FOX.

 

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,

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 ...)

La-ing Is Book

01 La-ing Is Book by Alisia Casper

Only

Only by Alisia Casper

Yes No Boo Hoo

11 Yes No Boo Hoo by Alisia Casper

Booked Over

03 Booked Over by Alisia Casper

Fantastic Animals

Fantastic Animals by Alisia Casper

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.

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.

VIDEOish...

http://www.youtube.com/user/Eskimoomin?feature=mhee   

   

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...

A Dog Looks At Colours.