A crown of sonnets based on Eurasia (Questions on Happiness), 2018 by Metahaven

The bell sounds eons deep below this one -
ballast of trains cutting the surface tracks.
The mountain cannot behold paladin
Warrior from ancient glacier carving backs.

The monkey in sun, a living room, the
Anastasia, another screen tundra
Coming toward from fifteen twenty three
when the first road was built across Eurasia.

Alas, the road was also built to tell
the story of the Maltese falconer,
a new falcon reflecting itself dwell
as a computer of its own texture

as it roams above Eurasia, a vision
the thing that eats itself from the burden.

the thing that eats itself from the burden
like a stone glowing from an unknown source,
or a new instrument of the bellman
on the highway at night, calling with force

the old stars into a reconnaissance -
the mission about the tilt of the earth
and from which place world history parlance
touches upon the flesh of your nose girth.

As Eurasia feels us move, we can view her
at sideways as she lifts us to her breast.
The motor likewise carries our pressure
As we move across Eurasia manifest.

We type into her flesh, hear her ring,
a keyboard shortcut to a quickening.

A keyboard shortcut to a quickening
To find out how the weatherman arrives
for animals whose home is only spring
as it is spoken by Russian afterlives.

As it rotates in space, a crowd of sleep
in a howling first-person shooter game,
the names of eyes and ears are just skin-deep
names of new species of an app filename.

All the games are buried in Eurasia´s crust.
When need and profit align and all the
digital colours erupt as sweat trussed
on our brows and the solo cloud comma,

a tuft of monkey grass, snow in the trees,
memory of when it fell, and of seas.

memory of when it fell, and of seas.
of when mercury was a spinning top,
we could not grasp in heart or embassies -
we will forget that what was in the drop

could also be seen at dusk over there
beyond the factories of Eurasian plains.
I’ve always been Eurasia, don’t forget where.
The way we began was in between rains

and then the next, but not at all at once.
These things lead to another as the fish
eye lens folds itself over like mergence
like the contact lens on the tip, frumpish

hanging onto the tip of your finger,
the liquid pooling in the center spur.

The liquid pooling in the center spur,
Although, the lens, as an object is here
arriving from the outskirts, a thwarter -
on the horizon of the balladeer,

on the horizon of slow entering,
and of fast exiting what we believed.
I find we are all the same at breaking
as we are all the same animal heaved

in Eurasia, on Eurasia, cheering Eurasia,
back and forth without instructions, but still
deleting Eurasia, following Eurasia
being nostalgic for Eurasia, fulfil

being in ultrapresence forever -
do not leave, for there is no another.

Do not leave, for there is no another.
A tower anoints her in the forest,
a meeting place on the edge, a barter
for our memory of that profoundest,

a tale of what we have done to this place –
round table discussion we make later,
but not right now, erupt the database,
so they know how Eurasia was like scripture,

with her music of nationalities
at ten – eighty - p, America buzz,
the name of a dry goods store by abbeys,
as it was during the Middle Ages,

even then the sun rose above Eurasia,
we knew her name came from Andromeda.  

We knew her name came from Andromeda. 
Where there are no humans but only you
Who thought no higher than the antenna
But the ceiling stretched to a higher view.

You have to stop your car, good architect.
Notice, that there are no humans around
We sense them like ghosts, a subdialect,
Off shored into the memory profound

of a paladin warrior closing
tiny eyes on the virtual mountain
to be sold the hoax, death of designing
truth in many languages, ghostwritten

map of Macedonia, the brand engine -
The bell sounds eons deep below this one -