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   3 5 6 t h    m a n i f e s t o    o f    s u r r e a l i s m

--- G I L E S   G O O D L A N D


Language is the first casualty 

there is enough now to print a planet, it will share most aspects but not be subject to urge

do you speak language? He both writes the poem and dances

the kingfisher is an affront to concrete until the sky rolls away its blueprint

time, by which means we recall lost sentences, is narrated by the sun

remember your mother printing her lips on you

we are the language of instrumentality. The sand made us do it

the sun is necessary so we donít see stars fucking

historicize the elements back into their sleeps

history, the loops of a signature in which are ideograms for each repercussion

derange the orange, the water whispering in the drain

stir the stars: our children are messages we canít finish

each mouth adds a whole to the language. The moon will hide behind the museum

a mirror is stronger than a self, a poem is unprotected intercourse

letís start building the planet under our feet

leave the weather out in the weather

knock through the party-wall to find a family. We do not recognize the faces but they are watching the same TV

arriving at work, the screen fills like a pool

the revolution has been capitalized

at the end of your street a door has your number, you push through and never cease to fall

you look down at your wrist to see that you are a field

in the musculature of a spider there is no room for expression

without the capacity to dream we settle into our cars and drive towards sleep

we are laid out like it was time to start eating except we are also the food

tap the sediments of the multitudes, harvest the organs of the predeceased

a single blackbird transmits the scrupulous unscrewing of the moon

the car alarms are calm tonight, a puddle on the path is a window to different worlds

those thoughts watch out! or they will never be recovered

the traffic accelerates the eveningís dream, take me to the cemetery which contains James Joyce

driven by sleep, clouds stagnate the stars

you contain many rivers, not all of them named

there is a train waiting at a station that bears your name

against the newspaper army, its columns

the stars function in a way similar to advertisements

the history of forgetting includes a footnote on how things stand at this instant

God lifted his face from the mirror. The stars that were his eyes came loose

there are cities under the roots and mullions of earth, still to be opened

after my thoughts have made love to each other, sometimes there may be a poem

language would be incomprehensible if it could speak

time sounds like this, the severed tongue is severe

the words undid and came out as if language clumps and thickens here

as I have had occasion to note previously, my ears sing

© crossconnect, inc 1995-2006 |
published in association with the |
university of pennsylvania's kelly writers house |