David Dowker

THROWN TO THE MUSES

Not beauty necessarily but convulsive. 
Her clone on crutches abruptly beside me, 
as if some messenger from that other realm, 
slurred and pointedly without perspective. 
The message delivered, I suppose, but 
what exactly is it? A demonstration, 
perhaps, of theyr rarefied abilities, 
the sheer immensity of theyr access? 
So events occur to know each other. 
Theyr music plays through us. A complex 
caterwaul of sound and furry silences. 
Sacred instruments make them nervous. 
The production of meaning meant to 
maintain a state of perpetual arousal. 
A smile passed from mind to mind in 
the curve of her from stem to stamen. 
The evident attraction of skin for skin 
involves implicitly. Resistance wavers 
whenever the thin line of static shivers 
(visibly). Cells communicate covertly, 
coded call and response to threshold 
excitation. These are the secret lives 
of signs. The twinned worlds entwined 
in flesh divined. Not to be confused with 
the audible click of metalinguistic crickets 
or the double articulation of time 
's voices (whose mandibles sort poetic 
quanta by penumbra and pale moonlight 
pincers glint in, hint at horn's origin). 
Swanbone and the worn signature 
of ancient fingering. Bending sand 
and smoulders. Nomad omenclature. 
The micropoetics of the situation 
desires an explanation.