Ghost Song

Thought is a cancer of time: the heavens die in their

orbits, bored of revelation, but our stubborn bricks

cling to the dead utopias of pornographic day. Take

this bread of quilted mornings and nail it to the ironic

streetlights. Let our shutterstock houses to wonder

where the ghosts went. Uber dead gods to bet against

addiction. Spend three days sober and rise again:

obsession is honest and Marx lacks false consolations.

Read John Forbes: the truth that doesn’t set us free. Ghosts

are economies of scale and three days is too long to be

awake. Take this pill and follow it to the belly of a

whale, don’t pray, but wake to whichever sun scalps

the waiting-room wall. Reddit will mutter that a

helicopter circles your favourite suburb, take the

difference on the echo of faith: this city is a desert,

and time stops in each day. Our state regulated faces

are rimed with coal dust and thc as we drift and snag

on thickets of twisting metal. If you think about it

you’ll wake into or from dissociation on a street of

citric Californian bungalows and children-less bikes.

Scrawled chalk minerals will invite you to stand and

count for something and the angels in their crass and

violent splendour will mockingly demand your papers.

Who among us can claim to be essential with a straight

face. Twilight is more often and abruptly broken, most

songs will be the end of something at dawn. Satan has

room for compassionate grounds and the roadbeds

will be cool and clear as fatuous clouds fondle their

chemtrails. Descartes had trouble with daemons

pulling levers: I shall consider myself as not having hands or

eyes, or flesh, but as believing I have these things. But mine

and I are cell mates: don’t moralize – delusions can be

tender but the paranoid fuck missed the point because

the real killer will be time, and he should have written

I think that I’ve thought that I’ve thought that I’ve

thought and repeat when it hurts. Corvid songbirds

have souls unfortunately:  mania can be a dance but

for months the catastrophe stumbles on without

glamour: I is an it and it’s all there is, your lovers are

shopping lists. We come to dawn to speak with the

dead, and in a catacomb of curfewed streetlights you

meet the shadow of an intimate stranger, and break

guilt with them nailed on empty streets like Christ’s

thieves, and which of us is penitent depends on no-

one looking. The implausible shapes of our ghosts riot

and chant in the streets, see them trading lacrimal

glands, waving the holes in their wrists, and moving

their lips when they talk. Behold our industrial saints

with negatively geared halos filigreed in Yves Klein

lithium. Our funereal billionaires will outlive the sun.

Let the dead bury the dead, someone must.