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Necropolis | Kevin Holden


And we are here as on a darkling plain…

Listen it is there it is something to do with the pushing it is when there is pushing when it has to do with pushing it is there

Or, kept his lips pressed against it

That is, when you are pressing it there it is

Or, it has to do with the pressure, when you are touching it, it comes alive, or, when you are not touching it you are not touching it & when you are then everything changes, that is, everything, that is, it is infinite

There are devils

& There are too many noises

That is, the space between the connection, or, between the pressure, there are two, that is, the space between the object that is doing the touching & the receptor is infinite, so, the contact is infinite

That is, all animation

That is, infinite change, infinite blooming

In the pressure, gold

There is no knot one says know but it is not

Not only an image but nothing other than spill

In a line of white keys one would like to say walk, walking is the figure, walking it is the image of what is moving, if there is anything moving, I do not think anything is moving

A row of white squares
Not there

Or: Fugue
If there is
Gold light
A ball of a book
A ball of light
All this is wrong
There is only hell
If time

Put red over green in a figure boxing to shade

Water is filling up on the side

A dull ache in the back right of the head
That is silver

And all the leaves should be brimming with gold
Swarming in a cyclical knot:
& That something is
under them what
Is that under, the pressure of water we
Link to memory, the push of the bottom,
The lake under
time, built of a helix
Of lakes

Metal filled with daisies the taste of metal is the taste of daisies in sand

The roof of the cave we are in

The roof of this cavern is a black & thick wind shot open by sound

The roof up above is black-shot brilliant windows
The collapsed planetarium, the stars dripping liquid phosphor
Yellow glowing tendrils onto our bodies

Hollow & collapsed

The watch face reflecting the face of its owner

Hold up the bridge there are
Children trying to hold up the
Bridge & all we keep seeing
Is them kept getting put
Back in the forest each time
They end up back in there in
The woods & what’s more
They are playing a game of
Putting red over green

What would you like to say it is in London
There in London like the bridge over the water in the light of the sun at four in the morning in June

Because it is so far north

It would be there green anywhere empty

Could toy with me

Leave it on my hand in the wind a little tongue a little algebra a bit of moss in your mouth

I want to say sing moss sing out you blown out blown ball nothing squared I am happy

I meant to say London it is London

Like this: all the music riding through street corners making these crying on cheeks of people late at night stumbling in heels all the money rubbing out their faces rubbing out their hips in the music in the money they have no money just saliva bent over trashcans or sitting on the stools in the ribbons of dark & memories of music of other dark continents there are whole places under the ocean do you see all the places under the under the shell of the earth the plains of the people under the ground dark plains dark plains o baby dark plains

London o filled with London
In the closet is a crawlspace and in the crawlspace is another crawlspace and do you see the faces looking at you in the shadows the little trills of little faces

I wait the water wait I
Baker Street Barbican
Holburn Whitechapel Shoreditch
If I
I wait if more more more

Red on top of the circle of red it could be a nucleus

I would walk

Wait I remember time I remember what I meant to say I remember we said I thought we remember we our skin something on it that it is sticking to it and there are things right the color it is wait I wait we remember wait wait
Wait remember about time it is all about

That is, the old taverns the mud stuck to the legs of the horses
The mud on the coats of the people walking in the mud and snow
The lanterns they carry at night
The fog

Parchment and real language parchment and ink and cloth
The dead in the streets if there were dead if there were if there in

Asphodel you have to remember the shining metal disks aglow aburst in flowers the terrible metal sheen the aluminum the zinc the calx on the surface red in the screaming sun the oblong sun ablaze along with nothing not sound no sound no black just letters arranging themselves I Southwark in letters we should see in white keys in Southwark all the rows rearranging in

Something in rows in the in themselves

Black sphere hung over Southwark the white houses I would say ribbons we would we could could it in there in Southwark in

In yellow folds in the yellow stuck over yellow in the line there against the sky

Kevin Holden is the author of two chapbooks, ALPINE and IDENTITY.  His poetry has appeared in a number of publications, including Colorado Review, 1913, Typo, Forklift Ohio, and The Liberal.

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