"What happened to your little lungs?
Where is all your breath?
Used it for stupid chatter?
Sustain the notes!"
- from "Orchestra Rehearsal", Federico Fellini
The do you were expected to but didn't does cause
trembling on our island; heart rung low like insect nights
soft mouths didn't after dinner firm him up host his
parades; or bad old days strip juicing estate cane.
Now you run inside to pray, just two minutes, the tow
truck done haul half your faith away. MPs or men in
empire khaki does promise to investigate then break
for pim-pim, pim-pim, or siren nature call.
Right up to the last lash day labour was basting ribs in sun
broil state. Now fellas think they serving every trough wet
beak with office cool fans; carrying on as if hard work
gang memories still facing cork hat summons ̶ Harumph!
not done with you yet.
Bass lick free to march the road, done with rice field back
benders, so hard to stand in line again for anything. Arrested
development? A case few court wigs here feel tiered
to hear, though gun men posting ten to one might demur over
rule and point.
Some kind of relay switch, a chrome button thing, set near
where hard ears play, could push start for the stars fresh oil
pan humming. What comes next will I bet you take your time;
head notes in tune from scratch.
God speed, wave path maker;
wind rush projections seem favourable. Steer clear of ghost
ships Prepare to grapple! ports of pain and don't too much flare
rose slip shell.
Stern flag?
Your tides know only sea grape moons? Aie aie aie.
– W.W.
JOB
I do not dismiss any sacred
utterance of experimental breath
that has chosen me as its agent
̶ not because I am good for nothing else
(although it's true: as Sandrissima says:
'Making strange noises is your talent'),
and surely not because it pays the rent,
but since long ago I made myself
available to whispering angels
needing to leave behind mementos
of what they felt to be of more moment
than points their usual nudges suggest,
I remain one of their servant-men
in a zone where men as servants are spent,
and the few remaining feel naked
and breathless in a maze of sharp fences
scrawled with scars of some future hell-bent
beyond the hints of harbingers Heaven-
sent, beyond the need of their instruments
whose bell-voices will not relent, yet
must also rehearse both ends of Silence.
(from "Nor Like An Addict Would" © by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 