Poem in which a knife bursts a bubble


First I had dreamt of (& it was unclear)
the music that convinces
the scene of itself.
More noise in bubble to mark this,
a man walks through tall ghost.

An end state of all mass
becoming water,
being of bubble.
A state where it is fair to drink
the water wars in three dimensions.

A drift adreamt of an end state
where I am clever enough
in bubble
to not pop the edges with my blade
& with skill
to know what is best for others.

So sat, like a Buddha in the globular
circular             forum form.
I carved talking dolls for mourners
and if someone wanted to love a live animal
I made arrangements
I was skilful, I was


Friends in the sphere,
but not real friends without
limits of the globe
but not more than what is acceptable
to its integrity.

Subtle bubble
gentle bubble, flight.
The water which maintains the cellular parameters
downregulates in sleep
and in narcotic induction.

A case that flies, that can become comfortable,
that is better than normal work,
that hides the intelligence in cases
but is, of course, while adreamt
during dreary work
still vulnerable,
for after all, these are bubbles.

In fur with water horse hands
then of fairness in exile
then every land, then who was this?
surrounded by rising waters


Knives in to the bubble
but no one notices
for the water has blackened
and so the bubble opaque
and Exitement in worms
who seek health to live
are thirsty & private.

What I have read is
even into liquid that stays shadow
is woman and man rebuilt
even in the sound of water
is the mandarin within
unpulled in punishment.

And the last knife
that slips into water
learns to instead seek the bubble
for up onto a rock of their shoulders
before flooding into the war
there will not soon be return to relief.
We’re reached the sea
all can be drunk now and clean again.
Knife in bubble,
knife in side.

SJ Fowler


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