<documenta X><blast> When the Spatial Word...
cd (cwduff@alcor.concordia.ca)
Sun, 21 Sep 1997 14:04:17 -0400 (EDT)
When the spatial word first sang Ave Maria it plummeted
against night.
The night of blind seers and death's landscape, the roots the child was
speaking about, the ones stretching across the ground leading from one
womb to another. And there was you speaking your name as your child
mind toured death. In the last thirst of the child lugger in the
sun wounded by the daynight. And the hammered lovers of the speaking babe.
What would the wound be then, if the child spoke of the tree broken off by
the toad's whisper down the hulking dreams of the woman child and the
lover man? If Orpheus (who had never seen Jesus or God) prayed all night
for Eurydice to come back in from the sodden rapist of the dangerous Hades
spent his words in vain her words in vain. If Eurydice had hissed at him,
her head a tangle of Medusa hair, her stone eyes petrifying forest -and
the plane crashed on the landing strip on the trip back - so badly a Queen
died and beauty moaned, death in a tunnel - the world grieved yesterday
feeling the tumult miss of its own death hitting her, missing her. If his
jet smashed the tarmac circling the airport near the French city the
trembling nervous hands would never meet. Dead zone space wins again. Time
defeated. So he thought.
He says - O words without seers and song. WHile the beat of
the prayer makes a knocking sound past heaven's gates, and its
deterritorialized territories of escape and will. Music shatters the ear's
gates and opens up the lifting precedence of my physical song and your
only love. Oh imagined lover that I have never seen, smelled, and touched
in any woman on the avenue he whispers, and the walker speaks to his
tongue (tied in the raptures and pediment pain of desire not desire and
the wedding poem of lovers about to be) and the sidewalk lifts the plates
and cups of need blasting hunger raging murder night revolution. Halt all
symbols the
fairy tale by the water the sorrow sword thrusting up, her hand
reaching out of the water, the symbol and tale of her pride.
Toward my body she has never seen
and afraid she is insecure in the dozen nights of the beauty. The beauty
she feels for him. In the rain like a terrestial light going out, or a
knight galloping half way across the drive of difference and the pasted
symbol of her love wedded night.
Single song of love spilled across the word space. The mother
hinge opened the lover came through, the mother hunger love broke the lash
of the chain which held the god back. Turns the mirror he does against the
night, she spin turns within like a dead shadow. But what shadow is not
dead? What shade is not dead? He tells it backward then to bring her to
life, her lips peel off the sudden word of his space.
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documenta X Kassel and http://www.documenta.de 1997
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