“We are the ghosts of energy, let the tridents strike unsuspecting flesh!”
– Tristan Tzara, 1919
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O these brittle white squiggles
among flowers of ink
floating so languidly
on sombre silence!
O the sparks that I’ve picked
on the black autumn nights
dusting with fine gold
the quivering windshield!
Ions are dancing
in a grazing frontlight -
wistful eyes towards where
the stars are sleeping!
And in the sacred neon
I was floating down the dark withered plain
among souls too pale-eyed
to know the skies,
as ghosts of energy
with soft little shivers
ooze random patterns of radiowaves
into the tide
of the night.
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***
***
by Peter Bies & Arthur Rimbaud
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Peter Bies © 2010
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