PORN POEM

You come and go in a cloud and I know you 

as well as your mother knows you. 

Better than any fiction.

With all my degrees I can conjure you up anytime 

and in 98% of places, though not

during hurricanes or solar flashes.

Crews must sometimes work all night 

to maintain or repair our connection.

You have three lovers: Santa Claus, Nostradamus, Merlin.

A savage gang they are, and in great form. 

High fives and winks and in-talk and much

laughter. Full of strange power, ominous wisdom.

Like belief or truth are no precondition for anything. 

Manage the fantasy. Club together

up on top. Split them.

Demonstrably, Christine, you enjoy 

and satisfy all three of your heros.

They find you adequate, for now. Understanding 

you part of a practically infinite queue.

There is no need for any kind of courtship.

Everyone says more or less what a higher animal would.

The whole thing reminds me of Pompeii.

A future abstract may speak of unspoken agreements 

to mutually fossilise. We fix

and restrict each other in this posture

in this attic. Meanwhile, a volcano squats outside 

in old reality, the Cambrian.

From what alone goes on between us here 

can be told a whole lot more.

Excavate the webcam and you might find yourself 

ragged child in a chromite mine.

For when will books be responsible 

for the machines that produce them?

We are all but examples, I know.

Tending towards the one inexpressible consequence.

We don’t need names to be going on with and Christine isn’t yours.

Mine is Rocky, Rocky Byrne, how are ya?

Christine, You keep on breaking into my poems

with an emergency broadcast

addressed to my cock and balls.

We need all history’s madmen to encounter one another 

in the here and now.

You are done no obvious physical harm in this scenario.

You perform all the requisite roles with the required contractual smile.

Then they - by which I mean we - let go.

All this may contain some meaning for the rest of us.

The smile- it might as well be genuine. Isn’t it?

I’m well and I’m sick and I want to believe in it.

A sincere grin on you would be a real guiltwasher.

You can in no sense be described as an agent.

Something passing through us all 

which simply must pass through, move on.

That is everyone’s excuse/occasion.

I received an intimation that you are an orphan 

of some previous disaster, Chernobyl maybe,

which means that I, the many, 

must be your father.