What shadow falls.
what shadow is rotating.
Bird lifts off salamader coping.
Shadow cuts a deep disk
through the ply, the layers of super-
folds one on one, wrenches them like
bread, like books, like a roof.
Similar to paste
cloud hangs a blimp, hangs fire.
The ash pit stirs to let fly
its first groped word like a crocus,
Heaps start to churn.
Should pivots switch
counterclockwise, and this airy island
hover, throwing shadows
like the span-master, world-stretcher
etched on his wheel.
He stopped for a single glove.
The shoe tumbled.
Because the wheel turns
In its shadow brightness
participant, every tongue lipped.
Whose the cries, whose the breakers?
Not for long did they play freely,
soon were docked.
Now they shake back
There were those swing
out of view, intercept a high-kicking
dripping tight as celery. Such zephyrs,
such bold specimens of
cabinet high gloss. Language
lumps for their heads, pulse emission,
these wanted not centers
all the same.
There were holdouts
gave thunder credence,
blood pooling on a waxed mild shelf
humming rails. Exposed
racks of seconds,
final touches to a page of shadow,
rays anointing the head.
Glaze wants a lighter nuance,
firing sang de boeuf, sicklies over
These were the stirrings
of a new genus.
Then even to conceive outside
dissolves in nightmarish din.
What threw off suckers
batten on the skin-tight, the slippery
tucking in amidst
with the given and fortuitously dropped.
This one makes no sense.
Deposit it in crossed beds.
One by one I pluck the bowl off its trivet and this is a production line. One by one I break the bowl and on the trivet there is no bowl so far as I make out. When my tongs reach in where no bowl seems to be, they clasp the bowl, withdraw it, and it is a set of song-bowls. This can be repeated with a flushing cistern; it passes the falsifiability test, it rings true. Remove the bowl one by one, and the continuous gurgle, the flutter, how will you remove these, that, what exactly? The void shakes and sends its emissary. Keep your eye on the ping-pong ball which one by one leaps across a trampoline of water, so symmetrical it must be empty, but the ball is jumping on a body of water, on a full expanse. When I say I pluck the bowl off its trivet, it then says a nothing doing, it is a saying, no more—still, the bowl resounds from that saying so, one by one and shatters, then its emissary goes out and it is who say this from the void, from the fiery void.
This extract has been taken from Reckitt’s Blue by John Wilkinson.