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 

  

Image Hyper Lynx 2 Source Text

 

Your Rights™

this abduction blanket

  is for your security

 your signature will

not be required

    being there

 will be sufficient

digital identification

  performed by the cloud

 encrypted verification

results guaranteed

Analog Loco Motion

 words and images by    shaun   lawton   

 Dipping  the paddle  of an oar  into  the waters of life  

will direct the course taken  going forward  

when the sculling is a letter and  the oar a sort of mail  

 then you trace  the feather of a bird  line by line  

one at a time  on  a blank page  and sign  it 

with your name (not upon the dotted line) 

but  just right there on the empty page   

you control the direction and flow your life takes. 

 

It's  a sort  of  loco motion analytical devotion 

in proximity to the inanimate enemy

 ready to instigate any second guessing 

as best as the next one that is if you ever 

make it back to shore where the waters

of your other life direct the sequence undergone

to continue roving forward in a straight line.

Nothing can parallel your own foot 

becoming a common postal service item

and with the lining of an avian coat of armor

piecemeal assembling itself on the white sheet

upon which the new signature may be applied

onto the marginal cloudscape developing 

as the parallax of our remaining event horizon

helps keep it fixed in perpetual proximity just out of reach.  

      

 

   the remotest miniscule spinning pinpoint eyelet

 pore in the great stretched out skin counts 

as a window into this world an entry place

 to some an exit to others. 

Windowframe

 by  Shaun  Lawton  

You can live as long as you want to, but we can't provide a drug which induces the willpower to sustain this desire. We are all just thumbprints with faces. Have a nice suspension of disbelief. 

sub-Orbital

 by shaun lawton

  Embedded in the manifold a pre-curricular manifestation caught in a flash-frozen moment of plasmic enhancement suggesting a marine biological specimen when in reality a suborbital docking station positioned in orbit skimming the exosphere and picking up reverberations had been captured on the radar leaving an impression forming what appears to be a small maneuverable interdimensional craft or a passing creature's shadow imprint left rippled in the fabric of reality while the balancing of the passage reaches its inadvertent state of equilibrium the incoming message will be resolved.

Swimenumerating

    by  Shaun Lawton 

All the chances that you have of our survival before the tidal forces drag upon stronger undercurrents and the shallow coves of sand get traded in for a licking tongue from the deepest briny depths to taste a rivulet of the threshing shoreline in the wink of a moment sometimes a child is carried along for the ride in case you hadn't heard of the riptides around here, why they'll sneak up on you like a real creeper wave and before you know it you're through swallowed up by the sea another tossed aside colony for the reaper eels and rays and wrasse to wrestle for the left over bits while there was still time before Leviathan arrived. 

    Nothing ever worked out fine when Leviathan arrives it's more of a parting of the waves before the big blue sea when all the life forms have dried out long before hand to provide a parchment rug unfurled like a flag tongue to trample on and get sampled by the burned out taste buds of an indiscriminate glutton for punishment and pain the likes zygotes won't transfer like lightning bolts through gametes for a very long time of revolution to come because believe it or not these swift calculations incur enough of a low amperage energy wave to engage and thus slow the timewave directory down as it's multilenticular anemone-wind absorbed time amassed force enough to create a sudden stun-block of standstill time, a sort of shocked echo bubble created for a sufficiently delayed moment to induce eternal retro-forgetfulness, itself the tip of the artistic borough now entered, a realm where the expanding universal constant helps keep the sails of your dream ship filled with astral power for as long as you wanted to keep it going.

   It's in building bubble worlds such as these that one may learn to adopt the little trick the temporal wizards describe as 'a nightnip,' that is a moment of time stolen for one's self, it's all really a matter of the mind and how one looks at things, really. A razor's slice of time can open up a world of opportunity.  Dive down under the surface of the timestream here with me and you'll see what I mean. When time slows down to lose its original significance, this is when the universe really expands around you. Surprise, surprise to find your eyes the center of the dilating point.  

The ones who've dived the deepest and sunken to the lowest depths to hold their breaths the longest and slow down time to a bare crawl when the bubble in the mirror growing larger invites you in and once stepped inside carries you up among shafts of sunlight penetrating the aqua blue greens of the sea are reflected in the bubbles sinking away back down into the darkness of their domain.  

      Swimenumerating how it would be to be found deep down so below the lost continents of the Atlantic. To see the eye of the great whale with its pod looking back pleading in silence for an equal opportunity at life but from the other side of the undulating crystal clear waterline.  We're the additional terrestrial life. Along with a myriad other species interacting in a phenomenal symbiotic symphony of dance. Just an image reflected from under a long blown out flame from a fire put out enough winters ago to be forgotten in purpose and destiny. Running through the numbers once again in your head. The language of logic soothes one to bed. As eyelids lower over the orbs the dream powering has been enabled. 

    This is how here it is that so far away down buried in the stratospheres of history. Submerged within the unequivocal domain of the fevered brain's oh so desperately wished for final moment of escape.  We've come to season the aftertaste of this recurrent dream with just the barest hint of madness. 

  -- from The Tiktok Odyssey files left behind in a once forgotten shipwreck off the coast of the straits of Gibraltar. 

Buried under a cascalade

 

I see a horse 

  racing the wind

You see a trout leaping 

 upstream

He sees a dolphin diving 

 through whitecaps

She sees a shark carrying 

 a child's arm in its smile

Peering closer as if stopped 

  in my tracks in a hall 

 of mirrors I see clown faces 

pressed up against 

 the stained glass panels 

  arranged in cascading polygons 

 which suddenly become whales

Bluefin tuna, petroglyphs 

 of panda bears in the desert

  small families hunkered in caves 

 while a hummingsquid shoveling 

for limpets gets strung along 

 the cordoned off portals 

  of industry meanwhile 

 from the corner a ray of light 

infuses the catastrophic 

 sculpture with brass scales

  reflecting an array 

 of configurations 

suggesting the loss

of the most pearlescent

 petrified teardrops

chambers of the hive 

agglomerated in a comb 

of spicy dust the polar 

  bear in hibernation 

 incubating as a drone 

confiscated by the reflection 

 off the camera eye I see a penguin 

  sleek as a curved chevron sailing 

 over the rainbow and crying 

gigantic shifting blobs of tears 

 dropped elongating into runnels 

  left over from the burrowing 

 worms of time from the yumanitu 

the stain you couldn't find

the glass in your mind

 The flowing stream of molten

golden memories lying frozen 

  on the catapulted ground

Staring Back

 It was a scoured day. 

Windfall crisp 

with a polarized glare 

to the sunset.

The scoop of blue radiated

 around the horizon 

bleeding from indigo 

into orange black

as the stars 

winked open