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I'm not sure what this is. An early experiment at disconnecting sounds from meanings, in a way.

In the Warm Heart a Cool Pain

Centred on myself (like the sun's rays, red at the death,
me and nobody else) it all makes sense: whether lying
Supine on plastic or grass under sun or cloud,
Every needle point of light gives birth to a
Whiteness of yes. In the hot skull a cool prison,
A gnome than lives forever in blind shadows
While spiders the size of juggernauts
Make history for breakfast.
And spare time thoughts spun onto pages
In a digital code of black and white, one and zero,
Everything can be predicted, down to the colour of
Your grandchild's eyes, and the age at which you stop
Trying. To impress the secondary qualities
Onto the sketch of size and shape, just close
Your eyes and wait; it will be born
Like the many-headed monsters of the Greeks -
It will be trapped by open doors; told by mutes
And coloured in by children armed with wayward crayons -
Wax museums where candles dribble down themselves -
Birds with clipped wings swimming in the milk of the sky -
in the warm heart, a cool pain.

London, 2.8.97

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