INFINITE TURN

by Shaun Lawton 

dedicated to Azsacra Zarathustra 

 I'd like to study the figure of the After Map   It's various Etchings in Darkness

The trap itself drawn into the pillow  A deck and island of border teeth

Death with holes for the eyes and nostrils   Of the head on the side under the calm 

Harbor waves trapped by having secrets    In the dark hidden to Different Memories

With his sons on every border   Point of Anti driven from Matter

In the future the Fear of Flight renewed   Whose verses dictate the Law

Unchangeable in the eyes of God   Whispered genius to the ears of man

So can another Dream a powerful Boy    With every Heart in the Cage that binds us

Under a huge Hypnotic Spell introduced    By the first of the Commonwealth

Directly indeed into the Kingdom Under  Of these she is exact to the Lips

The pieces that break all in Likeness  They take it and examine it

Alone on the Shores of the Heart   A Brother left by a man Forsaken   

With two claws by the spring    Of which the shuttle was loaded

For it is found to go across the Ink Wave   Surface thoughts switch the Oldest Game 

On the shelves because Pain of the Eyelids  In the Cold of the Night  

Which is what all Armies hold that always look to the Stars 

    

 

Incepcionitus Memoradium

 by  Shaun Lawton 

   Had I known the power contained in that one leafy green plant, it all may have turned out differently. I try not to think of such things, because who's to know at which twist a multiplicity of gains may have outdone whatever losses were crossed on other timelines.   

    Even my power of recollection begins to blur sometimes in my mind, as I can only see so far back into my memories in time.  Some come slowly swarming toward me as if released from a great forgotten depth.  The faces they wear always seem like strangers to me. 

    I remember planting the seed, but I can't seem to recall where or when I got the seed in the first place.  I planted it in a brass spittoons' interior, and inserted the spittoon in a white plastic bag.  Two shoots sprouted out of it within twenty-four hours. One ended in a broad leaf pointed straight upwards. 

 

     See, I had encountered a diagram on a tattered, yellowing page in this old fashioned hard bound book I discovered in my grandfather's root cellar.  It was a special place I used to like to crawl into when I was a child. It had a dirt floor that extended up and out to underneath the planks of the front porch.

    I loved to hunker down there whenever anyone else in the family was standing or sitting out on the front porch.  Not because I needed to spy on them, nor did they ever talk or reveal their secrets anyhow, it was just a nice feeling knowing I was right there near them, without their awareness.  

   It was a comforting feeling that I've come to understand only after a lifetime of several decades lived, across a span of living in different states and over the course of several jobs. The first vestiges of feeling comfortable with the dead. 

   

   

For an Interponat

by Shaun Lawton

 for   Sigmar Fricke 

while the murmur and susurration of insects

 gets sucked into endless loops of bubbling bogs

in silence like a deadly snapping flower 

a mechanical garrote or a poisonous love me not 

 in an instant drop dead memetics sunk under 

surfaces plumbed the depths so long ago some have

 floated back belly up pale enough to blind the moon  

  if digression is the art of the game we're one step ahead

 already having slid along on a synthetic lubricant

channeled backwards in time through a loop of constant

  refractory loosening that is to say tightened into focus

on the other side which - and here's the trick - exists 

 along with us indistinguishable from what we know

  already to be drowned in the static of cellophane wrap 

  

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