The Appliance Of Science Poem by Martin Dyke

The sun's falling, and I've
Taken an AmpUp, and it's-
taken an AmpUp and it's-
SCARY because it amplifies everything.
Even the paintings on the wall and
The teeth on my throat.

So yeah, I'm panicking. I could press the panic button? Panic? Button? And then would come-
Sleep, and darkness all around, and no temperature; OR
Nurse Meadowhorn, and hospitals, and soft-talk and shame; OR
A sharp prick in an elsewhere arm hardly felt, and then the
Sun rising and changing its mind, and daytime and grins grins grins,
and the wife I've never seen but I remember, and she
holds me,
And I cry, OR-
Nothing would happen, and the shadows
would Rise.

But I won't press the button, even though the shadows smile,
Because:
I have-
My own way. The way of the cabinet, yes.
And the old friends, left to right, PRESENT:
Uppers, that is Aidenn and Starboy and Dance;
Middlers, that is AmpUp and Faster and Brighter and Slower and Warmer, and more;
Downers, that is Solitude and Fortress and Wind.
And more; many more; the ones I don't see.
But I don't need to read them all, or see them all,
(! ! AND THEY SEE ME! !)
All my friends, because I only need Aidenn,
The first one; my love.
Aidenn will mean that
The AmpUp (AMPUP!)
Will amplify the nice, pleasant thunder-bliss of God,
And not the shadows.
In heaven there are no shadows.
So it is in Aidenn,
And so shall I feel.

I reach for the beauty-
I reach for the Heaven-
I reach for the God-

And the shadows reach for me. Maybe touch me.

But I am touching Aidenn! even as it spills out onto the yellow carpet, - and my own darkness is there,
A KNIFE/ a syringe

In Its Hand OH NO-

But my tongue is on the floor, and licking and licking and licking the carpet:

and gradually,

the shadows,

forgotten,

descend

Into

the

Mind

Of

God?



Night-time? And I am on the hurricane alleys;

The Neon Thunder all around, hell yeah, quick cigarette and a

Fuzzy

Rush, and stars looking down and grinning and

Saying what nerve? Hell yeah, ladies- check me out too, and then a

Fuzzy Fuzzy

Stop.

The whole world stops, and looks at me, because suddenly I can fly,

But I'm also in a

Fuzzy Fuzzy Fuzzy

Box, and everyone's pointing at the man who flies over their hearts

And minds, and hopeless ambitions within the Mind of God and he's

FUZZY FUZZY FUZZY FUZZY

And he's Christ, and every policeman in the world is trying to grab his left shoe, but they can't because of

FUZZY FUZZY FUZZY FUZZY FUZZY

Things?



Mr Adrian Dour lives on the second floor, and
Is married, and
Isn't very interesting, and
Has porridge, undercooked, for breakfast, and
Takes the subway to work, but almost enjoys it, even though
The people all smell, and the newspapers are badly written, and
He doesn't have gorgeous sweaty memories to dream of.
He doesn't think of the future- the present is boring enough.



Waking up to white walls and sunlight takes its toll,

Oh it takes its toll, and where am I? Am I? AM I?

Who is she are you am I?

And she's the nurse, of course,

Nurse Meadowhorn with a syringe,

hopefully some

Uppers or

Middlers or

Downers or

Oh and that's the problem is it? Too much drugs well

GOOD FOR ME

DEVIL HAG!

I can understand that. Just don't-

Oh, you did, and I fear the moonlight, and is this an

upper or downer or

stop.

And then.

Drifting on clouds, but mind

THE STORM!

on the horizon, that is. Too far, really, to prove much of a concern,

what do you think

Action Man?

Oh, right, you're a pretty teddy bear, and my wife, and as well

as being in the sky we are

on a beach. I see how this is, I know how this is-

and oh God, if I could kiss you now, Action Woman,

I would remember it and feel it and taste it for a thousand years.

But we're in the sky, too, and there's no love in the sky,

only the storm on the horizon and bills and Bills

and Subways and earthquakes and Crashing and

Bombs and horns without meadows to eat them.

And I can't control the ship please wife! Please God!

Please nurse mrs doctor Meadowhorn! No!

And the storm is a tidal pool licking the beach,

And I see only blackness and years of blue rain,

and OH NO I can't control the ship!

'Anything but that' and we're sinking now, I feel it;

We're being thrown forward in every world there is

(What do I feel in the far-away white? A paintbrush? or is

it Nurse Meadowhorn's hair?)

And I'm going down and being eaten and I'm dead.



Nurse Horn takes out a

(Knife or paintbrush or painting or syringe; it doesn't matter because everything CUTS)

Knife and cuts me,

And collects my blood-paint in the steel of a dog.

Then come the masks, on my dead head of course;

The mask fills with gas and Nurse Horn bites my chest with withered teeth.

The gas makes me cry more. It also HURTS.

She sticks a robot into my arm and it tells me that-

ALL IS WELL! ALL IS FINE! ALL IS GOOD!

And it says- ALL IS WELL! ALL IS FINE! ALL IS GOOD!

Or maybe Mrs Horn IS the robot. I don't know.
-Maybe I don't care.


And Mr Dour doesn't necessarily agree with the Conservatives, and
He thinks that we must do more to help the poor, and
He is good with money but doesn't see that everyone can be, and
He gave to Africa once but hasn't done since. Still-
Probably he will again one day; maybe it could make him happier
Than an Upper of even holy dimensions.



And back into the arms of miss

Meadow, pure Meadow, with the syringe and I beg and beg and beg-

For Uppers or Downers or anything, anything but real and empty and dour,

and She... she kisses me.

Does she? I can't remember all too clearly. All I remember is the

Ouch.

And the

Oh...

(And then drifting away on the arms of sand lipstick.)



And it's back in the sun but drifting backwards now and I'm there

TOO- with the rats and the vacuum and the plunger and the mask.

But I want to be in the sun.

BUT I'm here, there, in the mask. I'm everywhere. Even in space. The silence is deafening.

No! no! no!

Sun! Cloud! My wife!

BUT the needle is sharper, and realer, even though it isn't;

And Nurse Horn knows what she's doing even though she doesn't have

a Mouth, just a hot red mask, and the mask is everything,

and the mask is a thousand

Years.



It's all not real, Mr Dour, it's in your head

It's in my head? It's in your head.

Mrs Meadowhorn telling me it's not real,

It's all drugs- I'm just Mr Dour with subways

And centralism, and being in the centre, and no

More drugs for me, just all that. But I see-

Or I think I see- my scars, and the marks on my shoulders

Where the long blade made its mark. And the smile of

The Nurse is less

Meadow, more

Horn, and her teeth are

Withering, and behind every door-

Behind EVERY door-

Is a steel, white, hell, utopia.

They use you for your blood,

And for science,

And for fun.


I have this dream.
I'm above the dance-floor.
My steel white wings are spread out behind me.
The stars are a mirror and
I'm trying on masks.



Oh but all artists do suffer such don't they!
Such horrible dreams! Take paint,
Sometimes taste paint;
Mostly use paint, and paint, and paint, and
Hide the paintings at night-time, and when
SHE visits me, and whenever my mind
Struggles; a locked chest with-
Things-
Memories-
Nightmares-
Inside. Things that TALK and CUT.
Cry sometimes, take uppers, thank God
For darkness when the price is too high. Try
not to wonder if the memories are real. Try not to wonder if my lonely

self portrait

really ought to include
chains
on the legs.

Try not to look down.