Tuesday, July 4, 2017

Rupert M. Loydell, Two Poems

Ley Lines (from Mapping Devices), image by Rupert M. Loydell 


Are they simple electrochemical cells?
Are they truly passionate?
I ran a report about trends all over the world
decided to stop the visible hand
venturing into new territory without a proper recipe.

The social life of small urban spaces
offers sophistication using emergent talent.
Culture is a process where plagues form,
flat as nature's vast terrain,
flat as in a production procedure.

Consumers may not know when
chemical is in their human values,
chemical is in their food.
We say that images and text are untraceable;
it may be necessary to wonder why.

We are a struggling monocultural structure
subject to digitized fragments of manipulated realities,
bacteria slowly crumbling and destroying existing reality,
fundamentally rewiring a state collective
where histories are carelessly erased.

I'm a sucker for abstraction, idyllic urban getaways
to the exposed heart of this cosmopolitan city.
Its plotline is a disturbing cultural malfunction,
more ecosystem than machine,
a cornerstone of anxiety disorder.

I fixate on the outlined operations, planning, integration,
admire highly systematized contemporary lifestyles,
international marketing trend forecasting agencies,
complex migration to urban areas
connected to the world post-internet.

Lazarus gets a second chance;
death should be nonlinear, organic and experimental.
Avoid being trapped in a logic sleep in which we wake,
open yourself up to the idea that you don't know
what you don't know. What you know is ambiguous.

Creating more settings
creates more barriers to overcome
promises something else, immortality.
Whatever it was, it was.
We are carelessly erased.


If a god can disestablish his own church,
why should not humanity in turn
vote itself out of existence?
   – Peter Conrad, Modern Times, Modern Places

I want to write an elegy but without the sadness
   – Brenda Coultas, 'The Tatters'

I would like to believe in my dreams,
am a stammerer struggling to speak:
consonants fracture into building blocks,
language regresses to a babble of sounds.

Landscape presses in on a distraught figure
raising a protective hand above his head.
The sky is falling and we must investigate
hollow spaces choked with household goods.

The human being is a botched job, a ghost,
a breath of wind. Turbines and busy pistons
reinforce an ongoing sense of estrangement;
there are faults in our ideological wiring.

Convulsions have given birth to what is
at best a mannequin, an orphaned runt
welcomed at first by its drunken mother,
ejected from the house when she sobers up.

The border affords us no way to escape.
We exist in flux, a condition of transience,
have stopped moving in order to watch
reality speed headlong towards disintegration.

Beams of light broaden out into abstract spirals;
violence and death have become harmless fun.
People only exist as part of a forgotten design,
a factory which manufactures pain and memory.

Do painted shapes or monochromes qualify
as aids to spiritual and scientific understanding?
History lies ahead of us, not behind; who
forbade us to be or think? What keeps us alive?

Journals of consciousness and images flickering
at the ragged fringe of our visual field, moment
by moment. We are corrupted by information,
must run the same set of notes backwards

and savour the ugliness of cut-price wares
as the last cold light of winter breaks through
the clouds. The world was not made for us,
we must not assume we are in control.                      

—Rupert M. Loydell