The Human Genre Project

Plans for Land

Like drums of air or swirling sea-tunnels or
insect swarms or the absent core of a hurricane.
Or nets.
Nets twisting in the air and billowing, catching only the environment
- whatever's there -
moving as if from the intention of an agent that no longer exists.

Swarms of code. Curling 'C's stitched to
angular 'T's forming the net,
going for the catch,
the catch of air.
Cone-shaped code structures gliding, fluttering in
days, picking up pieces, eyes on the immortal.

The code ravages across the land,
coded land, water-code, coded blue, intransigent.
Sweep pure code down the banks to the letters of the shore,
run it, sweep with traces of mountain-code, expel it.
On to the vaporous sea crests blown to look like nets themselves,
nets of codes, codes for lives.

He handed her her pint, he withdrew, sumdges of code on
the glass and in the air where his outline had been,
his lips smiling red, inhaling nicotine and smoke now in the
black night-code extending himself in wisps of smoke-code,
puffing out letters, wider, vaguer, more indistinct man,
he turned codes, his own code, the stuff of Ben.
Lips on the glass, lip-code, and is there a code for beer, Ruth?
May I have your own code? I'll call. And we could have codes
together against blue-black night-code,
the anti-stuff, could beat it Ruth, 'n reach immortal.

Stand above the swelling sea-codes, coiled,
stand out amidst the water, intransigent solid wet code,
very cold, can't push against it, trying my hardest dear.

Martin MacInnes