the words are deciding the next
there’s nothing less real than its word
nothing changes things like light
a change is a chance gone solid
a tissue of chances makes a person
a person is a mixture of rain
rain disintegrated before our eyes
last night’s dream is today’s rain
we joined an association of dreams
shape is the association of memory
each shape hinges a variant world
mist is the shape of language
we have a hazy idea of mist
mist tries to break through
each word is a potential break
words rust on the sword of history
history started with the full-stop
a full-stop is longer than a sentence
everyone invents one sentence
no sentence should be thought
fire is the thought of matter
thought is as bodily as taking a shit
a mind is a body of language
the machine in my mouth ran language
a machine sleeps in a closed book
sleep continues work by other means
the alarm clock cried itself to sleep
folk-songs are the cries of dead labourers
dead objects outnumber the living
flowers believe themselves into life
time flowers on wallpaper
concrete is sand in time’s hands
time is the root of the poem
the longest poem is is
nowhere is the capital of nothing
nothing adheres like a road
roads carry blood into the city
a city is as old as its name
desire is a name for forgetfulness
birds convert desire to sound
a bird lands on its shadow
people are shadows that places cast
I do not accept that that
I’ll be ready for the end of the sentence
before the sentence language was endless
those the language names are guilty
language connects like a fist
I can connect shadow with shadow
someone kept watering the shadow
the field shook off its suit of water
water is superfluous dream
life is the dream of the inanimate
that dream is incorrect
corrections were listed in the hedgerow
the moon showed me a list of the moon
streetlights show through my skin
skin is a readjustment of dust
dust is the secretion of time
time has too many syllables
each syllable says it is a word
words thumbprint the mountain
this is now the word for something else
words run a ring around trees
a book is a tree’s foreknowledge
a mind rushed like a tree in a breeze
a frame of mind has no window
a window believes in ghosts
there was a belief in the air in the air
at night stars believe in themselves
nights buckle under media pressure
the night cracks under the door
the door opens under its word
the words are deciding.

 

Copyright © Giles Goodland, 2005.

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Giles Goodland’s last book was A Spy in the House of Years (Leviathan, 2001), a digest of the 20th century in 100 parts, with one for each year. He lives in London and works as a lexicographer.