Coastal Defences of the Self Poem by Andrew Duncan

Is this really yours? who wrote this?
You don't look like this poem
Where did you get this from?

Pinned, snapped, separated
folios in the trays of the huge cabinet
Hoping the signal made it onto the tape
that personality is bared
in extra millimetres of bodily signs
seized as an acoustic envelope,
a sequence of jags and shakes
transparent to the collectors who are spent up,
who fuss about
nocks on the millisecond scale,
who want to sell their objects to acquire objects,
who turn the milliseconds into a roll
scatter graphed in 20 different planes
a superimposition on ten other people
as their flawed realisation.
Did I make it through the cuts?

Is this a duplicate of what I've already got?
Is there a callsign here? a spectrum lock?
I show them the gaps in the profile, the teasing surges
peaks in the infra-red
symbolic machines run in curves
reproductive organs spray
Double attractors holding a perverse pattern steady
Voices of thefts & mimicry
Out of masks hiding deeper intent
a kind of hole in the web
A tale of the mouse, Mus musculus, the tests it passed
in telling one million other mice apart, by the scent
that pea-sized brain an engine for classifying
the whiff of mouse being a burst of distinctive features
that hot peanut and wood-mould scent utters genes
telling major immunity types — it talks to a nose about
the thriving of disease in the offspring.
Using sound instead of vapours
what does my style say about my biochemistry?
What is this
toothmark of an acoustic stain?

Rainy journeys through folk roots
to look for what isn't there
a tape of which the poems are a realisation
inscribed on yew by Dark Age kinship structures
Saxons sailing up the Trent with
sh- and th- sounds, with melodic gestures twisted into tunes;
Irish boatloads landing in Argyll, the Gaelic
of inland Aberdeenshire, drawing fish from snow-fed burns;
I wasn't already there
No oaths, no covenant
No keimelia of tribal lore

I come out of the nest to take on
a guardian maze of strict rules
that never runs the same way twice
that strains every faculty in turn
the compulsory extempore
with red surges reaching to a sink of grey
the many surfaces composing
the horizon of exhaustion
the documentation that has to be delivered.
Again I complete
the spiralised gridiron, the tormented conduct,
a shrine of bones where energy becomes cult;
its burnouts of meat, gutters to drain off heat;
a space that always empties itself,
death as a form of measurement
that waits for a reading.

How much is this one?
does it capture the artist's life?
But is it good of its kind?
Where potency states its own price,
the verbal ordeal that I pass through
to reach the control room of the big machines:
passions of preset course
engulfing and without individuality
running in their own time