9 September 2014
Words about nothing.
Then it's a moment in time of perfection to be put down. The multiple meanings of being put down. On paper. Or just put down. Of deliberate forgetfulness and deliberate fecundity. Of words coming in and going out. In an endless stream of tireless tirades of feelings and thoughts and findings and leanings and deliberations.
Sitting pretty. Sitting tight. Sitting down. Sitting up. Sitting straight. Sitting silent. Sitting speaking.
On paper. In small time machines, across epochs of small night time deliberations, across smells of songs and silent slinking.
With the music and the muse and the moon. An extended aberration of still lives and live stills.
Life grows longer and nostalgia grows shorter with a disappearing wick, smaller and smaller in the distance.
Up to finito
Flinging fire, observing softly settling dust on long ended moments of passing doubts.
Slipping up into a normal, stepping down to surfaces of surety and singing lispy lullabies, of mundane privations, pertinent, pleading porous boundaries of need and unneed.
Lighting lamps across a lake, on a window, on a stage. Of the painfully plain and elaborate truthing of the matter at hand, like sand on a windy morning. Admiring varnished little corners of a made up mind.
13 July 2014
24 May 2014
Where do I live? That place where sleep hasn't left. It clings to me like a shadow of you sent along phone lines, across years, jumping through quietness, shouting through roads, tumbling through skies, it falls on the small of my back and pulls me closer.
Shadowy, silent, soft. And so binding, so blinding. So biting. Breathless boundless.
Rustles my hair, calls forgotten names, lives in the past of the future and the future of the past. Cries hot love and singes my eyelashes. There weren't much to start with. I'll do with yours for the meanwhile.
11 April 2014
The monkey on your back is the latest trend
I kiss you all starry eyed, my body's swinging from side to side
We're using art as life. We use lies to tell lies. We want some coke with those fries.
We sure are cute for two ugly people
We don't know who we talk about anymore. Or if there is to be anyone at all. Or we squish in moulds strangers to turn them tiresome. Sometimes soon, sometime late. Sometimes never at all. Sometimes always. We fool ourselves with familiarity. And fadedness. We put some glue and stick new faces.
So why can't you forgive me?
With my MP3, DVD, rumple-packed guitar
The roads are blacker wet. Only parents have cars and we walk along with crabs sideways against whitewashed walls. We walk along pavements, look down, stare up, avoid faces, listen to dreams.
Just because we use cheats doesn't mean we're not smart
I'm in love with how you feel
We knew there was a real. Because that's just what exists. We talk nonsense, we talk genius. We are unforgettably brilliant, we are painfully inane.
You want more fans, I want more stage
We were the same people. We were one. We were nothing. We were I. The other wakes up from tiring cold from the future and walks back to the iron gate, swings it to the center and leans ahead, face cupped in palms, stare at gravel ants.
My name is Adam, I'm your biggest fan
Open windows were green and there was no one. Perfectly timed stairs and bald patches in the garden. We didn't know us. We still don't. We look for mirrors in screens. We dig up and cover up and throw away and reclaim without knowing why. We cherish and dismiss, we don't care. Never did.
In anyone else but you
Du, du, du
Du, du, du
And I never met a Toby that I didn't like
Scotty liked all of the books that I recommended
Even if he didn't I wouldn't be offended.
12 March 2014
Close eyes again, try to decide on one reason why one was taking this nap at all.
Shift to another dream. What was good, what was bad. Do day sleepdreams come true.
Why does someone I hardly know have to figure so prominently in such a dream. What about the important people. But what makes them important. I didn't want them to be, pre-sleep. They weren't during sleep. Post sleep why do I have to question what I wanted and got.
Because dreams aren't real? There was a lot of things I did. With previously unimportant people. Now they are someone else. Fall in love with a near stranger, get up to worse things. What's stranger. What's okay?
What's not? It was hardly bizarre. There was an exhibition. A basement. Textiles? Hats? There were parents. There was barefoot me off a school bus. A wrong school bus with the right person.
But there were shifts. And there was filtered sunlight. There was quiet talking. There were faces borrowed from life. Feelings pumped in from some secret little fountain of cruelty. Uneasy feelings replace chokedupness. I think that is nice.
Possibility of scratching a scab lightly as it creates this alien desire is better than flying headfirst to be hurt again.
I can just not scratch at all like a good girl and smile because I know it's healing.
But what was I feeling? Oh it was just a dream. I didn't mean to. But I did. Maybe I want to. I am not but I might and I like the sound of that.
There's the mild, rainy winds of a drizzle day's end. When air carries around life and doesn't just exist to be breathed in, but felt and loved. Now there are fragments floating around, of an absurd dream, with unimportant people. But the illusion of importance looms in large, crashing into my side, crushing my sense of balance, of this farce sense of understanding that there is some one person that was supposed to be dreamt about. In quite the opposite way, there is no feeling of mad wrongness after the dream.
The various criteria of phasing out people probably vanished from the dream version of love. Maybe it's the new dream version, maybe the strange part of strangeness is being defined and it is not what it was. Maybe it is for good reason that dreams are forgotten and are supposed to be. Everyone is a stranger until they're not.
Maybe the dreams are better at picking out perfectness, or a near perfect wantingness that must exist but won't, because the controllable dreaming is insistent on having to do with unattainability. Maybe one is supposed to have it easy. Maybe dreams aren't that cracked up to be, or they see through a person with much clarity, unclouded with awake feelings. Maybe awake feelings are as absurd as life itself.
And day-long naps have time enough to reach a universe where things are done and not thought. Where one soft love-center candy of life is not covered by concrete textured layer of insecurity and what-ifs. There is no plastic wrapper of 'why the hell at all' and 'that's just not me' and a dozen cellotape layers of 'I don't knows'.
Or the dream just was. And there was happiness. And now there is thought.
8 March 2014
In throes. Blows low, it slows.
And gushes out.
Now. On the brow. Corner of the eye.
Toe curling, soul stirring, bony.
Hard, simmering soft, brushes against, purring past.
Like the song that played last.
Unanswering, hidden sneeze fills up invisible room.
Dances in disguise.
Releases. Relocates. Recites.
Unheard. Speaks in black and blue.
Exists. Slowly simpers, learns, lingers..
Mirrors the night. One hair at a time.
It listens quietly. It rhymes.
It settles in the corner. Of my sight.
Middle of the unmade mind.
Leans against a quiet heart, it knows.
The history of a sigh, the life of a lie.
By drums, by bells, by blowing shells.
A poem sits by the door.
Leaves cover a wild garden. An old tree silently grows.
Unhurried feet. Absent feet. Imaginary feet.
A welcome mat seat. An irregular beat.
3 March 2014
I think Doge would be a good listener. Those eyes.
Complexity derives a certain life from unfiltered feelings. Ego in absentia, superego and id throwing punches at 4 in the night (morning?). There's a part which feels authentic to touch. A soft feather or a sharp knife point. Such delirium, much rollercoaster. While we think deferring gratification/ pleasure in small things exercises the will, 4 o' clock nonfood food is flying around one's head, with broken wings and a Cumberbatchy voice. Saying things which it is not saying.
The next morning at 11:28 it rests on the roof, in the sun, happy with wrecking. Eaten up, it grows on the back of the mind. Sun-soaked and dripping with amusement. It'll settle on the soon to be choked up part of the throat. The part which is happily married to tear ducts for the past almost 22 years. The brain is adamant on infallible reason and dictates severe hard conclusive thoughts to be thingificated.
When the little whispering fairy wafts around, as midnight flies past with amazing rapidity and settles in a nook in the ear, makes itself comfortable, sends along feels of a certain kind. Be amused. Be a muse. See one. See more? See one and feel one. Be it. Be affected, be broken, be yourself.
Muses are imperatively slick with wrongness. A dully sharp wrongness, shifting in the sunlight, pastel shimmery, dark glimmery something right underneath the surface of a placid lake with smooth pebbles, resting with the sun glinting off, reflected in the receding waves, moving about as if writhing in sleep. Flips around in the afternoon sun. Muses are amphibious. They recline against a tree, they don't look at you. You look at the existence of it and write a poem with your nails on a tree bark on the other side of the lake.
Dusty earth whips up tiny storms which cloud up the mind, settle with surprising rapidity, bring the world one little cloud at a time, transferring, transporting, tranforming the mindscape, bringing in the dust of a certain one. Recesses of the mind are not open to brooms or soap or a rough, rough washcloth. Dust settles for eternity, that certain kind, one layer after another, sedimentises.
One often digs up old broken pieces from a hundred years ago but a sudden sandstorm topples over mountains of soft earth, makes it level, makes one see the top layer. It rains and there are roses and they wilt under the strong suspicious, atrocious sun the next day and the mind lays barren until it rains one night at 4 (morning?).
Thinner layers, fewer roses. Much manure, many flowers, lush grass, a gazebo and a lemonade in the dying sun of late evening. Sprinklers are put in place for when there is no rain. It's green and sometimes insects with golden brown wings sprout from the earth and fly off into the distance.
Muses are stranded at different parts of the city, they walk towards an unlit corner and disappear.
6 February 2014
The kite flew loose
It fell away
It said its byes
Hid its lies
You cut it loose
It flew. Away.
You run to it
Or you don't
Stay. Sky. See.
Undone, it flew.
You cut it loose
And stayed. Wondering.
Stuck in a treebranch
Hidden in shadows
On a tin roof
On sunny afternoon
An empty string
Fell to the floor
Fell over the door
You went to sleep
Cut off night
A story, a kite.
Out of sight
26 January 2014
Soft light, familiar sounds, dogbarks from far away, road traffic but so much lesser than daynoise, keyboard tiptaps, router blinkings, familiar curtains, famliar other cloths, familiar shawls, even new familiar shawls, outofreach blankets, a waiting phone, a waited phone, slightly long don'tneedtocutthemyet nails, background noise music, elbows on thighs, cracking knuckles, blowable hairstrand, bitable lip, scratchable back, needless fireworks, senseless celebration, why.
Familiar shawls, long shawls. "This is my Papa's shawl. He got it from when he was chief guest somewhere." "Why do you have it?" "Because I am.. his chief guest?"
Reading Freud's Dream and Delusion in Jenson's Gradiva. Pompeii. I happened to attend a talk on it at the JLF. Accidentally, largely. It felt too much to travel to another venue after beer and pasta. And there was Mary Beard, talk of normal sized bedpan thingies and spaces being markets/bars/temples. But no one said a word about a woman with an attractive gait, Bertgang. I like it though, also the idea of Wilhelm Jenson being respected, but not one of the best of any sort. Also, ruminating on JLF, quite a few things stick. Such as who are you writing for. It was said: one wants, through words, to not stroke but poke.
But even when one pokes, one had to know who it is one is packing a powerful poke for. Sometimes one doesn't know anything, and there is nothing to know. One doesn't care to care, because one is one.
Does the bricklayer imagine for the future inside a small room or a giant hall? That one built. Does the bricklayer appreciate the vastness of the sky or is that only for those who are strangers to it. After all one doesn't wonder about the paintveins on one's ceiling, was the painter thinking about.. something. Or nothing.
21 January 2014
The hills rise from the green
My baby lives on a screen.
Sees cross country
Big university, small room
Won't be close
Not nearer than
In my pocket, next to my pillow
Carried around, kept
Moving on railway tracks
Won't see me anytime soon
Tells me to have fun.