by the sound we make as we walk.

in the city unexpected gusts of burning wind

in the city, put your ear to the dusty ground

 and hear the distant sound of a slamming door.

in the city containing the ghosts of the past, 

like the lines of a hand,

waiting endlessly,

to be read.

in the city everything is invisible:

the stone and the clay have dissolved

retaining only the faintest trace of the past

as indexical proof of lives that were lived.

in the city the traceries of a pattern 

shimmering as a dimly illuminated mist 

holding shadows, echoes 

one of the many lost kingdoms riding on a cloud of smoke.

the last stage of the journey along a stony precipice,

through air like molten glass:

III

when you raise your eyes, 

you see the sea                   glist’ning above you

the thunder of the waves hammering the city’s walls

here it comes: 

the turmoil, the chaos, the hubbub and howls 

in the black, whirling wells of sea

shoals of light blinking past, like eyes,

staring down into the fathomless abyss

and a storm’s unleashed on the jealous sea that loves her ancient sleep

Fast         Asleep.               Fast.                         Asleep.

we’ve learnt to breathe water.

yet, there is nothing left for it but to go on,

oarless, rudderless, sleepless.

will she sing her siren’s song to us on our raft of dreams

as we drift along?

IV

there is a country up above the world

where we are sailing across hollow spaces 

where the air suddenly grows cold

and the sun is blotted out

solid silence:

where space is curved.

in tiny niches the void is crumpled up,

a sucking, greedy, grasping singularity of oblivion

dropping through the time-space warp

into the vortex,

spiraling us into inner space

the last frontier, 

populated with entropy engines, hallucinations, high-pitched voices,

alien furrowed full circle orbing ecstasy 

of flyblown paranoia at the helm.

havoc in the heavens

needing to get out of the centrifuge, 

and out of the spin

and 

it

is

a

long

fall

down.

from the friction of the air 

her face melting off

like the skin of a meteor.

lit by the diamond of Venus 

in the sky that is dying

the world suddenly exploding,

doubling, revolving, changing.

the old galaxies flee us,

inflexible in flux,

and we,

the survivors of the old,

projecting plasma bridges to the future

the movement of thought

flickering flaming flowing

for 

the dawn has come,

as it has for eons,

for the last time.