Tiny Victories

We trudge soft mulch
viscous drops drench your lips-
wet skin tastes metalic.
I crane my neck;
within your tomb I shriek and shudder.

We slept too late.
Afternoon shadow-jumps
with red Mikado flare
on cornbread curtains;
behind your windows was a furnace.

Sly soft black shade
flickered across your chest
emaciated pale-
a barren savanna, and
among your thicket was my hideout.

you can touch me if you want to

this is entirely unrelated, purely cathartic and not for artful purposes. dig?


Coopers Hotel, 7pm.

Writing in a pen with no ink to appear busy, waiting in groups of five seconds, waiting for the rush of air around me and the fluster of material, of clothes and sighs as asses are plonked in seats. I don't, I can't wait the whole five seconds and I move, I fidget and meet the entering gaze. The conversation around the table which we picked with painstaking precision rises and hums, then buzzes painfully, roars and won't stop. My temples are burning, but I forgot to keep on the lookout and now you're already here, and I've waited with bile in my throat and now will you gone.


The women beside our three chairs stare at your pierced ears and long greasy hair and you snarl. I stare at the streetscape on the wall and remember when the red cake shop was discovered by our innocent tongues years ago and realise that the other stares at us both in turn, expectant.


She speaks in cheery false tones and we not but I want to scoff and I mostly want to stab and cry, infantile. I keep thinking how proud I am that we've never become and evolutionary off-cut and how the most forbidden unspeakable things have already happened but I don't care, I just want to be gone. You're both looking at me and sand has drained from my brain into my sinuses and now coats my tongue. Look away, burn away because I am concerned only with the painting behind her head and only it holds my fierce attention.


When I look up I have tears in my eyes and I'm so completely embarrassed but she's used to the dripping from my chin, but he's outraged and expresses the same frustration and hopelessness in the tearing of his voice, the angry high tones which might trade themselves for tears as free as mine if they could, just to try out how it feels to be able to leak like that. I would trade the blotches for anger if I could. People are scared of anger; tears are pathetic.


When I can see again, his hand is on her knee and she's smiling as me and all I see is love but why is his hand there if it's so clear that she needs me and I'm here but I don't have to be. A ring around my heart burns when our eyes meet because he and I are both really just sitting here alone with her and that smile which has made me crazy for six years.

je suis flaneuse

i used to scoff at poems like this. now that i see you tragically in every line, my skin crawls and my instestines squirm. the pathetic tension of the vocal chords and dull pain of the temples. someone knows or has known, or is speaking so quietly, and in terms so vague that i will drag them in beaten and bruised in a bodybag and claim them as those that have been unstrung and thieved from the sinews of my soul, stripped from the empty, sterile hallways of my memory. i will swear at the alter that this poet is screaming understanding into my ears so desperately and with such a psychotic smile of longing to be understood as i have just now, just this very thousandth of a second, that he has turned in his grave and now returns to rest undisturbed for the next thousand years until one more tongue rolls the verbs with the spark of the eye and the crystalline freezing of space and matter on the same word, the same thought which enlightened me. which left me so dumbstruck, which smarted about my ears and stung like frostbite, and which weighted your truth right to the bottom with a soft final thud, where it sits stubbornly inside me and is as real as my hands. To be granted that same rest, as my poet, I'd give a lifetime. while I wait, I'll follow your body to the ends of he earth, as that is all it deserves. can you ever even imagine, have you ever known a body which leaves that poverty in your bones? have you?

-

My friend, thou art good and cautious and wise; nay, thou art perfect -- and I, too, speak with thee wisely and cautiously. And yet I am mad. But I mask my madness. I would be mad alone. My friend, thou art not my friend, but how shall I make thee understand? My path is not thy path, yet together we walk, hand in hand.

-

anyway, i'm looking for a lou andreas-salome. or a maud gonne? even a goddamn nancy will be fine. please, no anna gordy's.

Blades

Everytime I stay up watching past life regression hypnotism videos, I spend the entire next day wondering why. Today is no exception. Being a compulsively lazy person, however, has it's perks. It's no easy feat, let me tell you, to create a universe which revolves on the axis of your hip bones, those which remain under cloth and skin not yet touched, not even a light accidental brush. Although I suspect no accidental thing exists, unless in her realm where fingers, lips and tongues are uninhabited and throwaway half-hearted echoes. The most mundane of shadows, of slips and of swoons send me into the regular hysteria. Oh god, this fall will hurt as no other.

Got It Made

Drawl. Veins. Teeth. Forearms.

How does the emaciated clear my brain of cohesion and replace it with cracked lips and a mouthful of dust.

Open up your throat.

sun.

ah, juicy fruit.

Tasty

"The brain may take advice, but not the heart, and love, having no geography, knows no boundaries: weight and sink it deep, no matter, it will rise and find the surface: and why not? Any love is natural that lies within a persons nature; only hypocrites would hold a man responsible for what he loves, emotional illiterates and those of righteous envy, who, in their agitated concern, mistake so frequently the arrow pointing to heaven for the one that leads to hell."

Capote, Other Voices, Other Rooms

I just met God. He was on the 5.15 train.

"Death is not an event in life: we do not live to experience death. If we take eternity to mean not infinite temporal duration but timelessness, then eternal life belongs to those who live in the present. Our life has no end in the way in which our visual field has no limits."



— Wittgenstein, Tractatus, 6.431

The Annie to my Susan?

I've never known what's so damaging about a little nostaglia.





now that the scene's set, with so much as a little prompt:


did you sleepwalk your way as i stirred the pot of pit-cries from the sweltering kitchen to the patter of your the jungle drums, seething through the plaster from your den to the cornbread pattern of luau sways,a hazy heated path, a pastel fuzz. soft budding bass notes induce a nose-bleed.

I'm lost in Brighton

An ant in a cornfield,
the lanes run on like veins.
Don't lose your head now,
just remember and float
in enveloping memories of me
your distant comfort (a ghost).
And with my lungs,
the sinews of your heart smile
and our cheeks join in unison:
a single swoon, solitary sky.
With no destination
we can never be lost.
Only wanderers.

The Dynamism of My Concentration

what he said

"In our time it is broadly true that political writing is bad writing. Where it is not true, it will generally be found that the writer is some kind of rebel, expressing his private opinions and not a ‘party line’. Orthodoxy, of whatever colour, seems to demand a lifeless, imitative style. The political dialects to be found in pamphlets, leading articles, manifestos, White papers and the speeches of undersecretaries do, of course, vary from party to party, but they are all alike in that one almost never finds in them a fresh, vivid, homemade turn of speech. When one watches some tired hack on the platform mechanically repeating the familiar phrases — bestial, atrocities, iron heel, bloodstained tyranny, free peoples of the world, stand shoulder to shoulder — one often has a curious feeling that one is not watching a live human being but some kind of dummy: a feeling which suddenly becomes stronger at moments when the light catches the speaker's spectacles and turns them into blank discs which seem to have no eyes behind them. And this is not altogether fanciful. A speaker who uses that kind of phraseology has gone some distance toward turning himself into a machine. The appropriate noises are coming out of his larynx, but his brain is not involved, as it would be if he were choosing his words for himself. If the speech he is making is one that he is accustomed to make over and over again, he may be almost unconscious of what he is saying, as one is when one utters the responses in church. And this reduced state of consciousness, if not indispensable, is at any rate favourable to political conformity."

George Orwell, Politics and the English Language

idiosyncrackatic.

thought of that one myself.

Wednesday August 4th; 2010

Gelatinus disks of vertibrae quiver;
disolve into a lucid xylophone,
oscillating, slithering on my spine-
struck dumb by your insatiable instruments
(the hot gaze glazes)
in the vortex vacuum of etherised want-
purring verbs like devious cats.

Again in our fishbowl world of laughing gas;
again searching for the velvet anonymity
of seething allyways, curtains, doors, steps
walls
walls
boxes- devices to conceal
to ease the ecstatic acidic bile
the vomiticious swoons and desolation
of stumbling slurs.

tomorrows mythic guilt.

black pits

above us was deformity, cruel anomalies and the secrets of their brutality, and the churning sensation of bile which whirls when the forbidden is approached. i pictured the twelve stories of skeletal loss, disinfected memories, the stark neurosis of the flickering flourescents and a jungle of aporia which weighed on my thoughts as heavy as the physical building around us loomed. shadows and glass shards cracked and swooned, our drunk brains wading, our dumb-courage capsizing. on our palms, the grounds own dirt clotted the sweat which made climbing such labour.

i didnt notice it on the first entry, my eyes fuzzy in the black, but to our left, through the white door jarred open by the brave before us, was a grand piano lying on its side, its face smashed in, its white and black shiny teeth scattered giant tic tacs. it had been pushed down the concrete stairs infront of us, the sound could only have been magnificent resounding tolls of a brass bell, the crack and split of polished wood the crescendo. psychotic cackles of both worlds must have broken out from the hospital walls in applause. we darted and leaped between shadows and still puddles to avoid leaving our black imprints on the walls or to disturb the thick settled dust with our feet.

she was an infantile drunk, and the heave of her breath which seeped beer and cigarettes was repulsive and embarrassing in the disappointing tranquility of the main hall, which we entered with half-squinted eyes, expecting a human or other but finding walls, doors and stale air. i crept near to him, always between them.

an insoluble contradiction that would be my undoing, my coming undone.

this is shit.

too much uni work. becoming Deluezional

"Turns out that stilling the waves of my mind is a bit like trying to solve a problem like Maria – “How do you keep a wave upon the sand?”

and also, a quick word from Mr Yeats "A Deep Sworn Vow":

Others because you did not keep
That deep-sworn vow have been friends of mine;
Yet always when I look death in the face,
When I clamber to the heights of sleep,
Or when I grow excited with wine,
Suddenly I meet your face.

one day

a hatred i gained in dublin

how the shit god damn hell did they manage to make high fidelity into an sub-par american film when, as a british novel which i almost slightly enjoyed, the most perplexing aspect wasn't the title and the melodramatic sarcasm was clever and endearing rather than embarrassing. JACK BLACKS WORDS ARE POISON.

Love & Strife

two caramel bodies on cream sheets, the tin fan cooled the sweat which settled on our quivering skin and in the yellowed room, we lay like silent whales on my parents bed. she softly clicked the fingers of her right hand and i listened, vacant but thankful, breathing the thick heat. eyes half shut and heavy, the patter of her soft skin left a thick rhythm lingering. i thought about reaching over to feel flesh but my eyes dialuted into heuy tones of the room and i resigned to the constant flicking. it was just too hot, so i drifted.

Fedor Jeftichew & Captain Costentenus

Mr LaBruce plus my Portugal

19 FEB – 19 MAR: “BRUCE LABRUCE’S POLAROID RAGE, SURVEY 2000-2010″ AT WRONG WEATHER, PORTO.

Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn

'Before I am old
I shall have written him one
poem maybe as cold
And passionate as the dawn.'

Svart Mettal

money's too tight for steak

Berlin

tread soft, tiny little sled boots:
feel each decietful crater collapse
a repeted catastrophic death,
(the capsized glaciar fits your sole
one hundred times!)
though you will buckle
slide-step
shriek-
back to your burrow of felt,
your strange vapours wander.

creepers flesh & bone 1969

Creepy-Creeps <3

All He Needs Is Love

The Sky and The Sea

She said "what do I want? Of course I want Sky!." This is where we differ, as, for my next act, I will be the sea above all. It's the sea who has had men leaping to it in agony and knowing only then both the victory of their small strength and the enormous insignificance. I would be an engulfing and terrible sea with deep black pits and azure awells, a mass of insatiable convoluted systems, vibrant life and prehistoric secrets which, from the surface is serene and simple, even lifeless. My incomrehensible magnitude will be made of parts which I know both as intricate and intimate pieces of my identity, and as foreign and unattainable as the moons cold reflection on my glinting skin. I was coming to begin to realise, and to accept and to know in me, the horribly inescapable circularity of the universe, the perplexing and perverse aporia of a self-perpetuation beyond the feeble wants of human hands. And we do: we all suffer the same.