Saturday, January 30, 2016

2nd part of Gottlieb is Burning

The robot gods, the automatons, the clockwork strike the lightning around the sky, the thunder bolt and my bursting eyes, flood, flood and fire, and the traffic jams that we call the soul around the Kyoto temple square.   The quivering that does not quiver anymore or shake or wake and nothing but burned down and burned out lights, the numbed by the cold, the fist-fights against the sky.  But we, we are still alive, twisting turning, the rubbing burning of the arms, the shoulders sore, tugging up and the dredged river floors.  Wars.  All the slamming doors, the summer heat and the humidity-humanity, we will put on the big shoes, the tall ones with the thick socks and pick the locks and wade through the tidal rushes.
Because Gottlieb is burning.  Burning down.  Burning down again.  Crawling through the wave and wave and wave again.  The heat will split and warp the plastic, melt the metal and char up the wood, nothing but a forest of skeletal bones, a family of gutted out buildings, the paint stripped.  Get undressed.  The clothes breathe in the ash same as lungs, and we don’t even belong.  
And the bleating of undiscovered solitudes, the debts of always eternal desire, imprisoned, circling, in four walls of steel and glass.  Vulture-eyed, following every scent of burning.
And more burning.