Apostrophise, but then not,

 Spectare’s thinking, summoning, a  twentieth century  as, prostrate under nouns, an Age of Mass, Masses’ Production, of cars, their blank faces, and the gew-gaw brights of this season’s trinkets, of its darke weddynge, the confetti falling like newspaper cuttings,  golden-eared the wheat upbending under prairie winds, of speech on thrombosis-spotted celluloid, hoarse from a lifetime of smoke, Bogart, of speech on fist-clenching balconies and torchlit bandstands, Nuremberg, the top-hats burning like books, of speech on little black handsets, dull-eyed with grey, of rebuilt ages like harpsichords, of peanuts, peasants and ring-roaded estates, of the astronauts that went down on the Titanic, of human living flesh stepping out per second of that one woman in the Middle Kingdom, Chin-hua, of guitar chords on barbed wire and that stranger’s kindness and white-walled maternity wards raucous as barns  jostling with white (barred) White Christmas turkeys. Gobblers. Of death. And death
 

and death and death and death yet again yet life ....

                              li ....
                                      fah, soh
                                 li

                       And he thinks too
                                  now
                   of echo-effects
                                             on a five-stringed cello
                tuned by Sebastian Bach
                                         and a damp late night
            on an April Thursday
                                      in Caerlyr Year 2000 Leicester

of the Meeting House silence last firstday how his words that broke
of his eggs fried, his beans, his oven-heated chips
of how Ms K -

 (of slim waist and mood-turns and pert bum and sharp tongue
 and jet-black secrecy her hair swings moon-eyed dependency)

                                           did, didn’t
                     was, wasn’t 

whatever it was he last thought her. Of how next minute’s

                         (a spider feels along its trembling line)

as Poland is invading his head and San Francisco is buckling his carpet in c minor on the Richter scale and a buttock-bare Pope lands mitrefirst in a formaldehyde condom, et homo factus est, and Colonel Aberdeen  T-bone Angus eyes a hot franchise on Io for truly now God is found in silence                                           

                                          pause
                     will look up
                                           from the punctured space
                     of the holed white
                                                    on his first page:

[The Cabinet of Dr Spectare] [His Inheritance] [His Certificitude] [Unknown Unmade Untitled] [His Descent] [His Pensées] [Spectare Herculeans] [His Gnomes] [His Chanson] [His Millenium] [His Triumph] [Amor Brevis] [His Incognito] [His Third Torment] [His Humours] [The Dig] [Fire Sermon] [Third Eye]