Poetry is a natural concourse,
though so much that I read is crap, and I
must assume that that which I write will similarly be interpreted as
crap. Perhaps by those whose minds are not active tendril-groovers, not
things with a hundred thousand prehensile anemone-feet waving for details
in the current, alive for even the tiniest details in the current — if
your eyedoors are not open, then all the eggs of poetry will smash, and
never make it to your pan.
One thing else I notice, is how many people aspire
to write. There
can only be so many special writers, right? Can everyone be a writer and
a reader too? Sure, why not? Why not build a minstrel society, a million
minstrels, a million-way tie for first place on the bestseller list? Look
for the fragmenting of culture as it slips like tendrils of lubricant
jelly from the fingers of the few rich fatcats.
The fatcats and their fatcasts — perhaps the fatsucks
will still
visit the Nipple for their entertainment, but there are others following
the weblinked associations, and so new writers are being turned up like
squiggling grubs in the sun, and often about as talented, quickly burnt
and ate by islanders. Some, however, evilve legs, arms, grasping sucker-
penises, and haul themselves up fuck by fuck onto the aeolian platforms
of the islands, there to live in caves and be visited by supplicants and
pliant, limber plie girls carrying delicacies.
That's me, in a mountain cave in the Marquesas,
at the stone
steeringwheel driving the island east. The stone key turned for the first
time in two thousand centuries, and the smooth rolling of the alien
island engines turning over far beneath, as we get moving on a vast snake
of foam from the million churning propellors.
Sing ho! The song of the
island which moves!
Sing ho! The song of the island which sails!
On waves of emerald and blue green and peach
From the Ivory Coast to Windansea Beach
From the South China Sea, Rapa Nui we reach
Sing ho! The song of the island which moves!
Cante ho! A canção
da ilha que move!
Cante ho! A canção da ilha que veleja!
Em ondas de esmeralda e verde azul e pêssego
Da Costa de Marfim para Praia de Windansea
Do Sul China Mar, Rapa Nui alcançamos nós
Cante ho! A canção da ilha que move!
Canti ho! La canzone dell'isola
che si muove!
Canti ho! La canzone dell'isola che naviga!
Su onde di smeraldo e verde blu e pesca
Dalla Costa D'avoria alla Spiaggia di Windansea
Dalla Cina Meridionale Mare, Rapa Nui noi arriviamo
Canti ho! La canzone dell'isola che si muove!