1. A drone in bits and starts-- a bee, half-drunk with nectar, struggling to get all feet stuck to a porous surface. One wing, beats again now, its body sighs, it beats the other wing, a flutter, sticky but distinct, it lifts and drops each sharpened leg, a buzzed percussive flight-check coming loose, coming together as we hoist ourselves, tottering, into air. Weaving up and down and past these frequencies of sky, slow distillation without purification-- a fragmented self-mobilization. Terror of the airwaves now its wings percuss whatever sky it moves through, sending pulses every which way as it nomads through the gardens, bumping surfaces, sipping sources as it dips and throws those undulating tremors of travelled-through wind. Its wing-beat pulses skip along, some hitting surface soon, bouncing along, others moving on steady wind until they die of seemingly natural causes, uninfluenced evaporation. These pulses form an ephemeral network with the bee, its legs, the wings, worked into oscillating webs that do it: cross-beyond-acoustic-pollination.
3. Infinitesimal progression-- the smallest wind-up mechanism on earth, sped up past possibility. Alteration so fast it becomes continuity-- only then does something respond to its call. The faintest curtain-- calling pitter-patter accompaniment of harmony almost a parody of past-the-point-of-noise. If automatic-rifle-triggered crickets got accompanied like this, well-- an entomology for a different time. The parody brings itself to its edge and past that, mimics grated wind-up action(in/com)possibility, singing I love you carried through a harsher wind and whispered into willows, plant-like palpitation of the heart a trunk, a drooping trunk of love-drunk weeping hair-lengths, put your hand in me feel the radicles of my infatuation-- not from trunk to roots but rather out through shiver-branches to weeping hair reconcilation, out through spores, through pollen, this love is a strange love my botanical amour.
No comments:
Post a Comment