20.0i

be infinity

Dylan Harris

20.0i

be infinity

Dylan Harris

Potato Press

Some of these poems have appeared in Scrawl, Exile and Never Bury Poetry.

by Dylan Harris

4 anticipating the metaverse, 3 nation six dog, 2 discard

chapbooks

20.0: r dye-de-ho, q antwerp, p tension nitro ego, o church is dangerous vital, n tin rush, m the A rush, l an engineering rush (ii), k Miss Demeanour, j flock state, i be infinity, h Namings, g nation six dog, f uncivil law, e dead write, d chase chase, c an engineering rush (i), b a much for we, a The Joy Of Tax

19.9: c Inn, b Swoop, a An Ode To The A14

19.8: c Rose, b Hymnen, a Darmstadt

Copyright © 1985-2006, Dylan Harris

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Published by Potato Press

Lëtzebuerg

http://dylanharris.org/

potato@dylanharris.org

(Specify “20.0i” in the subject line of any email)

Recitals of some of these poems may be found online

Poems

a then

garden

Instructions For A Common Ceremony

oh dear what a pity there there

workahol

her ran

On The Sonnet

shrines

i am perfect its the universes fault

The Cause Of War

scratby

england corrupted

early winter rose

ghost

server room

To Let

At Buckfast Abbey

in cynic adverati

be infinity

the washer machine broke

We Drunken Here

a then

no brag–side lorries

no metro shriek–walls

quality inability

dusted exotic moscow

russia

odd pressure

dylan thomas to catherine wheel

saliva words

a communist journalist led

i cursed london’s blown trash

now westminster dustmen

arbeit the night’s gift

russia

odd pressure

garden

this english fascination with grown artifice

denying the shock of flowered beauty

gardens predictable as bigots

where is the magnificent wild

where is life’s swarming unexpectedness

where is scent’s stun memories

all plan–chained by ennui regularity

a hovering hunting kestrel

chocolated

damn their pressure

insisting my fractal haven is mown neat

mown mono

Instructions For A Common Ceremony

Fill the kettle up.

Put the kettle on.

Let the water boil.

Let the water cool.

Set the cone and cup.

Put the cone on top.

Put the filter in.

Spoon the coffee in.

Pour the water through.

Soak the coffee wet.

Use the water once.

Let the coffee work.

Throw the coffee dregs.

Drink the coffee drug.

Feel the tongue awake,

feel the mind inflate.

oh dear what a pity there there

rushing like panic on elastic

up the pub corridor and down

howling over all the conversation

what disaster broke

this doldrum spinster’s emotion

at ten years old

and why does her clear distress

leave me angered cold

at the me–me–see

workahol

i’m tired

must work

exhausted

must work

brain dead

must work

sleep

wake up

must work

her ran

speak

no just flap fly

like vulture sees life

have confident

have proud

have polite

On The Sonnet

I couldn’t write a sonnet, no matter how

I tried. It’s difficult to chop and fit

my thoughts, my free expression thoughts, right now,

right here, to such a rigid form. My wit

is not the tight–arse type. My lines are full

when I am done, no less, and never end

at some exactly counted syllable.

What’s said is key, not how. It’s just a trend,

this fancy verse, for populists; it’s dropped

as rot in modern poetry—and how

can anybody teach that tightly cropped

and strictly managed words can ever plough

the spoken thought, the blurted crude opines,

and crop the lot to only fourteen lines?

shrines

rushing the driven A road

a moments glitter

a stark flash in the mud grass verge

cellophane reflecting sunlight

protecting summer colour flowers

this winter afternoon

on the roadside

by the place of death

the end of love

this often mourn

the stone tower the Norfolk border

shrines by the roads of history

each a sculpted wake

to the shocked imploding loss of love

we all suffer

i am perfect its the universes fault

you goes back a place you aint bin a while

sometime theres summin noo abawt

werent there before

an bin around a hundred year

“dont be silly its your memory

leaks like a taf” yull say

oh no it aint

that old fing really is nu

and ive worked it out

i read summit in the paper

bout quan’um stuff

you no qubits and the like

preten you cant put yer eggs in one basket

an if all yer gots one basket

an all the eggs gotta goin

yure stuffed

but if yuve got a quan’um basket

theyll all goin

cos it spreads em out fer yer

cross parallel universe fings

dunno wot they r

it sed universe is like a difrent istry

an quan’um stuf ’ops among em

an human memrys sorta quan’um too

and thats y i dont remember

that old new stuf

cos me memrys leaked from anover istry

where there aint no such fing

and theres anover me

who remembers a road that aint there

and turned dahn it and hit a wall

and now hes got grief

cos you see time and istrys like a crystal

sometimes theres a crack

an istrys get to be difrent

and memrys jumps

so all the people you fink are loonies

cos they live in a difrent world

they jus got memry leaks

theyve lived stuf yull never dreme

The Cause Of War

H–I–J–K* spells war.

Look,

simply add L–M–N–O:

it’s obvious.

Oh, come on,

H–I–J–K–L–M–N–O;

you surely know

that “H” to “O”

is water**.

*Letter sequence nicked from Stephen Rodefer.

**Punchline nicked from an infamous Daily Telegraph crossword clue.

scratby

this place of child me holiday

council–town–by–the–sea

sixties cheap estate

mud decorated walls

the cliff stair descends into sand

the grubby clean beach

paranoid watching men dog walk

boys charge run–rattle motorbikes

for a moment I’m stolen

loud sings the swelling sea

its siren sound surround

the glamour of end

I turn my back to that

it’s not my time to answer

the sea rolls like drums roll

one day I’ll belong

england corrupted

i live in hypocrisy city

corruption abroad is condemned

officials by pager remutter

“systems in Britain are clean”

as clean as a catholic bishop

it isn’t “go get yourself graft”

it’s letting the minions fuck–up

then leaving the errors unfixed

“ooh another few hundred’s now due

we’ll get to our ministers’ goal”

i was redundant with thousands

when maggie the mammoth was boss

my pay–off just happened to match

amounts i suddenly owed

“dear me what an error so sorry”

despite being workless and skint

despite all the money being mine

most all’s not returned not then

nor weeks nor months nor years

fourteen years later nor never

the law says this isn’t a crime

the money’s mistakenly took

the corruption is passive acceptance

promoting a culture of error

malevolent incompetence

early winter rose

a fuck–the–bastards mother’s disconnected

a secondo donna petulates

a net chatte barks

these trip–mes

this wrong town

then a lunch rare walk

a sweet stun glance

eyes each other’s gaol

her guardienne sensed the trapped

spun like a won’t start motor

i walked

thank you

early winter rose

ghost

Glass’s

Ginsberg

ends

there—something enters the room

caresses my leg

friendly—nothing

eighteen months ago

three kittens arrived and frenzied

Houdini had vanished

the first was long–haired beautiful

naughty Miss Demeanour

pest and miniture scamp

teenage trip–you Not!

nervous gentle Jinj

adept night hunter

— months —

Not! was road bone–broken

for all their lives complete

i had to move them

old Madam’s asleep in the kitchen

my ankle’s brushed goodbye

loss

thanks cat

good luck

see ya

server room

rectangles grey like forgotten faces

three man–high towers metal

systematic machines this male place

electric sundries scattered

a cold decorated producting room

the uni–pitch engine of working quanta

the no sad no joy the no peace no ire

this is where the data heart runs

the outside friendly coolwind spins young leaves

a rush–flock of exuberant flickering

as though sun–sparkle water races off a running dog at play

what running dog at play

To Let

Why does no–one else complain?

They’ve moved the public loos again.

And why is it that I’m arrested

when I ensure these things are tested?

“This be no bog”, the coppers prey;

“Then what’s that sign up there,” I say,

“and since you’re here please tell me why

they never print the letter ‘I’?”

be infinity

you tell ’em for me

you do something

like greasing caution

that damages everyone

whilst you’re alive

but dies with you

that’s at most

one generation shackled

but if you invent

to be heard by one man

every hundred years

that’s one in ten billion

times all those lives to come

that’s all the futures enhanced

one remembered word

is infinitely more

that all the nice forgotten

all the frightened antinew

all the fundamentalist hells

all their empty cups

the washer machine broke

the so exasperated clothes

took siege on the washer machine

i returned in

to instant shock at movement socks

in fear gibbered

my foul noise

so horror the washer machine

it feint surrendered

and wash

two three four

We Drunken Here

by Анна Ахматова

We drunken here, we harlots,

in cheerlessness, we share.

Wallpaper flowers, wallpaper birds,

for mist.

Your black pipe, its smoke ascends,

to ink–blot hallucination.

I wear my lithe skirt

for grace.

The window glass, rote sealed,

blocks hoarfrost and thunder.

Your eyes wary at me,

eyes of a black cat.

Ai, dread forbodes me,

death mulls on me.

And she, she who last danced,

she can go to hell.

This loose translation of Анна Ахматова’s 1913 poem is based on Max Hayward’s literal translation, published in “Modern Poetry in Translation: 1983”.

30.4.6

20.0i be infinity

A Chapbook of poetry from Dylan Harris

20.0i Dylan Harris poetry poems

(c) 2003-2004 Dylan Harris. This publication is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike Licence 2.0.
See dylanharris.org for details.

2003-12-14T19:12:26