| THE BAD SEED Dee Rimbaud Glasgow, United Kingdom 1. This one is sunset red, rich as womb blood, Thick as flesh: It tastes of fire and sex And finger probes the hollow folds Of dormant rotten mass While eggshell strips are slowly ripped With tainted talons and Godless taunts. The blue is sharp, neon, etheric, Cauterising the eyes, A topography of dilapidated sky: It shrivels the soul In static strata - The stark vastness Of its wide open Restless space, A question mark? And this fibre of daffadown yellow: It grips and scorches The sleeping heart With cruel springtime Flick knife twists - A cabbage moth On wings of vacant hope. These strands of primal colour Weaving through light and dark Spirals of sunken spectrum: A loom of illumination; Its cloth, A spectral aquarelle Of phosphorescent wash, An edgeless sfumato rainbow; Dazzling, But ever deceptive To the finger's tentative touch. See this pink one? It promises purification: The cold calm recollection Of selfless, soul-embracing love, But do not listen to its lies - For like a siren sat on coral rocks Its song will surely tempt you To the massive heaving shoreline And dash your spirit to dust. And this mossy Kerry green: A corrosive mist which dimly caresses The steely harp's catgut strings, Ringing out a saline tune Which rusts the bridge Which spans the years From battered birth to wistful grave. And all these colours, a blurred contusion And all the polychromatic confusion From mother of pearl to brown and grey, A myriad hues of every shade: From sable strokes on sacking cloth And pigment smears of clotted oil, The sheeted mirror of wants and needs; A lust for life and trust in death, A karmic cheque of thoughts and deeds, These rainbow ribbons which steal the breath. 2. The web is flexible, but tightly spun, Allowing the illusion of movement Whilst holding you fast. There is the smell of cordite and sweat And a vague hint of threat, But nothing tangible, Nothing you can grasp (And anyway, your hands are tied). You dance in the shaman's shadow, A whirling dervish, Trailing ribbons in your wake, In acid arcs of burning colour. You are dancing in a dreamscape, A shifting topography Of ruined cities, deserts And empty highways. There is a vague hint of holocaust, But nothing tangible (And anyway, it's always summer now In your dreams). Imagine then, the book of the dead, Lying unread On your bedside table. Imagine the smells of sex and sweat, The upturned cup of blood, The vomit pile Of black bile flowers. Now, enter the actor, stage left: A cascade of black narcissi Clasped to his breast. He kisses them in the half light With fat petulant lips All a pouting; And plucks them from their stems With fickle finger tips As his audience watches, delighted, In suspense, Waiting for something to snap. And in the unlit back alley Where the wind whips up The weekend's detritus A primal drama is re-enacted: Hunter and quarry Pirouette A pornographic hieroglyph - Iconoclastic In the stillness of the night. And then you're back in this city room With the rain falling all over the blankets And her sobbing beside you, A broken doll In your thick arms, A thesaurus of platitudes spilling from your tongue, And the echo of a scream Ringing round your ears. Then the contractions come on, Tight And tighter still: There's klaxons and sirens and bells; And ribbons, all pretty coloured, Blowing about like a bloody jamboree. 3. He was naked on the motorway, running away: Tattered fetters trailing from his wrists; The sweat dribbling in his eyes, Burning. He was running blind: His head, a blur Of cathode radiation. It was a particularly twisted sadism That caused them to inflict upon him The hollow brands and blandishments Peculiar to their station. "Cruel to be kind And kind to be cruel." They said, Whilst rubbing together Their fat glutinous hands And secreting saliva From involuntary glands. And all the while inside, Deep inside, The small boy Who's trying to hide: The small boy They cannot touch Who misses his mummy Very much. And through the filthy smog of time With all its chaos and its grime You want to reach and grab the light And assure the boy it'll be alright. But there's no reaching back now: The turnpike here Only twists one way and the turnpike keeper Must be paid. You know these celluloid strips Lodged in your brain? They cannot be edited: Only played Again and again and again. 4. They made him take the ribbons in his hands And tie them up in patterns and proportions With numbers and common denominations In fractious factions Associated with corporations Where mumbo jumbo preachers preached: "Each according to his station" And pointing pedants each repeated A list of rules and regulations While tangents curved their measured arcs Of quadratic inequation (and this indeed they deigned to call A 'comprehensive' education). They said it was good for him, this. They said it was good, but he never heard. He just went right on crying On and on about the dead bird: The dead bird on the splattered tarmac, All red blood and neon green. So they tied him up and made him smile and stuffed his head with cotton wool And filled him up unto the brim With whisky, sex and gold. They said that it was good for him, Good for him to be a man: So he smiled & drunk & fucked & fought And placed a mask upon his face. And when at last he was undone They let him go upon his way, Past the turnpike and the toll Then over the hills and faraway. 5. He watched, In shock, The black bird Spiral and fall And crash, Crash black Into the tarmac: A slash of black Thru' a sky Of silver and neon. Sweet bird of death, Sweet bird In a sick green world. He stooped over And watched: So unable to touch. Charcoal thing, So little In its broken wings With its broken eyes And broken beak. Charcoal In the charnel soil: Falling and flailing In short sharp gasps Of the nervous end. 6. These brackish waters Do not slake the thirst, Nor put out The acid fires That burn the holes within. 7. This bird is shallow shadow: A grey echo, receding, Retreating into grey dawn - Its bleached bones, broken; The gawping beak Singing no song. 8. This seed has grown within: A barren twisted tree; Its roots thrust into acrid soil; Its branches flocked With winged cadavers Who fuck and fight And eat and shite Under awnings Of rotten blossom And disappointed fruit. 9. The girl with the sugarsweet smile Is no longer sweet or smiling: Her face is copper green, Scrubbed clean Of all expression; Any lingering trace of secretion Has neatly been showered away. The only tangible impression Of any emotion Is seen in the trembling of hands; And these you imagine Viciously pulling, Tighter and tighter, The ribbons around your brain. 10. In the pissing river, Drinking the dust Into your lungs: Penitent Arched And straining; And all the while The pissing river Raining Raining Raining. 11. Upon the terracotta ribbon strand The Angel entreats him, Silently pleading: "Behold the lamb of God!" The lamb stares blindly out From bleeding inward eye, Crying aloud: "My God, My God, Why didst thou deceive me?" Oil black crow Sweeps a parabola arc Crashing black Into the tarmac. The motorway is empty, eerie: He treads the tarmac wordlessly, Ether & blood & ice Pumping to the rhythm of the night. The Angel, all-knowing, But elusive, Gives a knowing look: Alludes to the good seed Buried safe Behind the looking glass. Crumpled by gravity, He peers gravely Into the glass: A pool of fool's gold. The crow, Black and majestic, Laughs; And in one swift Mercurial leap, Impales the lamb Upon his beak. 12. Stranded on the central reservation, Soaked in oily spindrift, With the seagulls calling: Black waves crash Upon shifting sands And the sun beats down, Relentless. Along the strand, Shimmering in heat haze, An Angel approaches, Beckoning. Then she's gone: Just the motorway remaining; And in the depths of sky, No stars, No fire - Only the pissing river, Raining Raining Raining. 13. Her eyes are red and dry: The war rages In the dark corners Of her head. Mirrors and windows are sheeted: Shadowy figures mourn The passing Of the dead. 14. He kisses her hair And says: "there there" But his mind is elsewhere. He blows an indifferent whisper Into the depths of her ear And little shivers run thru' her, Like the shivering of waves On a cold blue sea. Her eyes are pools: Her mouth, a river; Her body, an ocean. He treads her restless shoreline, Uneasily naked, A starfish grasped In his soft wet hand. Fumble fingered, He strokes it; And filaments of dust Detach and fall, Feathery as spindrift. 15. She talks about her father; And the dislocation In the faraway spaces Behind his eyes. Her voice is soft, Almost sobbing: It murmurs like the riptide. Her father had strange eyes: He was a stranger From a faraway place. She touches her breast, Cries a broken doll cry, "Papa, papa." Her eyes glaze, Skin flowers red: "Love me, love me," she says. Her body thrashes beneath him: An angry ocean, Swollen And torn open. 16. They fuck on the motorway: The crows go wild And fly away. She is cool, blue-eyed: Slow as a river in floodtide. The process is sad and unending: A funeral procession Thru' childhood streets; Past crumbling buildings And open closemouths Where lovers trade Darkling kisses, Shaky and bursting. His eyes are ashes, His lips, dry: The birds are scattered; A flurry of black wings Clattering Against a rusted metal sky. Loneliness creeps upon him, Wraps her tarry arms Around his broken frame And drags him further in. 17. She whispers her panic into his ears: Endless channels and passages Into empty space. He is dreaming in empty space. They fuck In blind, groping fury, Clinging together: They come together And come apart. Her tears are a dream in empty space. Her song is sung And everything is done and undone. They hold onto each other: They hold on for dear life. DEE RIMBAUD, 7 LOTHIAN GARDENS (GFL), NORTH KELVINSIDE, GLASGOW, G20 6BN, SCOTLAND E-mail: dee.rimbaud@ntlworld.com and deerimbaud@hotmail.com http://artist.writernetwork.com http://visionary.writernetwork.com HOME PAGE & ARCHIVES
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