Space is curved, the earth is curved, everything on earth is curved

once fledged the day squirts naphtha
pings Swan Vestas bough-wards
its abandoned nest
the acclivity of getting out
everything we have to say
don't you ever sense
you're walking in the direction
of something celestial and needless
while still hopelessly drawn
to the bosom of careering opportunities?
I've been holding my breath all week
to slow synaptic pruning
it's as if this darkness filled with light
a careful intaglio
brings out the Spaniard in me
flipping back through months of script
some scenes seem pleasantly faded:
the gravity-spill of early morning tram rides
the huge hull of the camposanto clipped to earth
flat against a feeble forceless blue
gas-fucked and run through
with obelisks hedged in fine brickwork
pulled back from the edge
the cleaned out tank of growing awareness
stockpiled with the daft names we give ourselves
amid undiscerning dreamers who thumb the free press
their aspiration on the fly
is chipped off bits of groupthink
to sort snort and glean
or rip from the base doings of nightless sleeps
open to debate yet lost the New Rich wake
mediatically pissed at the snap purchasers
the sex-needy the ready at heart

Milan          March 2008