Each bared morning is a swell time to die,
Leaving the town’s ornate maze for the level
Expanse of those lit and meat-eating fields, the
Clouds that turn like ghost machines, the antic
Tremendous woods where Pan’s breath on your heart
Recharms a flame from its grey-furred ember.
I’ll wear my belt blazoned with Alpha Centauri,
For luck, whilst you’ll surely sport that Oxfam scarf
In whose puce stitch some crone has worked G.I.
E. (Glory To The Most High). Time to die, to be
Disturbed by the one re-re-repeated Word
Fanfared by each time-warping bird, each fierce leaf
Or pimped bud that is but love’s newest halloo
Over the heads of the dead and alive, alive-O.
Laughing, you’ll lurch and say or missay, “only kenning what’s real
Saves us from terror. Wilhelm Reich”. Wise words.
You see the Greys, he said, girding his teeth
for a lime doughnut, they use the owl’s
nervous system the way we use a drone
or hidden camera. Given what I now knew,
it almost seemed possible. When green tea
was announced I slid outside for a smoke,
paced roided grass, watched where stained smokestacks smoked
into the wind’s dead breath, its yellow teeth.
Back in the conference centre, the tea-
fresh crowd were pondering the giant owl
that stilled her car on that night when she knew
she knew nothing, its voice a savage drone
terrible to recall, a rising drone
which turned her body into pixel-smoke
swarming upwards and assembled anew
(“like I’d been sucked into a white hole’s teeth”)
on that craft that swept as quiet as an owl.
When she arrived home, hours late for tea,
her forehead was marked with a tau cross: T.
She paused, and the air conditioning’s drone
momentarily quickened the cased owl
on the wall, living eyes long gone to smoke,
and shivered through the symmetrical teeth
of God’s lost children (tell us something new!)
who’d come here to share what little they knew.
I thought of the onset of DMT –
that sense of deliverance into the teeth
of a buzzing wind or luminous drone,
mere seconds after releasing the smoke –
and then of that line from Twin Peaks, “the owls
are not what they seem”. I dozed, dreamt of owls
sane and inviolate in all they knew,
and awoke to the guest lecturer: Smoke
And Mirrors, Carl Jung And The Abductee.
With his grey skin, dark clothes and soothing drone
he might have been a priest. I licked stale teeth
clean of dough, grabbed a smoke with my teeth
and headed to where I knew mowers droned.
Love is an owl and it’s having you for tea.