by
Jeffrey Lee
In
his cabin
High
above the frontier of perception
Ludwig
Wittgenstein
Thinks
about what is possible
To
think about.
The
chimpanzees of Time
Encouraged
by a second letter
Upper
case
Clock
on for another twenty billion years.
Nobody
mentioned, yet, the crack of doom.
Behind
the faded curtains
In
the pink bedroom
I
dream of the Big Bang
And
all that has unravelled since.
If
this is the Blind Watchmaker
Tapping
with his stick
On
the cold stones of chance
I
am in the pattern
On
the path.
Ludwig
Sees
the water lapping on the shore
Asks
if he can use words
That
will not waterlog
The
chimpanzees
Hear
rumours of another species
Order
a million ribbons
And
type on.
Behind
the yellow faded curtain
In
the bedroom
I
watch a woman hanging washing
On
a line
Habitual
Quick
Yet
different every day.
Each
moment rises fish-like from the lake
To
snap and disappear.
What
is lost?
What
gained?
I
ask you, Wittgenstein.
Ludwig
Watches
himself asking himself
What
can be asked
Raises
his glass and drinks the moon.
The
two literary chimps
Working
in shifts to some unspecified end
Feel
Shakespeare breathing down their necks.
Behind
the yellow braided curtains
In
the gloomy bedroom
I
watch the shadows creeping on the hill
Never
the same passing moment.
I
partly remember an afternoon
Behind
another window
In
Hunstanton
Eating
fish and chips
Talking
of a boy we once saw
Rescued
from the sea.
Can
Ludwig hear my thoughts?
Ludwig
Wittgenstein
Gazing
across the gleaming spires
Rephrases
the eternal question.
Asks
again.
Time’s
chimpanzees
Knee
deep in paper
Working
through the night
Sing
‘Hamlet’
As
with stifled cries
They
crash against the buffers
At
the end of Time.
Behind
the yellow faded curtains
In
the room that smells of me
I
turn to face another night.
Thank
you for mind and consciousness
That
won’t reach far enough.
Thank
you for ‘Hamlet’ and the rest.
Thanks
for the old man tapping with his stick.
For
Ludwig and the chimpanzees.
And
thanks for the bang
That
burgeoned into this.
TOPICAL
BRAIN FOREST
by
JULES EVANS
This
is the dark truth
of
the grey matter,
head
high, here,
under
the canopy of
my
brain forest
Top
heavy, overgrown,
the
rootless trees
have
felled themselves
so
there is no way through
these
tangled thoughts
but
to scramble over
broken
branches
twisting
at my ankles
snatching
at my shins
feet
(not so surefooted now) caught
in
the confusion of the undergrowth
Where
are the men
with
bulldozers and hard hats?
Where
are the chain saws
spluttering
and cackling out
a
clearing in their two-stroke sneer
like
boys on mopeds
whining
up the road
or
model aeroplanes
whining
on their wires
Come
with your giant caterpillar tracks
forge
new synaptic pathways in my brain
make
me a ten-lane information
super-highway
leading
anywhere but here
Take
hectares, take them,
take
as many as you want
and
let your cattle graze
on
pastures new in my imagination
No
stake-outs for your take-outs here
I
acquiesce
Big
Mac’s
can
cover up their carcasses
when
the brainstorms come
and
wash away
the
golden arches
holding
up my temples
so
they crash onto
the
forest floor
and
shatter into
thought
mosaics
for
archaeologists
to
puzzle over
while
diggers
big
as buildings
trundle
like Leviathans
across
the plains.
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