Cope, hope, or catharsis, one
may be forced to choose one
during the bouts

of restraint against release,
of reach before the sigh,
of desire, to control instinct.

Of all inevitability,
daring to call itself proudly by name
on this mercilessly constant tread

of experiencing, each it seems
with a collapsing and rising unique,
Planck’s momentous, memoried,

voice-blanking frames, slightly
shifting and forming (together
we conjecture) the same blurred image

of light, of looking,
of a thought, of a chance,
that maybe,

whether it is instrumentalist hands
or a playerless orchestra bestowing
sound, of granules grinding

over each other, with each
a glance, a lift of a hand,
in disguise of louder music,

that I cannot say is wrenching, that I
cannot say is strident, or sweet or
harmonic or agreeable—just heard somehow,

resonant,
seemingly against silence,
at the seeming heart—

that the note might be
the only one to hope for,
as cope with, as cathect oneself in.

The only one channel to that which,
if heard, will really be heard.
Not a down, then in, then up,

and out, uncertain.
Not a fading with time
or a never heard at all

except for mere murmurings
of chance. Though don’t shrug them.
Be exposed, undeniably, wholly, to them.

These, musicless, can become
still air, still flesh—mystery’s shut mouth.
Something of a mouthless bird.

The future has no mouth,
No tongue,
No teeth.
The Earth speaks, but it's easy not to hear.

Easier still,
when drowned by the rising noise
of trucks and drills,
destruction and greed.

And you want more,
And you want convenience.
you don't want hassle,
you don't want consequences,
of what you choose.
That's inconvenient.
You're busy,
you've got things to do,
you've got a job and a family,
and you don't care about much more than that.
Excepting, most notably, yourself.

So you turn the other way.
We sit on the ground before you,
we sing songs of generations before us
who tried to help the Earth too.
We sing the words of those who protected our lands,
before the coming of this new age
of willful ignorance.
And you walk past us,
and on top of us.
And you blame us for being in the way.
You yell at us to move,
you've got things to do!
Things to ignore!

It's easier not to know,
easier still not to change,
but the teethless, tongueless, mouthless future
continues to approach.

Melting, heating and shaking.
We must hear it,
before there is no-one left to hear.
I carry these bruises with pride.
I carry knowledge of my actions with pride.
I will do my best for the future,
I will not regret my caring.

Mother, mother, what ill-bred aunt
Or what disfigured and unsightly
Cousin did you so unwisely keep
Unasked to my christening, that she
Sent these ladies in her stead
With heads like darning-eggs to nod
And nod and nod at foot and head
And at the left side of my crib?

Mother, who made to order stories
Of Mixie Blackshort the heroic bear,
Mother, whose witches always, always
Got baked into gingerbread, I wonder
Whether you saw them, whether you said
Words to rid me of those three ladies
Nodding by night around my bed,
Mouthless, eyeless, with stitched bald head.

In the hurricane, when father's twelve
Study windows bellied in
Like bubbles about to break, you fed
My brother and me cookies and Ovaltine
And helped the two of us to choir:
'Thor is angry; boom boom boom!
Thor is angry: we don't care!'
But those ladies broke the panes.

When on tiptoe the schoolgirls danced,
Blinking flashlights like fireflies
And singing the glowworm song, I could
Not lift a foot in the twinkle-dress
But, heavy-footed, stood aside
In the shadow cast by my dismal-headed
Godmothers, and you cried and cried:
And the shadow stretched, the lights went out.

Mother, you sent me to piano lessons
And praised my arabesques and trills
Although each teacher found my touch
Oddly wooden in spite of scales
And the hours of practicing, my ear
Tone-deaf and yes, unteachable.
I learned, I learned, I learned elsewhere,
From muses unhired by you, dear mother.

I woke one day to see you, mother,
Floating above me in bluest air
On a green balloon bright with a million
Flowers and bluebirds that never were
Never, never, found anywhere.
But the little planet bobbed away
Like a soap-bubble as you called: Come here!
And I faced my traveling companions.

Day now, night now, at head, side, feet,
They stand their vigil in gowns of stone,
Faces blank as the day I was born.
Their shadows long in the setting sun
That never brightens or goes down.
And this is the kingdom you bore me to,
Mother, mother. But no frown of mine
Will betray the company I keep.

There once was a doll
But she couldn't speak

She knew all the words
"Hello" and "Goodbye"
As well as "Thank you"
"No, thank you." and "Please"

She was silent for ever
Someone had neglected
To sew on a mouth
And she just sat there
With words in her throat,
And no way out

I wept for the waste
of beauty kept secret
She wept for the taste
of words on her tongue

The first thing that disappeared
was your lips.
Not your voice;
That I still hear loud and clear.
I can’t seem to remember what your lips look like.
But I remember how they taste.

Next it was your nose;
it melted right off your face.
Sliding down your cheek and now
your mouthless lower half,
It fell to the ground below.

The image of your eyes is burned into my mind.
I fell into them the moment we first met,
sunk into the blue flecked with grey
submerged in a stormy sea.
I have yet to come up for air.

Your rosy cheeks have faded
over the years.
Now they just look like everyone else’s.

I hope this means that to me
You’re not as distinct as you used to be.
But I sometimes wonder if it’s far worse;
if it’s that everyone else
is now more like you.

Shadow cars and shadow feet hassle home
in the meagre rain advancing ****-
sapien slowly, blending the day through multiple holes
in tall buildings where the lights come on and the key turns in,
and mind comes to life and substance, more visceral,
than a thousand Eden’s that are now franchises and factories
counting themselves in back alley dice games
and the tears of glass buildings bayoneting the sky
with still fluorescent arms painting nothingness
in a morse code flashing red then black,
birthing in repent to open night; the automatic
hands of love firing faster than you can escape, antennas
orbiting the globe spitting from TV screens covered in paw marks
from the dust of hopeful, but forgotten salesmen,

the hallways accept you in, the machine clicks off
and the saints curl round a loop hole and a strippers pole
inching the shower on, sliding lava breathe
of uber spirit down your back exploding
heart-thought and no buzzing coming
from strange messages
or complex dream,

pull your reflection across the mirror and towel down,
fuels of organic loss drag perfection across the skyline
in peach rememberance(es) shouting out in mutual joy of the city,
like a mouthless crow diving across the landscape
into the jaw of itself, un
metronomed, as you take off your coat too,
and the crowds of harvesting fumes are blown out
by your silent smile,

and even from the rotting beauty outside,
we are the within the painted walls of our
home, a conjoined pulse that shatters each
season, with single shots of melody undoing
our forms like fog settling into hands of light,

– ahh,
so!
…
Even the thoughts of tired pages,
are mutilated by the balance of my wine
and your water, the burning smell reads
like an axe for our cheeks, combined with temperance
and taste of meat, spiced between pinch,
as we lay it out,
the style of our eating,
always more,
than the meal,

our race now nameless, the colours of our skin
lost from machine and time,
neither of our hearts can diminish the walls
of solid
liquidic song,
history moulded by a changing of clothes and shoulder
bones, moved down to mattress or road,

again the architecture is moved by our city
again the street lights bulk
fed by our voice,
down from hue, to repeated family chime
we rip open the odours of tar mac, replacing the rain
with burying fur into the one body of our spirited
field, arched mouth of coyote
and playful worker,
one,

our water plant eyes moan in the morning and wonder,
where the night sun has gone, migrating steps from the bed,
hang low in reflection of the past, one of us still sleeps
happily
and begins an hour later,

I take your mask from the white sheets where you lay,
with a glance, and a grin, and place it on, and look at the day
through mercy holes, cut through the holes,
where it fits like my face,

showing me the day as you

with no need to shave

or ever wash.




the image to go with this poem:
http://kerosenechronicle.files.wordpress.com/2013/08/thevalencianplayunit.png

i'll wear your braclet of cherry beads.

Draw me a pretty pink heart

on my wrist
                                                                            so i can wear him
                                                                            under my
                                                                            sleeve.

The steel
is warnest
in the water.

                                                                                         -mouthless-

You kiss me
with cherry lips

Spitting out
layers
and layers
of me.

                                                                                        -stiletto sliting substratums-

The air is foreign

                                                                             curious
                                                                             hypocritical
                                                                             treacherous

                                                                                         -animalistic conspiracies-

i'll remain in
the water

                                                                                          -solace-


where there
isn't
too much to
breathe.


My flesh is weeping
pale tears


                                                                                          -surrendering-



                                           as another basin of
                                          cherry beads blossom.

It feels like sand on my breath
Like dunes in my chest
They are silent
But they are not still
Heaving gross quarter
Leaking for most water
The unscratchable itch
Can it be denied, of which
I am left outside, neck twitch.
Hands force paint in from closed 4 seaters
Enough
Enough
It subsides
As do my words
Am i anything without my words
Would i choose words over feeling
He said, as all the dry paint dripped from the ceiling
And there was love.
Nestled in the corner
A concave attitude begged no less of what there was to offer.
And we gave and gave.
Stretched innards in closed fists
Adorned by salesman with neat.
With neat.
Withering, neat.
Forgiven heat.
Not much to give
But we must eat.
Die and let live
For the succession of wheat.
Basket bare more than their share.
While the humans are simply denied theirs.
When.
When does this part end.
Soon i hope.
As if there were something.
Something to be had.
After.
Besides the calm. When the calm let's us notice our own distaste in it.
Not that the tree trunk needed that.
That hug.
But it helped the armless. Armless.
Or was it a kiss.
The mouthless.
Something dark.
Force them to spit.
Ask them to sit.
Did that have to rhyme. Did any of this have to. Did it take away. From
Take away from.
Cultured eyed breast sore
Vultures hide crest something

Silver threads
strain to mend
the rips in time --
a shattered mind,
     pieces scattered,
falls witness
to guilt's campaign.
Voices invade
the natural silence:
discordant,
with mouthless
     screams.
Unnatural lyrics
****** the ears...
Dark figures
menace, just beyond
   clarity,
tricking the eye.
(Fear's morbid
fascination.)
Sight and sound
     betrayed...
The night is long
that has no hope
   for day...
(no escape nor reprieve).
The Rituals of
     madness
must be obeyed.

Blotched botched
word failures spewing forth
from defective machinery
subtracted from
popularity conquests
showing youngbloods
how to write up
this tragedy thing right
Mouthless voiceless
shapeless formless
avoidance and mockery
creeping like carbon monoxide admissions scrawled out
in digitized assault
and crying out
What kind of democracy is this?
What kind of freedom is this?
When torn from those clutched
analytical political land mines
I have to ask  
Before revolutionary words are mistaken and reduced
to stripped inspirational drivel
adorning office drone strike stationery
What makes you think
your
words can hurt someone
who wants to ******
themself
daily?