Category: Buddha Machine (page 2 of 2)

Send me your sunshine. Only you can make this buddha machine run. When there’s just one the drone creeps and the loops begin to skip. Buddha needs two machines to set up his feedback mantra, his fearful explosions. Buddha’s playing your melody. Buddha’s sweating underneath those robes. Your sunshine is Buddha and the sound of the northern sea drowns out my southern gales, my hail and cloud. I’ll post them somewhere else.

Through the chat rain and the weather reports, I can sense the glow of long evenings. Send them to me, too. Preferably on a floppy disk, in Buddha format. Compatible as two bombs. Bam! The machines that hum and create their own sunshine, a kind of quicksand sound I’d happily throw myself into, hoping that you’ll come along. Teen movies starring Buddha. Family sagas in several parts. No more sad bildungsroman. Happy Buddha.

The phone’s earworm keeps drilling its designs. There’s no need to send them on, just yet. Buddha can wait. I’ve stored batteries inside my special air-raid shelter, from within which all I can hear is the sun. How Buddha revolves on a marble-white mandala. An obscure graph that documents our melodic rise and fall. I’ve already sent you that. Check your messages. It’ll come in the mail. Buddha relaxes. Buddha on rollerskates.

She’s pouring in from the future. Floating on a river of bees. An egg in each hand and pearls in her teeth. Eyes of honey, radiating the hive. Her happiness a stripe that no one else can see. Polka dots of secret laughter. Favourable explosion weather. That’s all there is too it. Their fallout projections remain a fantasy. A radio on a card table all that remains of the so-called observation tent. Oblivion’s handkerchief.

Swimming in a river of bees. She’s pouring down from the future. Pearls in her mouth and eggs in her ears. Chunks of honeycomb in her hair, radiating danger. Her laughter a saving breath that no one else knows they need. Green dots on radar screens. Favourable explosion weather. A vast cloud thrown over the continent like a magician’s cape. The long exodus of refugee ants all that remains of the rain. Radio tuned to rhythms, or fantasy.

Drowning in a river of future bees. Floating on futures and pouring rain. A puddle of water in each hand, a pencil behind each ear. Eyes of radiant happiness. Tracing escape routes on her own hand, circling the radio tent. Listening to the honeydrops peppering the handkerchief like polka dots. Oblivious to the liquid’s transmission. Stripes and secret smiles. Fantasy exodus. Favourable explosion weather. Bam! That’s all there is too it.

A catalogue of tongues inside the Buddha’s room, that place it seemed impossible to leave, a space created by two dim machines under the tongue of a slippery moon. The tongue of a moon that licks the shore, that space where two melodies meet and form a zero, a name for the unwritten body floating just like a canoe through hanging air. The slippery heel of a canoe pushed out through the scruffy surf, that zone where two desires meet and form an equal pair, a sudden dare injected with fire. The mosquito’s pin-prick of a map, formal attacks instead of blood, the trust that lies inside a vein. Intricate as triage, bold as pain.A levitating loop ascends, hisses like the fleeting diagram. What sound the space elastic? Carrier of a broken dream. Clues like stars that disappear behind your head at dusk. The drunken bust. A plane on which it’s possible to sleep, my head inside your heart. The subtle hopes of minor chords disrupted, wound around a lamp post called delay. Sleep and gravity, guilt’s decay. A slipping canvas for a sail, red slashes of a pirate’s demonstration. Eons of bounty, plume flukes from the smallest tail. Rhyme a melody with silver paint. Two red lights in the dark an omen, or pin-pricks of light from a planet warm as wood or skin.

A gibbous moon’s trilogy of angles, quick as lino cuts. The story you drew there, using just your fist. A clock timed to miss the traffic’s surge. Sands. The illusory youth hostel, behind the warning signs, the smell of buffaloes. Eggs whose secrets crabs and horses mend. Dizzy heights. A mantra that never curls or gives off radiation. Puzzles. The cat’s purr like an engine in the mist. Rubbing against the ear. The mechanical shell I held. Photographs of hands. Line delays and free translation. Detox depots. Moon tongue. Silence, then the ever-ascending roar. Mesmerising trickles. The new freckle’s eclipse, predicted by a sonic blip.