This piece of writing of mine first appeared in Hermes: Literary magazine of the University of Sydney in 1987. I structured it upon principles I observed in iconoclastic giants such as James Joyce, Samuel Beckett, and Tristan Tsara, who are gestured to throughout, along with all sorts of other allusions. I was completing my PhD thesis on Beckett, Joyce, and literary theory at the time. I think of the piece as a historical microcosm / moment rolled into one, recalling the hen in Joyce’s Finnegans Wake, who scratches up scraps and old letters from a midden heap, an act that generates the cosmic history embodied in the Wake itself. My historical agents aren’t hens, as you’ll see, but other creatures, who evoke a further giant in turn.
Of course, mine is an infinitely impoverished effort alongside such greats. It was first titled “Carapace time song,” which seemed to give too much away. But I think of it as something like a humble song or ditty. A rather arcane rap? I found the creative exercise quite beneficial, and the piece found further utility in some presentations of performance art, accompanied by free jazz and rock improvisations. Somewhere I think have a tape of a free jazz version I performed in an “arts in the bar” university student venue. There was a foreseeable amount of laughter but nothing was thrown after all.
Accompanying artworks are by the Spanish artist and photographer JR Korpa. The art works are cited at the end.
no no time for stories you will show me that much no stories nor any other old lies to contradict what I say what I hear an instant is too long too short for that only the song I hear would be correct
this music in my head not yours is it yours size of my room for a minute my room for an instant not yours is it yours that heap in the corner yours letters old notes yours pictures withering yours at the edges now this is old time music yours
they have no idea of structure or dimension but they enter into it sometimes tiny legs moving flailing about they slip get nowhere sometimes look about for an instant curl over and die or are frightened by the light what little there is what little span of life they would if they could turn and flit away into the night but no going back that way
put that on Lili Marlene
there was a beginning once and for all and no changing that there was a beginning again you and a middle me ending together you follow me and I will show you my tiny space you me yours then back out into the night you will go what happens then I will not say I cannot only keep singing the way we sang together
the little bugs see us they say if they can say he is singing to her and she sipping red wine and it is one if they can tell time and they may say now they are falling about are they fighting to the death and one slips is subdued and dies and one scampers out into the night again and one is still singing again
is it one fifty others will never know only us what that time meant to us how we suffered fought died together stood as one I glimmered in your eye a spot no body need see need know no care have no care no no
yes again again
he tells his life if you listen closely he speaks of a past time a good time when he had more and more pretty much of the same thing the future will be as bad or maybe worse and where am I now all I do is go on and you follow well then you go I follow yes yes again again yes again yes
that one is of me yes i will never know what he saw in me but he painted me I sat for him through the whole night nothing else happened no one else came
in that heap is the picture something to eat first maybe champignons white wine sauce down the gullet there is the picture you do not spill any on it the words you read Hope the speluncar principle of tropical architecture you have not heard the word he has been to Oxford they have big heads short storks truffles are a different matter entirely pigs dig them out from under oak trees
when I picked one up it was a rock still when he picked one up it was a Picasso
my song when I sing the music in my head soft but not soft enough deafening sometimes the cymbals crashing in my skull the pain too great when you move we move together for a time your heart quickens but then again the beating in my brain tells me song tells me you tell me pain the pain is too much go away that he will not come before his time again
they eat up the crumbs after them away
underneath the covers my eyes moistened the mucus secretions of bodily fluid what else to lubricate them ease the burden of love for a time
two fifty the time on the wall again if they could only hear you mark my words the end is nigh the beginning possible the middle necessary the end inevitable
you bugger off then and never come back
talk of the picture now for a time it is of both of us in the sand and of a little boat in your hands you would never recognise yourself how small you are but you are all the navies in the world a wish for man to explore plunder ravish burn pillage bring you home his treasure a pox on it
you are still young that is all there is to it a triangular sail circles for your heads a shapeless mass for bodies I think we will survive you
my space now describe my space not too much detail there is not much in reality it is clean the filth hard baked and polished to resemble bright enamel white paint dim at night you cannot see the corners or vertices yes there that was relatively painless was it not there is nowhere else for you to go now
you do not exist then God needs invent you eat your crumbs the convenience is out the back
who am I then if not me my house my space my country yours I am not he or she or they watching from the shadow I am a glimmer in her eye a mote perhaps she will run out into the shadow had but eventually my time will come is come
that music in my space moving together three thirty on the wall crumbs taken a little life stirs somewhere in the shadow or it stirs and ends in the one instance watching
there relatively painless was it not a diminutive parcel of flesh slipping out plop on the covers a life song begins life music to your ears you will compose yourself in no time that will be your art your space begun endured
ended the cymbals searing into your brain no longer no longer your eyes burning from the light
instance one eating acorns amidst the putrefaction of your dead two the next holding a toy boat three the next singing a hymn to your deity four the next renouncing your illusion slipping away not in pain again into your shadow your song in your head Lili of the lamplight a final snatch of verse Abou Ben Adhem may your tribe increase
as a child you drew and painted composed yourself once upon a time that was a beginning then no thought of slipping silently between the sheets erect on your back in the dark again
we must go on together you and I and we may not be separated you may never hear my song if it is whispered too soft for your ears or it is soft enough only for you to say
that other one of me is a Karl Spitzweg poor poet his room his space his heap his cockroaches presumably no other you will notice he is dreaming of her as well and suffering the anxiety of influence then she is coming then she is gone
you say it is my song my song yes again then back again to your anxiety do you remember when a knock came at the door
you were recording his words a knock came at the door come in and he put that in as well a concrete instance you were bethicketted hear that now put that on
bigger than the two of us we watched from the shadow our little legs this is my our space my space they appeared to struggle on the couch the glass shattered she appeared to die but then back up and out into the shadow quick back into the shadow again
it is soft enough you will say it is your voice if you hear it but older than you and newer of course you will agree but back again to the things in my heap it is nearly five and soon time for you to go off
out out get out scamper of little feet
my candle too brief he will guide me here one whose little legs slip he goes nowhere on the bed they appear to read then struggle they are in their death throes why not say it Galeotto was the book and the one who wrote it now they read no more in it but go nowhere
take the letters strew them about the room a space as though gone quite mad when she goes collect yourself then the letters put them back in order you will not achieve the same order but never mind it is all the same to me
begin again into the bin again
I cannot say where she goes my time too little to follow her the rumour has it her space a ring of light on the pavement there we watch from shadows from between cracks crimson on fag ends she looks for the time nearly one again is it time or is she gone already off into the shadow again quick off
stop end enough
we ring round their space in the shadow keep vigil they do not see us for the most part only occasionally a brisk spring clean or when one or the other expects the other such times we are incinerated to be sure nothing to say anyway but c’est la vie c’est la guerre perhaps stupidissimus omnium philosophorum
music to your ears boom boom sounds of King Billy
once upon a time again she comes begins looks through his pictures his letters his notes play they are replete stuffed again he is not visible back inside at his convenience she discovers you shrieks like a God in pain he enters from the passage spring cleaning is imperative off into the shadows can you come again do come again
a little more time a little less a little
we love you under the earth where you sleep until you come again we wait in our graves of fire and water that will be paradise adieu until then we live off your crumbs
half after one again and is that a new addition potential for all those dirty little things to do in one end out the other shriek I come I am here now off to the wars
goodnight goodnight goodnight Lili
silent night scratching of legs in the dark Christ that I were in my bed and you in my arms
cockroach time song love me love my galoshes
that one is Buddha you can distinguish the others fawning about him he is left by an absent one they seem to attend his song the key is of some significance I forget what
suddenly hand on breast from behind shriek on the back in one deft move smother the cry with kisses while your comrades in arms leer on
you would have liked me had you known me had me when I was a little littler than now my child music innocent soul stirs still beneath this grizzled exterior a bit rough at the edges admittedly heart of gold read this between my lines my leg
here we are again again yes again were you the ocean I would sail you conquer you entire regiments of cavalry have ridden over you my space my country
will you wear that for me alone for me
do you follow me now I follow you we are inseparable and that other we three together now we are my space now yours now that other all at once one now without beginning end my space no space for structure my space all middle no circumference all circumference no middle my space you follow me I must go on too
filth hard baked white enamel black spots if you look close two on the wall scuttle into the shadow
in the bin their space they stir shred old notes old pictures bring home their treasure their trophies their nest their space put things back in order lock the door John they will never achieve the proper order but no matter to them one day we will leer on from the shadow
in your hand your music now your space of life your words now when you awaken what insect space will you find becomes you look at the bristles on your legs off in to the shadow
enough no more no enough stop end tell them I am sick I am dead
shredded your pictures your literature incinerated too at Alexandria that little nest little by little by little again you stir gather your things in order the order that is of little consequence
I dirty your words when I come like a robber at night sing my song stridulent in the shadow dirty your pictures shred them for my nest my space you are displeased to put it mildly and will incinerate me if it is within your power yes again yes it is no stop shriek I die off into
crimson fag ends again in the bin it all ended when he grew tired of showering in the afternoon you know
bricolage my decor since you ask my dear girl a bit of this and that I collect things yes again yes I like it small comforts do you smoke yes peckish yes music in my humble space too soft too loud my pictures I have prepared a few crumbs self-deprecating chuckle eat first then down to business
with white wine what smack of bristle lips
sounds at the door you must not be anxious they cannot come into my space or I hope they are invisible heart beating in your head for an instant then quiet what is on this note look close in the subdued light oh shit shriek scamper off into shadow
do you see the leg bristles Lili my Lili
lamplight she is and a bag of crisps dropped where others watching will pick up the crumbs
then she is gone it is three she is gone to him
there is a beginning once and for all and now there is no changing that
blink an Escher the inside is out she follows him not he her they are not looking at them rather they them not the little watch the big the big the little now enough of that let us down to business
the war music at night keeps me from my thoughts heart in my head my thoughts fly to him nearer my soul a little after three
bristle leg across Helen of Troy bristle legs
seek new life new away from the stridulous hum of men into the shadow once again night then my space describe off flit my your space
nests in shreds of letter pictures recorded shreds of bigger lives bigger times my music a few crumbs while you out there knock at my door shuffle about never mind on your back bristle ignore cry die fly flit off describe space my then night again one
you will not weep a letter from the war dear father who art in your warm space hello father come if you can to do you repress fatherly tears hand on knee on thigh for comfort here are your crumbs he will never come into your space never again never tell mother I am still a virgin too boyish chuckle goodbye for now goodbye amen
my time too little to follow only rumours are carried to me my nest
little Jimmy I remember lillies to the pond for joy not dead alive not dead then alive again but no telling shreds of rumour time he scratches that flits into the night again it is carried to me in time I hear it on the wireless
the more he will want she will never come she will come he will never want no more never
Dresden us in the cracks our your space your hair to climb upon upon your bristles anyone of these Iittle times will do as well
I will be cross with you I will not touch you in your private space but nearly close soft enough to touch you go I follow you your space your music
germane to the issue voids my your space tiny insect voice tick tick she lies sleeping on heat eyes all about shreds of bigger lives the same tiny time there is a nice distinction shreds of blind eyes point to the light tick tick two ticks two black points on the wall too
I am cross with you yes you yes again same again again he waits alone again sings listens she comes again crumbs pictures notes they you watch again sing eat dance excrete fight to the death again again knock at the door shriek off into the dark alone again sing again again
proof tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick again tick
white enamel hard baked filth cube my space this instant look up and around
curved it is straight more sphere than sphere but no a shred of theory has a price tag on it you must see that do that
ah she comes bearing gifts this time progress hang the expense not a shred of rumour no not yes again yes not a shred of picture no nor note no nor tobacco no but a garment from the antipodes a little rubber hat to keep the moisture out what crumbs in the bin this time take care for me though I beat you and flay you by God we stir twitch
upon my word what is this brought back from the wars a shred of Her Majesty’s spoil purchased with blood on the Spanish Main bless my soul shall I treasure you pass you down through my generation an item on the wall regard with all due veneration an item on your person
do you scratch no that shred my son died in the night for that an assault from the rear he stood bravely so the rumour has it crossed alone he sent that back a time before take comfort in it the crumbs are dried by now will you dance will you die will you bring me home a flower no
into the bin again scuttle through the leaves for a tiny treasure it is some gimcracks in it the Queen is wise above her years flit drag flit drag flit off into the shadow again off
there was a middle once and for all time without end quick back to from our coign
open there do you follow me now there again farther on an instant push push again it appears to come no no shriek yes again yes there give it a slap stop end shriek slap out plop on cover have a smoke back to work again
tum the wireless on first first my notes there is a beginning your voice hums hymns bristies
no sound in the blood goodnight
day night Christ in your bed again back to Buddha back to back Lili Lili how sweet it tasted you me voices sing together that instant soundless quieten now no fraction here again it all slows down out there she is gone in here you
so I sing on soft soft there will come a better time quiet time inside the shriek is come and gone there will come a better time again we will go down to the sea you and I as we used cast ourselves out the two of us looking on from the shadow
Michael Guest © 1987
A thanks to JR Korpa for his beautiful, provocative images, sourced from Unsplash. What an enhancing complement to the text. They are, in order of appearance:
- Geigerbrandt (2019)
- Korpaism museum I (2019)
- Untitled (2024)
- Poem without words (2019)
- The architect of love III (2019)
- Lonely silhouette in the streets (2019)
JR Korpa, https://unsplash.com/@jrkorpa
Furin Chime Press™ 