“the eucalyptobolic plane exists,”
27/10/05  Surfaces, Plasma or  An Empty Embrace
the space, is a gel  filled with techno colour.
“the eucalyptobolic plane exists,”
“the eucalyptobolic plane exists,”

In Michel’s mind, now, since that time, the ocean was always interpenetrating his imaginary with a swiftly moving layer of vapour, when he looked, the ocean could not end, not even on calm days. He could smell the absence of its surface. He hated Roland for that. He went to sleep in his van, mumbling about the kidney, about tattoos, about Roland burning swiftly in the vapour band, his body tilting carefully on the rough winter ocean, late evening greys consumed by the leaping flames of his bier, an odour of a poisonous timber sea filling his mind, the corners of his skull harbouring the noisome and fragile cell of an experiment, an atmosphere where all could thrive on the strictness of boundary, arrived at, mathematically complete, “the eucalyptobolic plane exists,” a strand of dribble, a shallow breath. The ocean left on to his peaceful sleep, bearing the quiet clarity of a degrading plasma TV.

27/10/05  Surfaces, Plasma or  An Empty Embrace
27/10/05 Surfaces, Plasma or An Empty Embrace

One on-shore winter evening, overcast, grey water speaking in loud white brush strokes, Roland had told Michel of Avrum Stroll’s work in his Surfaces. “My favourite chapter is The Geometry of Everyday Language”. “What made you think of that.” “The ocean often makes me think of Stroll. He says something like, ‘shall we say that water has a surface?’ I like that idea. Kind of reminds me of Mark Taylor, the not-cricketer, who wrote a whole book on the basis of this single metaphor, Hiding. He's a Media Philosopher, whatever that is. He starts out with the notion that the outer surface of the human is dead. That we in fact have many potentially describable outer layers, or surfaces, but the outermost is made up of dead skin cells. We greet the world, dead. Medically, physiologically, probably stupid, but an interesting moment. Is it not? Shall we say the ocean has a surface today Michel?”

the space, is a gel  filled with techno colour.
the space, is a gel filled with techno colour.

an empty embrace

walks about the room

like lost arms,

where her words were once

the space, is a gel

filled with techno colour.

Who really creates these templates,

how is there a new

when the mediator is so old,

your words are so old, father,

are yours so new?

The children, aaaaaaah,

the youth of today

gather to scream,

set the arm chairs alight

and watch them burn down to a silence,

set the arms of their partners alight,

and hold them

to still the staring heart

of indifference.

What has really changed?

The exhaust fans, are they new

as they rattle

down our throats

like swallowed poison?

The medium, the medium,

see through the medium?

Lake surfaces as thin as television

wander in and out

of the sleeping child’s mind,

she lights matches

with the dexterity of youth

and flick the earth into boxes

only to smash them down

like all the setting sons

our bleeding minds have seen.

The red gathered about the ends

of the wooden bones

is only as new

as the shadow on my lung,

I have wandered about the smoke filled

cavern of my mind,

a devotee,

a newly wed,

an icon awaiting the embrace

of a tomorrow promised me at the drive-in,

and the capsules

of now

and now

and now

are sticky, as though licked,

the colour coded stains

bleed into the vessels of my muscular

time forearm,

is fore-warned,

and the substance below is gelatinous,


and pulsing to the rocking

and creaking urge of a gentle

but urgent wind in the slick sails

of a bier.