Notes on Pynchon
Like some damp and mossy Tokyo stomping monster
He comes from and returns to the sea
The model cities of lies and paranoia
Reconstructed (always) in time for the next rising.
Nordhaus byway of Zoo Station
Bone scattered rocket caves, the crunching descent
Surreal news on reality, a virtual history.
Linear gravity grooves,
The roads, the encoded signs, the toll of media
Tunnels through the fallen towers.
It is guileless, your rush from the past
Avoid the petty guilts, Marx, the murder of poets.
Your rooms filled like an infobahn architect
The visual autopsy, here you surf alone
And sift the mind, resistor the body
No place here for silk, or women;
The irrational fears of smooth intimacies.
Surrogate and symbol
Remind them; your existence
Ancient forests will burn, rage in force
From your sun’s twisted entropies.
You have stalactite driving eyes
Mysterious, not divine, or blessed
With the vision of heavens last caress.
This wasted yearning for nothingness
Buffered by yawns and gaffs of laughter
Have turned your world of Things
Into our desert of beings that lack reason
Except for the twisted urge to your ego’s surrender.
If death is in our bones, our brittle, fracturing skeletons
Rain a storm of mortality, over the empires we build of
Blood and concrete and steel and dreams that must fail
Speak to me; stay with me here in your pirate’s kingdom.
You hang our fears on thin filaments of tragedy and fate
Underground conspiracies, the many rumors abound
From towers to roofs to caves in the cold, smoking ground
That V is a symbol that bleeds and seethes over your heart.
Release me of your medieval torture of faith
The gears, the wheels, the bladed pendulums of hate
With each new volume we anticipate, gyrate
With teeth-gnashing that we need a buried index to
The surreal knowledge you sublimely incubate.
Why do we read to seeth, in reels of your dark cinema?
You have stellar pre-destination
There are no dreams;
On your empty edge of the universe
All the stars are counted.