Wednesday, 8 August 2012

The Tipped Up Ziggurat

      Chamberlain Square, B3
                               a greyed shell
           and the music is regretting, mostly

                         It's kept time.
                             shivering in bad nakedness
                       the wet facade

                  little ghost boys and girls
                all fingering the rotting pages

                             roses discarded
                        dead petal signals
                                   lettered leaves

                             What is all this writing?
                       places where hands
                                            were moving
                                        once they were
                                    like non-work

                               dying brightness

                                     The worms
                                                hunker down
                                           in the stacks;
                              they're the colour of numbers.

                              a schedule eating in

                          a catalogue of nearly happening
                               of going and of going
                                                      and of gone


  1. The title refers to the current Central Library structure in Birmingham.

    At this very moment, vast amounts of book stock is being discarded. The greater quantity is simply thrown away, some goes on to booksellers (if the return is worth it).

    They are making a new world.


  2. We are making a new world indeed. Perhaps even bleaker than that pictured by the visionary Nash.

    Nothing made or touched by the human hand. A heartless, soul-less, joyless, charmless, utterly feeling-evacuated world that can be negotiated better by software than by living beings.

    The digits a poor imitation of worms.

    Soon enough the memory of what came before ("little ghost boys and girls") can be extirpated as well, relegated to the bin of inconvenient dreams.

  3. The thought of a world in which there is room only for that which is manageable is frightening. I still hold hope that "what came before" is resistant to their blithe hygienics.

    We'll have to haunt the scene of that administered peace and rattle those dirty chains for as long as we can, TC.

  4. Unmanageability, in a curious and surely unpromising way, does after a time become almost "a way of life".

    And talking of things to be romantically and probably also unrealistically nostalgic about (though it's a mere quarter-century ago), you've now had me dreaming all week of wandering through the impossible library.

  5. An epistemic fugue; that's what a library is there for. I'd forgotten that scene.