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  Desmond Swords
   
      SHEEPLESS
 
 We are training as language artists
 in an alluring Western based ambience
 where pastoral and  urbane intersect
 
 vectors of cultural flux mesh serendipitously
 and there are bards enough proclaiming of poesie

 from the page to station on every street corner
 mountain peak, in all wooded glens,
 
 and working every sector of the poetic spectrum
 poets' compose to reach "there"; be it
 
 - quantitive, syllabic, accentual stress, combined metric
 slam, L=A=N=G=A=U=G=E, open form, tragic
 confessional, comedic, write-through or mental composition -
 
 techniques we have come to possess and deploy
 with varying degrees of success, failure, loss and benefit
 in the acquiring of skills which increase the consumptional
 capacity of our appetite for language
 
 
 until such time that we feel capable of, metaphorically
 eating the alphabet
 
 a goal achievable in 15 years hence
 
 when we dream of scoffing knowledge on lingo binges
 feasting on linguistical fare
 lashing our eyes full of letter nosh
 sucking soundgrub into our ear's gut
 
 and ingesting text for regurgitation to "other" voices
 who passenger on the shuttlebus of love;
 
 where we are all gourmets gorging on blather
 in one united assortment of sound, from
 
 a quick smooth swoosh of solid reliable speed hulks
 hurtling into a deep unconscious order of unknowable tune, to
 
 freight laden trucks labouring in gridlock on
 clogged access routes to the sublime fleeting energy;
 
 whose jolts can compact galaxies to black
 holes vacuum packed with an absence of time
 
 tracing our concept mark of living as one with the infinite mind;
 
 and bestowing by its thrumb
 seer gifts of prophetic possession
 to some depositers of text, be it printed or binary coded optical
 data bits traveling through fibre to gozzy gawp gawk fests yet to begin.
 
 We are the knocker uppers tapping on the window pane of literature
 fitting up the page with poesy of all genre and form
 
 from recognisably life affirming
 to the unrecognisably banal barren mind space of knowing
 if a singular discharge un-owns creation.
 
 And between these two extremities
 is life itself
 replicating and assembling its note of busyness
 demanding access to profess that you wander
 round the kitchen like a two bit twot
 till all from Ballymum to Ballsbridge sing
 
 "The salmon you seek swims ineluctably upstream
 to bind complete the continuum's principle impulse
 
 returning through a labyrinth imitative of bioscape
 brainshapes, recording the pictorial quiver flue
 of a life force unborn but spawning wisdom"
 
 Shall we look into beyond for the faithfully inclined
 unhearing what tune of belief to sing as they rise to begin their song?
 

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