Radio

1-10

Conviction fills the bodyThe presence of dead soulsflute like at the base of the ear.A particle enters the soundingssuddenly open, a doorseparating bright from carelesspatterning, forcing a languagememory designs from sleep.The body is more primitiveattached to the ground.A frame lights up horizonsto lead forward, larger than life.

Animals eat words,exorcize this great and glassy news.The end of the road a walking floweras in any direction, another.Peripheries meet, a syntacticforecast through hostile centuriesa slow drawing out of detailreflecting greys.To confirm the ear catchesis measured until it disappears.Breaking code, no one recallsappeal to the surface of fact.

The flames are spongesin smoke blackened hourBlighted fruits words can’t grasp.Among stations immeasurable across fieldsa flashing signfixes only certaintyTwo eyes blinking through a door.The missing head must be seen wholewhere one word leadsclouds to accident of end.The machine never tires.Edges of stations start to come in.

The head of a king’s sonmultiplies at cross roadsan immutable exchange. You are the worldwings of oblivion and endless drillinga shadow a things to comethe wind on their heels.In pursuit of a ship in harborthe voices of towns without bodystars without voice in space.A night for the blind.Passing through his fingersthe short black branches of the eye.

(Barrett Watten. “Radio.” 1-10. Berkeley: This, 1980. 53-54.)