Tom McCone

Tom McCone Nov 2013

Sans toi, les directions,
et tu déchires ma tête véritablement en deux
assis sur le ciel
faire de faux
miroirs d'ors sous le plein bleu,
devenu pâle, comme des fragments de déchirure rouler,
ensemble, éloigné,
au milieu de tes liaisons symmétriques,
s'ouvrant changeant en ailes,
dans toutes les directions,
et tu déchires ma tête véritablement
en deux assis sur le ciel
faire de déchirure rouler,
ensemble,
éloigné, au milieu de tes
liaisons symmétriques,
s'ouvrant changeant en ailes,
dans toutes les directions,
et tu déchires ma
tête véritablement en deux
assis sur le ciel
faire de déchirure
rouler, ensemble, éloigné, au milieu de
tes liaisons symmétriques,
s'ouvrant changeant en ailes,
dans toutes
les directions, et tu
déchires ma tête
véritablement en deux
assis sur le ciel faire de
faux miroirs d'ors sous
le plein bleu,
devenu pâle,
comme des fragments de déchirure rouler,
ensemble, éloigné,
au milieu de tes
liaisons symmétriques,
s'ouvrant changeant en ailes,
dans toutes les directions,
et tu déchires ma tête véritablement en deux
assis sur le ciel
faire de toute ce qu'on veut.

Technically a rework of http://hellopoetry.com/poem/les-nuages-dernierement/, I think. Translation goes something like:

Without you, directions,
and you tear my head truly in two
sitting on the sky
you make false
golds mirrors, under the full blue,
became pale, like fragments of tears, rolling,
together, apart
in the middle of your symmetric links,
opening in changing wings,
in all directions,
and you tear my head really in
two, sitting on the sky,
making tearing rolling,
together,
away, in the middle of your
symmetrical links,
opening in changing wings,
in all directions,
and you tear my
head truly in two,
sitting on the sky,
to tear,
roll, together, away, amidst
your connections, symmetrical ,
opening in changing wings,
all
directions, and you
tear my head
in two
sitting on the sky, you make
false mirrors in gold,
plain blue,
becoming pale,
as fragments, tearing, roll,
together, apart
in the middle of your
symmetrical links,
opening in changing wings,
in all directions,
and you tear my head apart,
sitting on the sky,
do all what you want.

Tom McCone Nov 2013

ξεχνώντας

open ended, carved under the sky,
before night arrests our bated breathing,
a long line pulls taut.
a single glimmer, thirty
seven degrees to the horizon,
devolves in absence; here,
a heaviness.
you tore the center of a
dripping plum clean to
ripples over fading plains,
corners of streets where
i stand, on one foot,
against this architect's second-best:
perfect still, bearings, city centre.
lost.

a kite string north, slight east,
the rotation of points demarcating
this pasture, a
long line becoming cycles,
tying tree-trunks like
your handwriting in switchblade font;
static inanimacy, a
song for nothing, a five
minute overhaul, the only
meaningful composition the
world will give up.
years.

taking up a pair of scissors,
you make soft moves;
kiss someone new a little longer
kiss someone new a little
kiss someone new,
smile,
skin as parchment,
fine paintings, forwarding addresses,
symbols glowing through the depths of night;
a candle, alight,
to have read you by.
a short line comes loose,
i fall down.
empty.

you fall asleep,
smile.

Tom McCone Nov 2013

any day's opacity

to have been lead through
slumbering paddocks by
held hands; hope, the
deity, nonexistent and relentless,
i felt alive-
was i but the subject
of her meticulously-planned humour?
was i the joke,
or the punchline?

boldly ripening into
mistaken aphasias, i
find my melting thoughts
matriculating into sharp
movements in the dark:
curves patterned,
ribcages' separation, a gaussian blur of
intertwined epidermal rivulets,
your soft, slow imaginings becoming
tiny flecks of graphite smeared
a page's width, intricately sown
across skin, that light trickles
through a sliver in the curtains
to wordlessly illuminate.

seventh memory: a peeling away,
a mandarin on the kitchen counter.
watching stars disappear
from atop the balustrade, we sit
mere fragments apart, yet
at great distance, like
the fog of the cities we carry out
the moments of
our regularized lives, within.

finally, i become translucent.
yet,
what have the stars become?

Tom McCone Oct 2013

house hold

if you'd chosen to wake up the
sun might shine or you
might curl up, ball of flesh, and
watch tree leaves sway,
break,
fall in steady inconsistencies,
like you fall
all eyelids, at least
all fluttering, beating moments
displacing air to thousandth degrees,
pretending not to care or
to have wished to have been
able to,
you
smile, it is empty,
like the sounds of a shoreline,
or the dripping tap
in a laundry or
miscellaneous room.

you sit down
and cry,
quiet as the tap.
it is heard for miles.
down and down and down and
out.

Tom McCone Oct 2013

Three/Losing

at once, a world is deigned in
colour or some other life-like
artifice. with no need to find
fault in these motions, the
sky trails on, the clouds follow
in all and fragile suit. for
an instant all things are
composed.
                all animacy
yields this wallpapered lounge;
the stacks of light, in sway.
and here, me, in
obsoletionary pose, in drought.
the entropic slow loss of
self-esteem, the ability to
retain memories, the light
burnt clean through these
papered walls.
but i still brush my teeth,
still keep clean, still keep
hope bundled, tight, close:
a dream,
     i'll never see.
a memory never
             made reality.

common uncertainty, or
the unmaking of me.

I am made of absences.

Tom McCone Oct 2013

4:02

inside surfaces; a couplet affair of
mess and lost movement,
what small safety is left to believe in
can't make me or
you listen:
desperation makes soft
rainfall outside seem like
splinters,
chopsticks neither of
us would bother split,
anyway.

and now i
'm drunk and
now, i can't figure
out
how
softness works (am i weak and formulaic?),
or how i've
switched heartbeats
to some small
distance that won't capitulate.

capitulation would be far too easy,
of course.

how built up speculation,
inevitably in isomorphism
to your sweet ruffled hair,
to another lover,
who won't care anyway,
(will she?)
wines and dines my
foolish mind.

is all this pursuit futile?

just;
please care for me,
new darling, you,
as anyone in rainfall,
or tomato juice, or;
basically:
i need
all the ******* help in the world,
right now.

give me something.
anything.

dying for new light,
i managed to set sights on
oceans or
footsteps abroad or
just not feeling like this,
if that's ok?

Tom McCone Sep 2013

expenditure

it'll settle down before long.
in the left half-plane our
distorted polarities glisten and,
naturally,
all mechanisms leak:
the house gets colder,
the radio becomes static,
we
consistently feel different.

how'd daylight get so aphasic?
where were we when words
struck gold, moved out,
found a better life?

and all the while
the transfer function of our insides
slunk so out of sync;
i guess i'm kind of sorry.
'cause
the last transient to fade
would be you,
but,
you know
how unsigned possibilities,
cupped in our palms,
seep out, like

i leave the windows open
all night long.

i've been paying too much attention. don't say i said so, i don't know.