It's an interesting contrast, because in spite of "referring" to the body there's very little that has any kind of "bodily" resonance to it as a poem - actually it's more about disembodiment, detachment, disconnection (as many of those poems are, for various reasons). There is a coded allusion to Auden's poem "Night covers up the frigid land", which ends with the couplet "for now my dream of you cannot / refer to you at all" (there's a longer gloss on the whole thing here: http://www.codepoetics.com/blog/2015/05/)
Problems of reference tend to dominate in poetry of the head, to be crude about it, since it's always a question of trying to organise the relationship between one's thoughts and reality; whereas I think Luka's poetry is more concerned with resonance, where thought and reality aren't so strictly separate in the first place: words lead us back or forward into our embodied relationships with things, across multiple phenomenological registers.
I once caught a flu which put me in a high fever, and when I was brought some soup and bread to eat became convinced that my task was to separate the food out into its constituent molecules and place them in heaps, sorted by type, at the foot of the bed.
In a half-awake state another time, when someone else entered the room and tried to wake me up properly I felt that I was a telephone network and that they were trying to route a call through me to some receiver, but the call could not be connected.
I had a dream on another occasion that I was trying to debug a computer program, and the problem was that a buffer in memory kept filling up and needed to be cleared. Nothing I did seemed to fix the issue. Then I woke up and realised I needed to empty my bladder. Nothing I could have done in the dream would have resolved this problem (at least, not satisfactorily). I often think about this when I see someone desperately trying to solve a problem (usually something physical, like being overtired and stressed) by fretting, anxiously and circularly, about a symbolically displaced analogue of that problem, convinced that if they can only get that right, everything will be sorted.
Amorous marble. Redeem voucher.
Enter incarnate maelstrom. The torque
Of cyclonic matter.
Martyrdom Broadcast. 11 past the hour.
And till tolls. Reconvene the assembly. Softly I have something to say
We all feel this way, in the catastrophe
disassembled like birdsong
ascending at sharp angles, articulated,
very swift and sudden in each
change of direction, pivot and placement
of the suceeding plane.
It was a fait accompli, as inevitable as thunder, the consequence of benign neglect.
We chose to be here, incarnate
and shabbily dishonest. Would you
scratch the hollow behind the knee?
Collude in the threadbare fiction
till the cardboard walls collapse.
The stress sectors displaying friction about turn the next alignment for seasons regimental folder essay align the several sequence indefinitely wear tells are nice inclement shading seasonal lets with older to assembly date transifix reorder and realign radial symmetry orb is there is no point of origin for this fractal universe it is everywhere already
Adjunct periodicity the pink blush cactus horizon temperate low gradient run across runway section pedestal lush regimento mauve cascade grey cashmere hauteur coat tailoring sexual upholstery interior aeronautic life jacket the textured liniment of granite cross section incline cross purposes grapple limit vortex reached rate at which shear sector turbine breaks here at intersplice lever expedient release template expectancy returns forecast arrival
Quiver limit measure degree to which tremor receipt audial light image retinal pink highlights flash image retinal phosphur burn horizon explode as image recede to disappear closer to functional use factor negation zero
inter zone mezzo pastel appliqué cash register hair pin anxious of problematising down the debate corridor of wrist pressure amplify syllable impulse plosives mesh curtain chokehold restraint sequence tether lock
"Cyclonic matter" also puts me in mind of Olson: "a poem is energy transferred from where the poet got it (he will have some several causations), by way of the poem itself to, all the way over to, the reader. Okay. Then the poem itself must, at all points, be a high energy-construct and, at all points, an energy-discharge."
For stage 1, you need an open sensibility, to be able to take all kinds of things in. For stage 2, an un- or de-compartmentalised mind, willing to entertain impure or seemingly arbitrary combinations. For stage 3, practice and discipline. You can't just empty it out all over the floor.
I can see the point of not editing, which is that it holds your feet to the fire of trying to get it to come out right just as it comes. You generally can't edit bad stuff into good, or dull stuff into interesting. On the other hand, sometimes I do think better of something, and the replacement word or phrase is just so much better that I accept it as having the authority of first thought, even though it came along later. Dissatisfaction with what's on the page can be a valid spur to ingenuity.
The cyclone think is partly to do with spinning, spinning earth, orbit, whirling dervish, still centre of turning world, confounding the light, the specific religious experience of the light from above as represented on the ceilings of mosques abd cathedrals. The spin which turns stars to spears