Butch Morris | Photo by Peter Gannushkin
Conduction 118
(Butch Morris @ Tonic)
the line blurred
the image made obscure
this is relentless irrelevantly seeming
tie between music & blood
fingers flicking like violin string
plucked
the almost spasmodic near-nausea blending
of dare i say unearthly sounds
oh lowly creatures that we are
wretched devisors
tunnel taxed to its maximum
capacity the suddenness of that precise
abrupt light ……on an unclean watch
the spill as spread across the floor
like the turntable-ist’s scratch
within infant genes
of orchestra
here i put the fabric that
holds me in place
peel the music of its layers
lie within the belly of the crater
tulip’s star black & golden
star created by fantasorganismic erupt
corrupting the purity of oh that’s
Butch up there batoning his arms into oceans
Billy’s eyes awaiting the signal
Christian turning near dulled fingers wiped clean of prints
Sharp printing electric power pages
scouring the very hairs of our souls
skinned Graham’s skinned Simon’s busy reverse
young women in black cloth darting & re-inverting
your indentured crown of swallowed thorns
revealed to as i revel in this
the moment itself axiom cleaned & made clear
at the roots the very fragmented pulsing of
a lost bewildered melody ……a flickering of heartpump
& here i close uncountable letters
typed onto my biology
residing in the residue of me
plain/thinking being
resident reflection of mankind
residue of calculated risk.