"situ" poems
I've always been in place,
in situ
Maybe (just maybe) ...
I'm sui generis?
When my lifeline intersected with spacetime on this continuum
I found myself moving toward a collision course with duality and non-duality
Moving towards a zero-point
What are we talking about?
Nothing (Rafelski & Muller, 1985)
As a geographer, the mimetic expression was dualistic
As one plane flowed through another;
as fiat lux flowed through Medicine Rock
I found wisdom
I further explored the duality @ this place
(also known as University of Lethbridge)
The U of L is an interesting duck
It walks like an Albertan university
It talks like an Albertan university
But one of these things is certainly not like the other
The U of L got its chops as a house of learning for the Liberal Arts
Follow those roots and you'll see conduits to another spacetime known as UCBerkley
U of L memetics share material memories from the birth of the Free Speech Movement (1964)
And as Arthur Erickson drafted up his plans for Canada's centennial gift to the Province of Alberta, I'm sure he would have been partaking in the pleasures of this particular spacetime
I'm sure at the very least that he was listening to Hendrix wax on about Castles
As Erickson designed this modernistic monolith called University Hall
There were influences such as Arthur C. Clarke and his novel 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
He was certainly knowledgeable of the Blackfoot stories of the Old Man
And of course as an architect he would be versed in gravity and how built structures on a slope tend to creep toward base-level
Strange but true, Erickson's first degree was in foreign languages
So what I see is Canada's premier architect wrote a poem for us in 1968
In a foreign language
And that poem would be expressed over the next forty to fifty years
Some of those primary poetic elements were:
Berkley, California
Hippie Movement
Creep (or gravity)
Base level
Blackfoot creation stories of the Old Man
Jimi Hendrix poetry and his savage musical genius
"and so castle's made of sand melt into the sea, eventually."
So let's reinterpret that line to be more U of L centric
(through my glossy apertures)
"and so monolith's made by man melt back into god eventually."
........ ....... ...... ..... ..... .... ... .. . zero~point . .. ... .... ..... ...... ....... ........
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 10:33 AM UTC
Di malam bulan terpotong jadi tawa, angin membelahku jadi tiga bujursangkar. Satu untuk diriku sendiri, satu untuk bibir kemaraumu, dan yang lain, mungkin, untuk dua anjing lapar yang Tuhan pelihara dalam diriku dan dirimu.
Di situ, di rimbunan gelap yang padat dan waktu yang mengering, ingatan mempertemukan kita walau sebentar. Kau berlari membawa kotak yang di dalamnya mungkin adalah namaku, dan aku berlari di belakangmu menjauhi danau.
Sayap-sayap yang tidur, kepala yang dinaungi tali-temali, dan jejak-jejak bernafas rapat. Bagimu, dunia mungkin masih adalah tabir yang kaku.
Oh.
Burung-burung dalam kepala! Itu kekakuan yang liris membunuhku.
Malang, 3 April 2013
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 2:48 AM UTC
On a bogus hill, a man stood
in self defence and shot himself,
clean through the heart of the white
flag that hung breezily around his
neck, like a neckerchief in situ
A calm reverence, self awareness,
had positioned itself, 'enough' shone
in the deaf hours before daylight begs,
dislodging sad meanings from
ungrateful dictionaries.
You bought words, they lead you,
rocked a changed lullaby....au revoir,
checking the white flag of departure,
arrival of metal, red bled wounds,
flag swaying, stained under surrender
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 8:00 AM UTC
It was on Hallowe'en when we said we'd meet;
as we thought it might be romantically spooky;
and I trotted gaily along the pathway
through the dimly-lit park
where the predator gay *** maniacs roamed
hoping for a bit of backdoor action
and my excited little heart went
"YI YI YI YI YI YAAAAARRRGGGHHH!"
with eager anticipation
of a hot new nymphomaniac date.
We had been a-texting with
ever-increasing frankness
for several weeks and I was beginning
to get tired of wiping the keyboard clean
after each bout of frenzied
manual self-stimulation
which she had boldly urged me to
and the built-in camera was out of order
because of the damp ***** build-up.
I found the pictures she sent me
stimulating to say the very least
especially the one with the melon
peeping out from between her legs
and I found her blood-red eyes
rather exciting really
once I got used to them;
and I was quite looking forward
to the love bites she promised me
which was why I had washed my neck
with particular attention to the blackheads.
Promptly at the stroke of midnight
my putative mistress arrived
with a ******* great clap of thunder
and to say I was surprised by her sulphurous breath
would be putting it mildly
and the fifty-five inch waist
was a bit of a disappointment,
and I honestly and truly think
she might have mentioned
the suppurating scabs
and oozing boils
or at least hinted at them.
As I fought the ravening hell-bitch off
with the hatchet I had wisely brought
in my briefcase as a safety precaution
once more I rued my innocence:
how many times have I been let down
after such high hopes from internet dating
and yet - trusting soul that I am -
I had again let my heart go astray.
Once it was all over
and I gazed down at her hideous
and mutilated corpse bleeding
and twitching on the ****** bitumen,
I lifted up her skirt
just to check the melon photo
hadn't been a fake;
and although there was no large
piece of fruit in situ at the time
I could see it had always
been a very real possibility.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC
love between poets: “who will be between the sheets next week
when I’m gone,” she lets sigh-escape,
as she watches the backyard paradise parading landscape
of animals before the bay, perfect day sure to come,
her new pets obeying the early morn sunrising awakening call
to rise, everyone playing~parading, before her royal summons,
no coincidence, finger-of-god, two by two
this while I’m kissing her neck,
my arm around her *******
and the he-intent on slip sliding down
to the small of her back,
obeying his innate,
worship worshiping and giving up,
all he’s got intense intently contentedly
unfazed, unphased,
non-nonplussed,
he’s been interrogated before,
heart is pure he answers:
next weekend when you are back in situ,
thousands of miles away, airplane housed for hours,
writing poems of love from the lost and found,
recalling this exact moment,
how I worshipped your presence,
and these words:
You will be with me in every breath,
our sheets will radioactively emit
ions and molecules of our scent combined,
and present as present your perfume can be,
elicited, elixir, you and me combinant
she turns from the bay-view,
the animals who now mutually
worship her adoration,
watching, focused on us as observers,
she lifts me up and smiles,
replying*
“oh my lover you’re the cad of cads,
king of the baddest poet-lads,
the gist of what is wrong with the best of men,
her, pressing me hard to her chestnut hair chest,
she, falling down into my eyes
take me back to bed, liar,
let me add to my aroma,
to ensue, to ensure you will miss
the best love
you had partly, insufficiently, and unhinged
completely
I’m your lassie, you my lad,
my king of cads, my lover poet,
thief of my poems and my secret speech spells,
escalating senses of one’s imaginings”*
and,
along came the rest
of what was freely given,
for love between poets
man and
a woman,
is a someone, somewhere,
sometime summertime
thing
*I will still smell you in my
heart, and send to you ballistic missives,
words to explode your tear ducts
when you rest in sheets that met me,
when you’ll know me by my odors,
cry out loud so that you’ll scare our animals,
no matter how many tides wash away our residue,
you will never unknow and be forever unprepared
for my return,*
even though we will be each, a thousand unwritten poems away...
Jul 13, 2019
Jul 13, 2019 at 11:07 AM UTC
Please don’t pity my situation
I’m frozen in situ
Don’t smile and **** your head
Don’t say awww or that’s a shame
Don’t pat my hand and assume it will happen
Don’t tell me I’m missing out
Don’t tell me I’ll never understand until it happens to me
Don’t assume your life is more fulfilled then mine
Don’t pretend it makes you more mature then me
Don’t make me a faux Aunty to another friends fruit
Don’t joke about lending or sitting like it’s the same
Don’t imagine Yours could ever be a substitute for mine
That they could replace the ache in my heart or fill it with what it’s missing - even worse be greatful for the privilege
Don’t act like it’s a grand gester like your giving my life meaning
When things are awful and bad don’t tell me you stay for them and use them as an excuse to not walk away
Don’t tell me if I had I’d under stand
Don’t make me feel incomplete because I haven’t - I’m already feeling it
Don’t call me lucky because I sleep in
Don’t say “nice for some” when I go out it isn’t my choice
Don’t assume this is about freedom
Don’t pretend it will happen one day
Don’t put your false hopes onto me
Don’t assume he will leave me if I don’t deliver - we’re much more then potentials Ps
Don’t assume it’s because of the weight
Don’t give me a gimmick or tips
Don’t tell me your storys
Don’t talk about it or predict about it
Dont tell me about feelings in your waters
Don’t treat me like this is my only purpose
Dont think I get hurt because you grow and blossom in a way I can’t
Don’t assume I’m bitter and resentful
Don’t pretend I can’t be happy for you
Dont treat me like I’m broken like my whole exsistence revolves around a broken womb
.......I’m so much more
.......I’ve seen so much more, felt so much more, grown and lost
.......I live so much more and want so much more
.......I have more plans and options then you can imagine
My back up plan is full of love and life still!!
(C) Ashley Kane FB
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 9:56 AM UTC
Seorang Part I
Baru-baru ini aku merasakan yang hidup ini tidak lagi bermakna buat aku. Di mana aku rasa kosong setiap kali nak memulakan sesuatu. Bagaikan terputus tali layang-layang yang asyik ditiup angin di langit biru itu. Aku cuba dan terus mencuba untuk memahami setiap apa yang berlaku di sekeliling aku. Akhirnya aku masih di situ dan terbelenggu keseorangan tanpa sesiapa pun sedar aku di mana. Tidak ada tangan yang mahu menolong aku apatah lagi bahu untuk ku sandarkan tiap kali aku mencurahkan air mata. Aku keseorangan.
Seorang Part II
Aku masih diam di situ kaku. Sejenak aku terdetik untuk mendongak ke langit. Tika itu kelihatan malam pekat dihiasi dengan bintang-bintang berkerlipan penuh gemerlapan dan juga bulan yang terang memukau aku seketika. Waktu itu aku masih ingin menangis lagi kerana aku lupa pada Yang Maha Mendengar Yang Maha Melihat Yang Maha Mengasihi. Aku alpa kerna selama ini aku melupakan Yang Maha Berkuasa. Aku merasakan kerdil waktu itu dan pada saat itu juga aku merasakan aku dibius semangat baru.
Seorang Part III
...........................................................................................
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC
Winter's edge flurries -
snowflakes converge,
a carpet of fox scavenged litter
re-emerging like
iced puddles of hubris.
Whilst The Christmas message is relayed
Rebecca erects a humming line
to keep away the crows and parquets
from her prized cabbage and kale.
but the threadbare sound is
reminiscent of cymbals,
carrying thoughts of a lost carnival.
She journeyed to the coast
and caught an amateur performance of the
"Seven Deadly Sins", in and out of situ.
The deserted beach, ghostly
yet littered with wicker creels
the fisherman their whispers silenced,
better console with tomorrow's wise
in hope of an epiphany.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 3:23 PM UTC
I think that enough time has passed
enough rain fallen
enough memories swallowed
enough pottery shattered and remade.
I think it is time to write again.
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 5:34 PM UTC
Jakarta, 30 Maret 2009
Jangan takut musuh negeri ini
Jangan takut penguasa negeri ini
Takutlah pada air bah yang mengalir
Takutlah pada penyapu kota ini
Jangan percaya kata mereka
Jangan percaya janji mereka
Percayalah pada diri sendiri
Percayalah pada Allah SWT
Maret pertandakan akhir
Pembayaran hutan akan janji
Amuk amarah alam negeri ini
Sebab tak satupun pemimpin peduli
Feb 18, 2012
Feb 18, 2012 at 10:59 PM UTC
I mean, it felt like I was a dead fish
Or something, left to rot out there in the sun,
Left there on purpose, you know, like it was
A threat—and Charles, it stinks—you know that?—
—the stench of all those old thoughts—
Yeah, thoughts…you know,
Like guppies maybe, sturgeon, or flounder.
You laugh? Why? Fish can think, can’t they? They flounder.
Suppose as we grow old the ancient thoughts
Appear as songs a child might sing—sotto voce.
Suppose they’re like the masks the actors wore
In some Commedia dell’Arte farce,
Or like the web a spider strings across
A road, hidden, dark, all subtle tension,
The strands still wet with the coagulate air…
Too wet to breath, Charles, way too wet.
There’s more. Suppose a face inside that mask
Looks back, looks out. Suppose the rings run circles round
The eyes, for fear. Suppose it’s an old face of yours,
Charles, smiling too, with all that sullen pride
You once were so capable of…so proud.
This is not the Lone Ranger, kimosabi.
Not Zorro either. Man is least himself
When he talks in his own person. So let’s
Try on that mask, shall we?
One for you and one for me.
Masks aplenty, masks abound,
Masks askance…
There, it fits. Welcome, Charles. Welcome back.
And welcome ghost.
…a ghost to prompt you in your mask, a ghost
off stage, and hoarse from shouting, diaphanous,
just like the real thing: for curiously,
at that moment while he is in you,
in situ, as it were, I will be left
au naturel—yeah, me—king for a day.
We were all meant to crawl away from the sea,
were we not?
…and I count the collective ghosts here too,
Charles…
… atavistic, frightened, unaneled,
and openly integumentary
(thus, open to the sea, but repellant
to air)
—owls, Orion, a star-scarred sky,
too cold to breath that night,
too cold not to, eh, Charles?
Like Don Quixote and Sancho Panza,
like Hamlet and Horatio,
out with the watch, in search
of ghosts and fathers…
ghosts and fathers, Charles.
You remember that?
Back then, when you used to listen to me
when I spoke. You did listen, then, Charles when
I said things, right?
All those old thoughts…
When I could sing…
Charles?
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 8:52 AM UTC
There lived, amid the common folk
A seamstress of renown
Tucked away most smartly
In a quiet sort of town
So perfect was her needlework
And delicate her hand
That all and sundry sought her out
Her skills were in demand
To gain a moment here and there
She took a silver thread
She deftly put a stitch in time
And curled up in her bed
For she was such a busy girl
Deserving of a nap
But as she slept one evening
The stitch in time went 'snap!'
Time unravelled rapidly
From 'will be' to 'before'
And coils of causality
Were all over the floor
But fortune is a canny dame
For a needle was at hand
Still threaded up with silver
At an artisan's command
She bustled in a flurry
And rummaged through the ages
She sorted out the centuries
With diligence, by stages
While shoring up the borderlines
And patching up the wars
She darned the holes in spider silk
And trimmed the dinosaurs
She hemmed the mighty oceans
To snuggly fit the sand
Then zipped up the horizon
So the sky adjoined the land
The night was stitched in situ
In between adjacent days
And time was mended seamlessly
And better in some ways
She locked away her needle
And her strand of silver thread
Her work would wait 'til morning
And with that, she went to bed
So next time life is hectic
And leaves you in a flap
Allow yourself an hour
For a cheeky little nap
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
15 March 2018
09:33 PM
In everything there appears to be a pure crystalline form
Chiseled, clear cut, categorised
Perfectly defined
We're one touch away from knowing everything and nothing all at once
Machines of habit
We're predictable, we're sequences and probabilities on a screen
Craving what we don't have and ignoring that we do
Seeing what's directly in sight and dismissing the depth
Imaging intangible possibilities yet living them through a screen
We know and don't care
We have arduously laboured over assembling a fortress in protection from fluctuation that we have unwittingly forged a cage
Lit by screens
Ruled by 'don't's
Deviation from living to halt death
Abruptly it did come, now slow does it wait
A blessing perhaps but for the dying, a curse
We uncover love so easily, so readily
and yet we lose touch of it so fast, despite our ever growing connections
We have knowledge
We have our memories to scroll through
We have lives to read about
We have inspiration upon every touch
We have it all a second away
Yet we spend our lives whiling away
In situ
Constantly buffering
k.g.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 1:55 PM UTC
Bodohnya aku
Mendatangi rumah sakit untuk berobat
Namun hanya tawa kencang ketika aku mengatakan keluhan
Bodoh
Bodoh
Kemarin dia membawa pisau tajam
Dan menghunuskan tepat di dadaku
Mengatakan "Aku mencintai sahabatmu."
Tepat di situ aku sakit
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 6:51 PM UTC
There's a small vice on my heart
that you turned incrementally since the day we kissed
Always there was space to manoeuvre
wriggle
a gap to shift around in and say, 'That's better'
to comfortably fool myself that I was not caught.
But now, my dear....
Now the grip leaves me gasping
and that metal feels cold
and I cannot ignore it.
The trouble is
I kissed your elegant, beautiful face
and I guided your hand to that vice in my chest
and enveloped your fingers with mine
We turned those keys together.
I was so enamoured
and I wanted your love.
I told myself I could get out at any time.
Too late, my love
It was always too late
For we're kindred souls across lifestyles
and lifetimes
and my body knows yours like the taste of my tears.
I resign myself, then, to bleeding.
I resign thee to Fate and what she may decide
knowing only that never shall I be your jailor.
I refuse to allow
that wild tempest soul to be anything but free.
I am happy to be caught.
Though I writhe with this pain
and slumber eludes me in my misery.
For one thing I have realised
is the depth of my cowardice.
Although yours came out as tenored and trembling
you still had the bravery to speak the words emblazoned on your heart
the ones that threatened to fall from your lips
as my head lay perfectly in situ against your collarbone
and my heartbeat and breathing lined up with yours
in our quiet symbiosis at 3 a.m.
I danced around the words
flitted lightly, noncommittal
and said 'I think I'm falling in love with you',
which was a lie.
You are far braver than I
and to this day I've run
but you deserve far greater than that which I have meted out to you.
You deserve honesty.
You deserve the breadth and depth of what my heart aches to tell you
though I am frightened beyond words that the vice can go no tighter.
I love you.
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 9:30 AM UTC
Crystal lake sparkling.
First explosive as lightning strikes.
Now moving softly obeying moonlight’s touch.
Warm breeze.
Chased the heavy storm.
After clouds played with Thor.
Drenched.
Bones almost soaked.
Standing in the free rain.
Hair leaden with liquid moonshine…
Coat clings as limpet sponge.
Stuck in situ!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 5:00 PM UTC
Annie Chapman, the maiden Smith,
******* daughter of a soldier born,
Parents entered joy of wedlock,
When ******* girl was still a baby.
Got married herself in 1869,
Had three children sweet,
First sweet daughter Emily,
Captured by meningitis bug,
Stole their eldest gal away,
Second child was a lad named John, born tragically disabled,
A third daughter born 1884 who ran away with the circus seeking some fun, when grown.
Marriage crumbled,
Due to sorrow,
Loss of daughter,
Destroyed all tomorrows,
Son was put into institution,
So they could not go on,
Drifted apart on a tide of drink,
Only way not to think,
Separated fell apart in 1884,
Lady 'Annie', with sorrowful heart and hair of brown,
Known as 'Dark Annie'
Maybe because she wore a frown,
She was the victim blessed with civility,
Until the drink contorted her,
Bending her mind,
Early as the daylight rose,
She had found a dark haired fellow,
Wearing deerstalker,
Maybe a friend of Holmes himself,
Although it's sadly doubted,
Probably a client, looking for her wares,
Body slain, lain on the floor,
Not far from her gate,
Throat slashed, viscera scattered around,
Coating her shoulders , with blood spattered dressings,
A neckerchief in situ,
Had he maybe provided a most unpleasant gift,
No financial donation for this poor lady,
Asphyxiation for the lady, she didn't take her daily pills,
Queer perhaps,
Her murderer knew what to do,
Maybe vile ****** man was medical in origin,
Some speculation hinted,
The ****** weapon was an autopsy knife!
This is the story of the second Jack the Ripper victim.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 5:47 PM UTC
the edge of green,
egress — conscious permission
of some inundation or cataract
and the raucous facelessness
of passing figures. army melancholia
in situ — past greens of dread
and red, some blue of course (in
dapple of sunlight bordering
sublimities)
i submit to its silence and no longer
ponder its requisites. draped
by fog, helm of pines. the zigzag of
deliverance swindling the disposable
line of fast-paced time-hover.
there's no god here. only the
wind, the trellis surmising a component
of nothing and happening,
and all ephemera cycling across
seasons forever changing and their
obsolescence of ways to retain their
positions until air frizzles
no
longer
than a bated breath.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 10:31 AM UTC
I saw him... Ripping the posters of hope to the ground
The bear stuffed. Cardboard box a home he never dreamt of
An abandoned minefield of metal gongs.....still clanging
With life encircled on its rim, clearly in full erosion
One eye had begun to fall, clinging on by a theatrical thread
A small hole had appeared, the left ear on hard times
He looked sad...his 'Bravo' days departed, kicked like an
Old tin can scattering nailed organs, strewn carelessly
The haphazards hurt the most; those that landed head first
They burrowed into the soft fur, grizzling through
Lack of gripe water to anaesthetise the first cut
Fur ***** were out of stock, cleaned right off the shelves
The posters painted with high definition, torn with sad
Hand shakes. Lined up ******* into fists, like used tissues
Their eye level aim skimmed the parcelled plots and slotted
Into basket cases, breathing in ***** dumpsters before their due date
Shrugging it off didn't work, shouldered earrings...stuck in rutted
Situ for too long. You came between them and the tombs of truth
Caused a nasty virus to accelerate. Baldness stole the soft
Funishings from your limbs in between the stuffing years
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 4:16 PM UTC
Under The Bed!
Where shadows creep.
Nightmares lurk.
A child cries.
Fear not dispelled.
Sandman will not venture here.
For he too.
Is filled with fear.
In the secret land under the bunk.
A trunk.
What nastiness concealed therein.
If you're brave enough to move it.
Below it is a hole.
The hole descends deeper and deeper.
At the base of the hole.
Lives the Grim Reaper.
What could be unleashed.
Better put it back quick.
He won't miss a trick.
To put pay to all life on this magic planet.
That would give him such fun.
Should shove it back.
It is very heavy.
The trunk made of wood.
Padlock in situ.
Wrought iron in black.
With eerie designs engraved with strange runes.
Decipher the code.
You can't understand.
Perhaps they said 'leave well alone'.
Being a hero, an intrepid explorer.
Decided he wouldn't be able.
Dragged it out left it by the old table.
No desire to open the box.
Got his caving gear out.
Searchlight on a miner's cap.
Down he went,
Down down down.
Was dark and damp smelled of mould.
Rustling in the ether.
A sound he heard.
Fear set in.
Adrenaline rush.
Rushed faster than he.
Scrambled up the side out of the pit.
A lucky escape I am sure.
Dragged the chest back under the bed.
Shaking he fled back out through the door.
Surveyed the situation.
All was quiet.
Crept back into bed.
Covers over his ears.
Still shaking a little.
Never had a dream as thus.
What it is to be brave in dreams!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 6:12 AM UTC
I am
but a
****** that
kicks into
flight for
my sugar
on the
plane that
shimmy mine
trim on
wings then
flew with
someone new
on this
bare runway
ready in
situ again
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 7:05 AM UTC
I shall gallivant after dark
when droves of waves depart at dusk
to point a gun at Mortimer here
still swears allegiance to France
but bid my bride on coach farewell
only to surmise inheritance again
how treacherous the streets lurk
there's upheaval in every crypt
so peruse if your dreams scheme with mine tonight
with a legion in silhouette
as her benevolent shall copulate
even corporeal lie mosey and
to pretend such revolution here
only justice might enhance constitution
on the road with sound
where golem ampleness in sweat
still sings a melody this ritual part in excellent lore
that would succumb world in the dark
if gander again jog along memory lane
while seance must intrigue each tog
that Nottingham's still absorption and namely a craft
in situ just to incept a suffragette abdication abound
this an extant with luxury again
and forthwith evermore.
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 8:30 AM UTC
Inhospitable landscapes
And opioid canapés,
Give into grief
And metallic decay:
Your mind in situ.
Moral compasses compounded.
Green grows grey
Far swifter than you think.
In the blink of an eye
We'll see different skies.
A pale blue bloom
Will soon become doom and gloom,
And marigolds macabre,
Perfume of tulip and
Netherworlds of hubris,
Will consume the gold
And the grey.
Except
We're not there yet.
Giacommetti, Picasso and Muller foresaw:
We're all going to be ignored.
Ultimately.
A single state engrained into lore:
Deplorably thick custard creams
With a side of sea bream,
Quarter-loaf multi-seed bread
And half a shilling in the shed.
Unimaginable-
Immemorial.
Pass the headstone,
Don the frown.
The bright brown obelisk of fate
Awaits you now.
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 8:45 PM UTC
Part One: Wolves and Chokes
Children are such wolves.
A day is a fledgling lamb
That can be crowded, cloistered
And clawed.
I used to speak to you and
Run with you.
You in your red coat
And I with my white throat.
Suspect nothing.
No tooth was fear to me
For a pack does not stack
Its white edges against itself.
Yet still I must have itched
A miracle of irritation
That cannot be ignored.
In the night, my mouth
Is drawn wide.
Like a fetus, I am transparent
And cringing in black situ.
Then a bite, and then a bite.
Then you see what is inside.
A one I love the best of all
Is loath to see me live.
The bitter taste of childhood vow
Comprises all I give.
I’ve broken you, you say.
With a box of fools I never sought,
Always galumphing back to me.
You broke me first, I think.
What posturing, straighten that halo
That chokes me rightfully.
Of course there is no way
To seek out your paradise.
Not if sinners cannot speak.
Part Two: Sebastien
Your hysteria is a fine rope.
My tree stands ready at the dawn,
A line of men and my
Brick wall that chips and splits
When bodies fall.
Even the sun is watching.
No one swats the stinging gaze
Away and no one dares offend.
But I stand.
I shall try to be as salt.
Salt stands even as dust.
Salt sneers at wounds.
Salt loves only the earth.
And the earth will love me soon,
Championing me as her lover
Which is an irony too ghastly to feel.
Rain in the still air, in the sun.
Silence that grinds a heel onto wrists
That steals from me.
A second, then a heartstring.
Thousand and thousands.
Eyes and minutes.
A billion is still only a tenth.
Release.
It is the boundlessness of the sky
And a chorus stabs their shovels,
Stabs the vein with silver mirth.
god touches me.
I am touched by gods.
I am born
And slain by daylight’s pink
Hands.
Every iron finger
Every one a steely tongue
Every cut a golden affair
And the spurns too hot to hold.
I fall and fold and dim.
My hour is burnt
And still your eyes, your teeth
Go with me
To forge both of my decades with
A gilt life of ecstasy I never
Touched but saw.
I saw it in the face of god.
And heard it as a note
That echoed through the days I lived,
And every word I wrote.
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 6:52 PM UTC
When the leaves fall
and cover the concrete
with their daring script,
we pause to read their asemic form,
a kind of language universal lodged
deep in our unconscious minds.
With curve and line,
join and stem,
these nothing words reform
again with each gust of wind.
Or pinioned by grass and rain
these natural letters
in the language of leaves
remain - in situ -
and slowly curl and colour,
shimmer with dew,
glisten in sunlight, revealing
their inscription, thus:
*O friend whoe’er you are
I feel through every leaf
The pressure of your hand,
Which I return,
And thus upon our journey
Linked together, let us go.*
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 12:57 PM UTC