Not a time within time,
which ends with an image of an eye-lid closing in
upon a vision of an inner landscape.
Time is (the dream of) money.
The awakened few spend hours
outside the reality of a dream . .
The Hardest Part
What is the American dream? Is it
to wake up rich? The hardest part
is waking up. Easier to go on dreaming
of easy money and a chocolate ice-cream.
In America, ice-cream is an easy-rider
on the surf of serfdom.
To wake up the rich is not easy.
Too much ice-dream
freezes the American brain.
Union City Blue
Do you have a job? In other words,
are you a person? Most dolphins seem to be unemployed
and yet they are nonetheless persons.
Perhaps they are secretly working undercover -
checking up on tourists
when they leap out of the water behind boats.
This would explain their apparent personhood
but not why tourists are leaping out of the water
behind boats. Dolphins are not doing their jobs, it seems.
Behind every job there is a façade that fades
with every honest break-down and tuna-sandwich
eaten during each half-hour lunch-break.
Shayla the supervisor insists on tuna-sandwiches.
“Don’t click back!” Taking kick-backs from the tuna industry,
her dorsal fins are well-greased in olive oil.
You wish you hadn’t majored in food-science
or even gone to dolphin university in the first place.
You could have been having a whale of a time.
Eat To The Beat
Denis Denis, there is no time for the salad niçoise –
balads of salad days are much of a muchness,
a lunch of a munchlessed lettuce.
Work is an emptiness of the lunch-box of the soul
once filled with child-like play-grounds
and an innocent atheism.
Young dolphins go to schools without a lunch-box.
Supposing dolphin schools exist or do not exist,
killer-whales do not believe in any god, either way.
Accidents Never Happen
Work-related dilapidations are romanticized
in an emptiness of comprehension; an office or an
orifice. The official view is of a spread-sheet, power-pointed
not a view through a window of time, seen semi-detached
by the neighbors of bottle-nosed dolphins. Seemingly,
cheese and pickle isn’t an antidote for bottled-up emptiness.
In the lunch-box of mundane drudgery, an accidental
chuckle is not to be found; only tuna-sandwiches.
Let there be no more talk of sandwiches or lunch-boxes.
Die Young Stay Pretty
The lake of reflections reveals an obscure object –
beyond the sea of oceans, opaque and opened
beautifully calm in its resonance
dolphins would reside there, if residence was such
motion to the eye of the eyes of the shimmering object,
emerald, opal and topaz.
A crystallized chrysalis resonates clandestine contours.
Bejewelled butterflies are the metamorphosis
of motion, to the eye of eyes of a shimmering.
Open your contoured eye - fly over stone-skimmed oceans,
not flattened car-pools on a one-dimensional one-way road
resonating red-lights and stop-signs.
No map for the depths of dolphin’s despair,
the sludge of politician’s fudge is everywhere, sous mer
submarines go slow, through Neptune’s sea of rage.
Silk moths are still cocooned, motionless in their cage.
Pisces, the nightmare for Neptunatum -
killer-whales washed up on a distant shore.
Suppose there is a distant beach, where every grain of sand
is sun-drenched, and every sun-kissed grain itself a sun,
born of a fusion of star-dust and smooth rippling pebbles
and around every star, there is a world within a world
and beach within that world, and without that beach
a wave and a galaxy within.
Without gravity, a beached-whale dies on a local beach
where every grain of sand is black as night and every star
is light-years away relative to a rippling pebbles’ under-toe.
Close your contoured eye of eyes; within
the dream of the dolphin, the suivant song of the whale
echoes through the sleeping sound.
Shimmering in a direction of customary communication
belieing behemoths’ bellies below,
the whale is larger in song than in the dolphin’s sad dream
in which skipping stones float above the distant beach,
contour touching contour of all pure being without location.
Each grain of star-dust is a summer radiation.
A winner in the American dream drifts off to a
dream vacation – more work and early morning radio,
the dream of the alarm-clock and coffee at five-thirty a.m.
The dolphin’s dream reverberates on the echo-beaches
of distant shores with no local temporal location.
One is only at rest relative to those bodies in motion;
mass resentment is equal to the speed at which they are
forced, constantly caffeinated to devote their energy to being
squared, ensnared in a work-event’s dark horizon.
12. Living In The Real World
Dolphins were the real inventors of the internet
With a single click, one could order a tuna-sandwich
or a sub for a sick-day.
The reality of the inner dream consists in its immediacy,
vivid honesty and luminescence. Outer dreams are,
yet are secondary and of inferior valleys, like silver stars.
Inner dreams resemble gold stars in the dark night of
the unemployed. Darkness is the hollow of the jaded
lunch-box. The stakes are high – good job, well done.
track listing for Eat To The Beat
2. The Hardest Part
3. Union City Blue
5. Eat To The Beat
6. Accidents Never Happen
7. Die Young Stay Pretty
8. Slow Motion
10. Sound Asleep
12. Living In The Real World