Notes on Pynchon

A Screaming Comes Across the Sky…

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.