Wednesday 31 August 2011
Bloom
Blooms of dead feathers by the roadside,
The long lick of grey below-
The rolling blue above.
And, side to side, side to side,
Green of all kinds.
So much.
So lush.
You recall another day of returning; of landing,
Then,
Then,
Turning in the slow air over York
With your parents close,
And me yet to arrive.
...
Shiny Shoes
BEAUTY IS NOT VAST,
IS NOT SUBLIME,
AND CAN BE FOUND IN THIN EMPTY POCKETS-
IN AWFUL CROWD TROUSERS & COLD COATS,
EVERYWHERE.
BUT ONCE,
BEAUTY WAS PERFECT & STRETCHED-
IT HAD REACH.
THE TANGLED, LIKE
FLOWERS, BLOOMED HIGH IN THE TREE TOPS-
THEIR GATHERING
AS BRUISES AGAINST THE GOLD SKY,
WATER ROSE AROUND
THE SILENT FELLING.
THE TRUNKS & THE TOWERS,
TRUNK AND TOWERING,
REMAINED INVISIBLE
ABOVE THE RISING TIDE.
BLOODY.
(... all bones hurt today- particularly the lot of the feet, each toe a tiny dagger to itself ...)
Thursday 25 August 2011
The Virgin & The Monster.
One Two Three
His grip tightens. Corrupt. Corpus.
You forget the bad water.
1991, uranium.
This cracked skin was a river-
I have human value- if...
Woman is God, veiled.
Uncover, recover, uncover again.
Exile from body,
Prohibit my use.
My memory is mist,
But I can hold my brother,
And I can age- very easily, see?
Oil is not rain, suffering is not pain-
No solution, no salute.
Only war, and abandoning.
Such fabric wraps me.
Art is not money, art is not money.
It is not.
It is not. It is not.
It can not be money.
Please.
Wednesday 24 August 2011
Chronic Fatigue Sandwich (22)
I awake far less wakeful. Far less. My night is drowned. I look up from the sleep floor to the radiance of plain tiredness. Tiredness that could be settled by rest, that would be reasoned with- appeased by dreaming. I would worship such tiredness, in it I would bask & bathe. There is another skeleton inside my skeleton, and it burns. There is another flesh wrapping my flesh, and it beats- pulses- pain. My sleep is tipped and poured away from me, now laced with some odd poison. 'What you suffer is not real. What you suffer is symptomatic of Modern Times; it is television; it is celebrity; it is the death of the honey bee. What you suffer could be overcome if only you would overcome it.' As though philosophy were only the realm of philosophers. As though wonder and the hurt it brings are only the hungover lanes of the academy. Like my sleep, I tipped and poured my self away from me. You first, You first. No, after you! I insist. And fell, with paper-cut hands, on the floor of the chilly basement- the fresh fluorescent light giving vibrancy to the pooling blood. The shaking was immense. The deception was so small. Just- 'No, i'm fine!' and then, home- to collapse, and salted horror, twisted sheets, a monster in the mirror. Weekends for repair. Walk the woods- tipping and pouring myself away. Camera. Collects. The edge of my vision darkening. The beginning of difficult decisions. The first requests for help. Rejected. Still, framing, it, with, humour, good, good, good. Then the long swoon into absolute darkness- a new, other, night... without stars, moon, or desire. I would never have believed such flatness possible.
Tuesday 23 August 2011
Monday 22 August 2011
The Wasp.
In the garden I hear a wasp- the furious buzzing- I see the wasp- it struggles with thin wings over the thick leaves of the big daisies- they all deformed from aphid- they all farmed by ants- honey dew honey dew honey dew- poor wasp- poor wasp- this wasp, a big wasp, with perfect yellow black and alarming legs and antennae- the more you look- the more you see the wasp- and the frequently seen fear of it deepens into a dark fool- the sun is very bright yet turning to gold with the end of august- august- and the richness of the big daisy leaves- dark green- dark- background- the poor wasp is - too - close- is -too -perfect. But something is wrong- oh -intuit - oh -that wrong way of movement- seen. No. I am appalled. I watch the wasp. I love the wasp. I want to help the wasp. It is in distress. I don't care what you think. It is in distress. Something is making it writhe. Something is in its head. It wants the thing out. It presses its head into its legs. Curls. Up. Falls to the floor. Turning tiny circles. I feel helpless. I lift it off the ground where ants have begun to feel it and run over its body. It falls- again - again - again - off the big daisy leaves. I find a safe place. The wasp is struggling. I see. She stumbles away from me and i do nothing but feel; grotesquely grown and witnessed.
And there was a memory of you saying- 'there were about twenty 'I's in that sentence'- and- I have wondered- why all the attacks on me... have been about my - selfishness? I make no comment on yours. Or yours.
And now I have lost mine.
And which I am I anyway?
...everyone photographs themselves in the mirror these days, poor mirror- poor reflections...
And there was a memory of you saying- 'there were about twenty 'I's in that sentence'- and- I have wondered- why all the attacks on me... have been about my - selfishness? I make no comment on yours. Or yours.
And now I have lost mine.
And which I am I anyway?
...everyone photographs themselves in the mirror these days, poor mirror- poor reflections...
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