a peculiar nod to the Viking ship burial.
Schrödinger's engine, alive or dead it'll do no searching,
and for all of the looking up that could've been done
I'm as squished as Sisyphus under his stone.
Apt funeral for a window-tapping rebel,
'look at me, I exist beyond your capacity
to cut me off mid-sentence' -
look it up, Kafka wie ein Hund, that's
the other book but neither was finished -
'can (tap) you (tap) see (tap)
that (tap) I (tap) exist?' Buzz.
You, I; neither was finished, neither meant to exist,
La Mouche's buzzing a rebellion in itself,
like the doctor's outcome-independent compulsion
to battle the plague in his quarantined town,
tap an accelerando tempo on the glass horizon
until every pocket of oxygen is metabolised, burnt
in inextinguishable soul fire but never destroyed,
buzz tap buzz till car wrapped around a tree,
parts scattered like a bomb went off, maybe
something landed on Gallimard's face and he let go,
or he spent too much of his time looking up
and turned search engine into engine search.
Schrödinger wie eine Katze exactly one year later,
simultaneously in Alpbach and Glasnevin for all it matters,
and Eliot, third Nobel Laureate, lying in the sand
unfinished four years later on the same date again,
must look him up too and it goes on and on,
sand water and soil trickling into my tomb I'll
never (buzz) dig (uzz) myself (zz) out (z)
but I have to keep sifting and lifting, rearranging
the gathering dirt to sculpt my cavity of air.
Bend knees, palm facing downwards phalanges aligned,
grasp clump of mud, rotate hand horizontal axis,
shuffle awkwardly or just collapse and roll to point B,
release mud, repeat, repeat, squish.
Insular epi-being, that's not room for movement,
no glow-in-the-dark blueprint for a way out -
I've looked it up, found formless clouds
that won't even admit a yellow fuzz, raindrops,
glistening constellations resembling mud, mud,
apples rotting in invertebrate backs and mud,
the hitherto intact roof of Gallimard's car and more mud -
no magic lidbusting stick of trinitrosomethingsomething
to blow me into a first class carriage on the jet stream,
buzzing soul ablaze like the grazing Perseids,
July strike me deaf August strike me dead,
no twinkling key winking at me under the silt
just buzz tap buzz it's in your deoxyribosomethingsomething,
cul-de-sac or the typical repeat, repeat, squish.