15.1.06

in the radio

in the radio there is no one home
no one home home no one doctor deleuze
in yer crystal set of package wings
when the microphone's slow
and the clutter snows across airs of
areial antennas ||is that how its said
and spelled as the spell grooms down
its mist talking the apocalyptic blues?


some voice that nights in the wind
winding back its voices tracks
in the somber night of ritual
the staggering hope of sensate senses
on this trip to India, Tibet.


and like Rimbaud I don a burnous
hugging the sirocco to my breast
nagged by night and event .



you weren't there then
when sufffering in my room
alone writing them first books
and the knock of night at my knees



Ill finish there now
a short broadcast this time
ce soir