around the corner

for BJK

in my dreams, there is a library at the end,
there are books at the end, reading covers.
here I am, at the end of the world, reading covers.
“The city screamed”. “It stopped”. “At the end of the burning world”. “And the under privileged waters of New Babylon”. “This Tangle Hold”. “This, the luckiest machine in all Denver”.
“It’s great to be back!”
here, at the end, my friends.
it’s great to be back, and still with a fever, caught from the eventual impending and imminent tomorrow. which is to say, from the future.
this is more than the fault of a quote or confusion,
more than the phlegmatic, the phantasmatic bad memory of the new drudge,
they flap and slither with the utmost seriousness. all of them.
of the very many hands and the very many fingers. all of them.
the new robotics. nature. the brass and brazen victory of the mechanoid caller.
here, is the sweet mould, the forge of the wine dark stupor. puke. you call vomit.
to change. something. to overturn all the words, say.
so the world at the end of the word, this world and this one.
from this momentary. this promontory. from this train. and this midnight.
from this cabin and the next, there is always something called a cow that I will never see, tonight.
So smash all the clocks.
Break all the faces.
here. at the end.
I twist out a lament for the change that is coming,
and for the axe with which we will grind,
and for the fine shapes of the nothing much more than all the outrage,
all the bad press, for all the dirt that we call dust,
with a tongue for a corpse and a corpse for a tongue,
we will grind out a paste to fix the filmy mist of the hereafter.
and the week after?
Break all the cocks.
Smash all the quasars.
all of them,
all that is palpable, for example, your quasi-diagram guise,
here, around the corner.