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~ Trinity Gardens,9am ~
We are less than names
eating our breakfast in the
war memorial
in white outrushing
light; a cement mixer drives
past, half dreamingly.
Crazily houses
large multi storey car parks
glass office towers
and all that morning
chirp has started; a thousand
poems won’t stop it
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~ Archaeology ~
There is a pre-classical age
with smashable pots
soundless tombs
there is a middle age
and an end age
there is Saint George’s Shopping Centre
jammed with earrings, alarm clocks
wristwatches.
Unreal city
never waking from your dream in time
portraits hoarded high in rooms
Sir Francis Drake, hand on globe
Elizabeth I, feet on map -
did the Renaissance feel like waking up
or stepping on an escalator
and does stepping on an escalator feel like
falling asleep?
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Tired on the train with a stale taste in my mouth
i read those lines from Ashbery’s Street Musicians
about leaving our sperm and rubbish all over the planet.
Dustbins overflowed, paint peeled off bricks
the gates to the church were padlocked up.
Unlike saints we dress sensibly
use our Gillette daily
plant rubbish in earth
when possible move by train
or jet -
this isn’t sand age
isn’t sword age
this is Francis Fukayama
scraping ashes in a dustbin
scattering all the garden spiders
whacking feet up on a plastic chair -
the archeologists of a future date
digging for several years
through Monet prints, kitchen clocks
entire hills of household junk.
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~ Unst ~
Even here, bathrooms
drowsy in condensation,
brand names.
Square heat in houses
leaks into the atmosphere
outside
the formless above
droning like a roadless dream.
Listen
your church is roofless
the walls are unfastening
like clouds
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~ The air that bells have struck furiously ~
Autumn is landing on tables, mongrel dogs are
shagging in the courtyard, a five-year-old boy
screams mama all afternoon. I spend my time
yawning and blowing in hot tea
no birds sing in this head; cloudy sounds press
house windows, bathroom air smells white
and cold. Behind the windowpane a sea unlocks.
Cars vaguely river into motorways.
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I am mingling in this flood
standing in a kind of sunset waiting for a bus
watching concrete balconies, stray birds
long forgotten dreamscape that seems like hours
leads eventually to my vacant room, emptying
furniture out a mansion, acting as removal men.
London central sunny evening on bikes in traffic streets
Ceri says 'no, what's really scary is
you don't know what's real
and not real'
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I dreamt I left a life, running back along train tracks,
sleeping in leaves, or the grounds of a church.
The land changed its name, the buildings were rebuilt,
dimensions and walls.
In the morning I stepped off the pavement
and into a road
walking on cherry blossoms
and dead cigarettes.
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Death is no different from life, said Thales.
Then why don’t you die, someone asked him.
Because it makes no difference, replied Thales.
The earth was bellowing like a bull
building temples, digging canals, importing wood
in the heart of a dream, like giant snakes,
cedars floating down the water of a river.
Clouds slide off the sun.
Do we build houses for ever?
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~ Archaeology 2 ~
The River Fleet wasn't a lunatic
but they buried it under the floor of the city,
under the greasy floor tiles in Burger King
and Kings Cross, locked off from the sidestreet sun
in Hatton Garden, where a butterfly beats
on and off a display case of diamonds
and price tags, as leaves and wind
rush past.
I don't think much
moving at 50 mph beneath the city
or wandering in the bright supermarket
with dry throat, itchy hair, £12.33 loose change,
in Russell Square pigeons crowd a fountain bath
'it gives them a chance to wash all the shit off their skin! '
smiles one man, a fat dog chases two crows
feels proud
babies sleep in sunshine prams
outside the British Museum, while inside
Egyptian mummies hear no horns
and locked shut, in glass cases
are lighted by remote control;
the artefacts are saying nothing, out of context,
apart, as the rivers buried under cities
sucked blankly out of sound and love.
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~ In a chilly room (weak light bulb,3am) south west China ~
scribbling dream scraps in my A5 book
where small sad things occur
for instance seagulls mistake my head for food
then force me off a windy roof
or a friend has died and then a statement like
IT MADE THE CITY LIGHTER
while prozzies laugh
and men jack off
and drinks get spilt
and sometimes I’m filled with optimism
although it’s not entirely real
in fact about as real as
dreaming granddad’s somehow still alive
in the backroom of a faded store
scribbling notes against a concrete wall.
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~ Undressing for dreams ~
Pull a plug out
from a wall, allow
hot appliances
to sleep like cats
peel away coats
& pants, pile them up
crumpled, bodiless,
step out of them
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~ Archaeology 3 ~
Towards the exit
Somewhere in the space outside
Beyond the cave mouth
In fluent colour
Skeletons facing the west
Place names that have ceased
Petrol pumps, concepts
Vehicles moving to the
Ends of all the roads
To the odourless
Unproduced pre-beginning;
Here there is nothing
I am ownerless
No name, no semen, no blood;
Here I don’t exist.
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* Archaeology 1 & 2 appear in 10x3
Ben Dover
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