John Paul Davis

The Blank Yorke

What's the point of instruments? Words are a sawed-off shotgun. - Radiohead
 
Baby boy, the hound of heaven bathed you,
mussing your hair to permanent cowlick.
Born with one eye asleep & one open
makes you king in the realm of waking dreams.
Uncelebrity, tempt the piano's
many teeth like a lion tamer, head
between great jaws. You never wanted your
voice to be a beauteous thing but here
you are, cracked tenor & falsetto, false
positives & bewitching punchdrunk blue
oratorios. Choirboy & the whole
choir. Wearing the brave face. Reprimanding
daylight. Talking down the panic. Unsure
if you're sign or signified. Signing or
signifying. Baby, you've got the post
modern blues. Hell on earth, it's hell on earth.
A car crash, a tesla coil, a hanging
chad. In arpeggios. Is this the Lord's
extended dance mix or just a skipping
compact disc? Either way all your hymns snap
electroconvulsive. Either way all
these words are mammal noises. Either way,
close your dream eye & thresh an stray cat
rotgut rhythm from your six-string. Either
way, this life's a no-code & you've always
known it. So. When the cantankerous god
of the stratosphere jostles the jet stream
assume the crash position. A holy
ghost will whisper pixels into your ear,
a modem's stridulation & gurgle.
Oh, demodulator, instigator,
soothsayer. Fear not. This heat's also light.
We will be shining when it swallows us.



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John Paul Davis is a curator of Page Meets Stage. He was a founding member of Real Talk Avenue, and is the former editor of Bestiary Magazine and Em Literary. He currently lives in Brooklyn. His website is www.johnpauldavis.org