DIRT ROAD HERITAGE SOCIETY

DIRT ROAD HERITAGE SOCIETY

power issues

power issues
power issues

Moon Phase




POETRY

Monday, March 26

Trio

I am
secreted in the fold of nature
swallowed by its green throat
a silence that cannot be broken
a being in the realm of thought
the fact of the matter
the only one
n-1
a vulnerability
merely a fleshed idea
a paradox of representation
this perfect implacement
aware of disparity
a tension in the room
truly a figment of my own imagination
a bad temper
pure chemistry
bewildered
(for I feel
that there was a time
when each point of contact
once was medicine)
a vivid shadow
implying substance
an absolute within my skin
a crack at the fray
a decipherable reality.
… and I want solitude
as deep as the loneliness I feel ...
In light of all events
Templum could be configured thus
the sensation of an esprite de corps
this was destined to be monumental
it caused the stirring of spirits
and inert humanity
able to recognise the power of truth
great truth proclaimed
the subtlety of these things
turned its inner eye
in a healthy reflexive
refreshing contemplation
this side of justification
this side of a lie
awakened by true curiosity
opening the eye
calling the truth
with an open category
like the centre of the hourglass
filtering time.

I find myself here navigating between the apogee and the nadir of this, my subsequent life …

the leaf of the tree, the growing green, the restful airs, the utopia that is not another place … its humus,
the cave ...
would that I could
i'd survey a herd of deer
from the mouth of it,
stoop awhile in the afternoon sun
while their thunderous run
inspires thoughts
of how to present such movement
and the best wall inside for it,
grinding the ochre.



Thalia

truly, you are
a reluctant skittish muse
thick handed and
throwing dysmorphic glances from
out of hooded gazes,
shattering amorous-glorious sunshine,
white roses in the sky all day moods
the longer we all do this dance, this
harrowing tango,
living for the nights when
we don't get too drunk
to remember the nights
or fight.
do we become even more
of a stranger
the longer you know someone?
You will, however,
know by the end of it all,
that i liked to dance.


Shadow Water Chronicles

Flashing fish scales in the sun,
springwater flowing into
muddy rock crevasse
Freeing the troglodytes
with its mingling from
the world above
to participate in
shadow water chronicles.
It may reach
some Subterranean madness
of black bodied demons
legacy of a time
when
the imagination was damned,
demonised
for its subversions.
Plagued by this eidetic,
I exist
like a mushroom
on the temperate edges of
such hells and
I do not need to explain myself;
these are human creations,
and reprehensible for all that
it has existed for so long,
has it not made its point yet?
Yet I am a hypocrite for,
saucily tailed,
jet skinned and
salubrious,
I sashay through - only
half serious,
pretty much a tourist,
though I swear
I shall scrawl my name
in this dark realm
and stain the black
with my love.

after some time in the stillness
fulcrum upon life's balance
….
ripples in the dew and
laughing at the grotesque dimensions of
my catfight merkin
bringing on the confluence
is the only way to justify all
the laurels of this private phantasy, this
state-of-the-art aesthetic
which has tried not to be
a miscarriage
or a demented spirit
yet one must be phlegmatic
and merely write
to distil this seeming madness

Erik Satie - Once Upon A Time In Paris

Sunday, December 3

creekside dream

Flashing fish scales in the sun,
springwater flowing into
muddy rock crevasse
Freeing the troglodytes
with its mingling from
the world above
to participate in
shadow water chronicles.
It may reach
some Subterranean madness
of black bodied demons
legacy of a time
when
the imagination was damned,
demonised
for its subversions.
Plagued by this eidetic,
I exist
like a mushroom
on the temperate edges of
such hells and
I do not need to explain myself

untitled

truly, you are
a reluctant skittish muse
thick handed and
throwing dysmorphic glances from
out of hooded gazes,
shattering amorous-glorious sunshine,
white roses in the sky all day moods
the longer we all do this dance, this
harrowing tango,
living for the nights when
we don't get too drunk
to remember the nights
or fight.
do we become even more
of a stranger
the longer you know someone?
You will, however,
know by the end of it all,
that i liked to dance.

Sunday, November 19

They




With the subtle involuntary eyes
of vast curiosity
polite though
only but vaguely moral
accidental panopticon
bearing witness
to the better potential
of our all too human song
rudely interrupted
by a prurience,
and this is a collective noun – a prurience –
of such busy determined creatures,
creatures
that here will be dubbed
peeping Tomasina and peeping Tom.
criminal minds
bent on devising many
a complex and visceral persecution,
truly challenging
infinitely more reasonable
philosophical phlegmatic
thinking.

The agonism any iota of their presence,
which is mental torture,
brings about
is their only boon;
wrung from
terse and repeated
isometric gritting
of teeth and
silences contracted from
protracted biting of the tongue,
after compassion has been milked dry,
wrung from the indignant imagination,
from the rebelling mind
no stranger to trauma,
to the basic aporia,
in the anguished “why, why,why!” –
wrung dry from
all this drips this last drop of
exasperated wish,
a decidedly fanciful desire,
for some kind of solution,
some lightening bolt
epiphany from out of the blue.

Therefore,
about them there,
angry memories,
these almost phantasmagorical people;
there be placed,
shining like a silver lining,
this most sanguine hope:
that,
by virtue of
the offended milieux,
gathers some sanely arcane
collective force
of utter maturity,
culminating in
a wonderful spell,
a spell which facilitates
these hypocritically
counter-intuitive
blindly categorical types
to actually find each other
on their walk,
literally to meet
eye-to-eye.

Imagine
the contraction of
the sudden confronted shyness of
the quality of
the blinking startle of
surprise -
lens to fleshy lens!

Where then will they try to hide,
scuttling from the pull,
the cognitive dissonance,
of their unexpected imminent coalescence, and
the shock of misanthropy,
nurtured for so long it is habitual,
as it dislodges and sloughs.
What blessed hiatus this
for the rest of us!

Imagine the sweetness
as Fate's irresistible sweeping rip
draws their mean heat seeking selves
completely out to sea,
latched firmly upon each other:
it
will not stop,
will not
retreat back to shore
like the predictability of tides;
what they have ignored
being of a greater potential than that
twisted semblance of power
which their constant transgressions and
aggressive spiritual-powerful
alter egos perversely project,
then aspire to harness,
and control,
beyond what their manifold lack of respect
could even begin to think to dream of.

It will subsume their demagoguery
in pure molten irony.

How helpless they
their disbelief landing them
in that pocket of reality.
How seemingly cruel
in our heady relief,
knowing watchers-on
pained no more,
indulging in
the very great pleasure,
the final luxury,
of the last laugh,
enjoying
a certain quality of bemusement :
many a lip-twitching sotto voce observation,
antithesis to their obsessively
overzealous manipulations
of the gift of our sensual commonality.

While drowning
in that moral ocean,
after their mutual discovery of
each unfathomable
perplexity of too similar other,
while lost in the wry contingency
of the facts,
suffering such consequences of subjective asymmetry,
as were wrought by their vengeful
abject self pity,
perhaps they will find forgiveness,
humility,
and a particular apex of humanity they,
with their construct of eye,
could have,
ultimately,
been born to see.

For now they
regressively flounder upon
shoals of more reasonable
dynamics of personhood where,
sacred and simple,
respect juts conspicuously,
a snagging rock,
most threatening to
their impunity.

Only, I fear,
in the best of their fetish-based
ideals of what ought to be,
fantasies which could never suit you,
or me,
and within moral interiors full of premises
supporting cultures of appropriation,
and in approaches,
justified in their intellectual worlds
constructed from nothing
short of ulterior motive,
excusing the various realities they
convince themselves of
in order to dominate
so as to perpetually compensate.
Realities in which they 'allow'
no agency but
a voodoo-doll idea of other,
and whatever the resentment is
that comprises this image of
'the other' that we represent
it thrives on pernicious
and dedicated sabotage,
burning needles of jealous intent
leaving but a shriven smidgen
of our own innocuous pleasures,
whereupon they 'grace' us
with their intrusions,
accuse our self's quick,
the intimacy of our very sensations
of being but a thief's touch,
and so seek to practice their especial
self appointed 'veto'
upon our every decision.
You know the type,
you feel uncomfortable
with the very idea,
not to mention the strong impression,
that they might be thinking about you
at any one moment in time.
In actuality
the result of all this
is that they merely
manifest as a
rat-tat regular event of ideological profanity,
chinese water torture brand of insanity;
but nonetheless
it is only in these places
that they inhabit
can any site can be found
ground be cleared
reasonably expected to yield
the latent fruit of their humanity.

Though pretending to help,
their narcissistic righteousness
sticks them fast
in patterns of derogatory methodology,
it creates a parasitical loop,
Möbius strip treadmill.

Caught up thus for the while
in this poisonous hypocrisy,
their brand of love,
its pundit-flavoured cooing
celebrating the dullest kind of clever,
their greed surely would resign itself,
eventually,
to stronger redemptive forces
pertaining to the traceries
remaining,
of their ultimately unavoidable innocence.

They are jaded now,
but perhaps the poignant best in them
will be reawakened
by this hoped for meeting -
for what it is worth
it must be remembered
that we wish them to meet
eye-to-eye -
and for each of their belated
realisations to spill free,
to make for a fertile ferment,
compost of mistaken,
misguided ideas and grotesque ironies,
ending up blessedly breaking down
around hungry new growth:
the solitary composing eye.

But these themselves are ideas of ideals,
platitudes implying desperate appeals
against the implacable folly,
layers of delusion,
the visceral eyes,
signaling their obtrusion.

Wednesday, November 15

Pommegranite

Flashing fish scales in the sun,
springwater flowing into muddy rock crevasse
Freeing the troglodytes
with its mingling from
the world above
to participate in
shadow water chronicles.
It may reach
some Subterranean madness
of black bodied demonii
legacy of a time
when the imagination
was damned,
demonised
for its subversions.
Plagued by this eidietic,
I exist
 like a mushroom
on the temperate edges of
such hells and
I do not need to explain myself;
these are human creations
and reprehensible for all that
it has existed for so long,
has it not made its point yet?
Yet i am a hypocrit, for
saucily swinging a tail
jet skinned and salubrious,
I will sashay through - only
half serious,
pretty much a tourist,
though i swear
I shall scrawl my name
in this dark realm
and stain the black
with my love.
*****
a pommegranite seed
is like distilled wonderful madness
the height of pop and pallate
******
the imagination is the liar in you
that you have forgiven and
we are always one step away from utopia,
or a step further away.
The trick is, my friend,
to get to where
you want to be.
Precious ontology!
but a part of the
gift of love to share --
truly, you are
a reluctant skittish muse
thick handed and
throwing dysmorphic glances from
out of hooded gazes,
shattering amorous-glorious sunshine,
white roses in the sky all day moods
the longer we all do this dance, this
harrowing tango,
living for the nights when
we don't get too drunk
to remember the nights
or fight.
do we become even more
of a stranger
the longer you know someone?
You will, however,
know by the end of it all,
that i liked to dance.
****
dreamflesh and dreamfish
the light of 'em
over time
over those slow days that stretch
in their ambiguities
and their ponderous patches of
muggy moments
in between their
thousand bright
diamond bright
epiphanies of brilliance
****
Fiction - to the nth degree
--- sharp edged the image
perfect replica
like
the other end of a thought,
an assumption;
as an admission -
uttlerly clarifying:
rendering delusion
thinner than existence
the peace! oh the peace! of broken delusion
this is the seed of
freedom i said to me.
****
when nature is deconstructed
to a hole in the sky
its beautiful
timelessness
extends beyond
our fearful
our awe struck gazes
which shelter under that which
we cannot bring ourselves to trust
... have we built monuments of lies
and scrabbled before them
****
frogwatch
and the lazy breeze
plays with the fire
and food,
the frogs
sing the night away
every now and then
the night holds its breath
***
this fire
reminds me
of the life i have always planned
it burns like a memory fulfilled
and i burn
for having gotten this far.
***
eating a peach
by a peach tree
the child with its seed
was not hers
and we watched
as that peach was eaten
seed thrown
to the earth
at her feet.


Sunday, April 17

Home on the Range

http://americanpublicmedia.publicradio.org/podcasts/xml/prairie_home_companion/news_from_lake_wobegon.xml

Thursday, March 31

Tender Narcissisms



Dreaming, in solitude, tender Narcissisms;
these silent songs are running
through this body
 as blood in the night
the stars are in there and
still memory is but a  simulcrum -
all that remains of event -
dreams dreams dreams

consider reality as so small and
light so intricate in its
relationship with matter,
 so structured such that
 all which is not 'now'
 truly becomes dream.

Goethe thought so.

it is a thought has become my solace

It is almost so
that our frail fears of
 impermanence have created these
 delusions of solidity which
haunt us with the
complicity we attach
to events in this world

this world drifting in dream

madly swirling in
convection around event
stretched between its
 singularities:
the stirrings of the universe

intricate slumbers these -
thinking of the self as an eddy

Friday, February 5


Ode to a Nightingale

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
         My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
         One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
         But being too happy in thine happiness,—
                That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
                        In some melodious plot
         Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
                Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
         Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
         Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
         Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
                With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
                        And purple-stained mouth;
         That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
                And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
         What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
         Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
         Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
                Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
                        And leaden-eyed despairs,
         Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
                Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
         Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
         Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
         And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
                Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
                        But here there is no light,
         Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
                Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
         Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
         Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
         White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
                Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
                        And mid-May's eldest child,
         The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
                The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
         I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
         To take into the air my quiet breath;
                Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
         To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
                While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
                        In such an ecstasy!
         Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
                   To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
         No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
         In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
         Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
                She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
                        The same that oft-times hath
         Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
                Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
         To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
         As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
         Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
                Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
                        In the next valley-glades:
         Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
                Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

Tuesday, April 14

the white room




all night i lay
a shadow in the white room
moveable parts
changed
every hour
on the hour

and
depending on the spectators
down to the half hour
then
to the
fifteen minute
reification of Miss Prim
what started
the process
felt like a spider
and so
a life sized mannequin
was required
for the purposes
of rest
oh yes
sleep would've been
most welcome
yet rest
within a vigil
ensued

the body was moved
all around the floor
the plaque
was placed
the door sealed
such that the light

was evenly diffused
along the walls
the absence of colour
achieved
to emphasize
the figure
it's primary coloured contrasts

in repose
intermittently
a pile of limbs
a faceless creature
eyes

of fine hatched silver
always open
balls and sockets
ropes through the torso
to join
knotted
then carefully cut
sourced in a timeless responsibility

Sunday, March 8

The Canonization - John Donne


For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love,
         Or chide my palsy, or my gout,
My five gray hairs, or ruined fortune flout,
         With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve,
                Take you a course, get you a place,
                Observe his honor, or his grace,
Or the king's real, or his stampèd face
         Contemplate; what you will, approve,
         So you will let me love.

Alas, alas, who's injured by my love?
         What merchant's ships have my sighs drowned?
Who says my tears have overflowed his ground?
         When did my colds a forward spring remove?
                When did the heats which my veins fill
                Add one more to the plaguy bill?
Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still
         Litigious men, which quarrels move,
         Though she and I do love.

Call us what you will, we are made such by love;
         Call her one, me another fly,
We're tapers too, and at our own cost die,
         And we in us find the eagle and the dove.
                The phœnix riddle hath more wit
                By us; we two being one, are it.
So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit.
         We die and rise the same, and prove
         Mysterious by this love.

We can die by it, if not live by love,
         And if unfit for tombs and hearse
Our legend be, it will be fit for verse;
         And if no piece of chronicle we prove,
                We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms;
                As well a well-wrought urn becomes
The greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,
         And by these hymns, all shall approve
         Us canonized for Love.

And thus invoke us: "You, whom reverend love
         Made one another's hermitage;
You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage;
         Who did the whole world's soul contract, and drove
                Into the glasses of your eyes
                (So made such mirrors, and such spies,
That they did all to you epitomize)
         Countries, towns, courts: beg from above
         A pattern of your love!"

Thursday, February 19

love poem

the Vala billows in winds of change
between the seeds of dreams and
dancing chaos
is the midst of rapture
visions hold us there
within the song of rhapsody
flinging forget-me-nots in the void
soul incubant in the matrix
intrinsic in its virtue
extrinsic in its vice
that chasm
which is open
to the grounds of truth
that sunken place where the sense when falling
finds necessary to accept
as a given reality
where the compass needle at any one time is
what the heights address
in order to orient themselves
the parted skies
above the abyss
milk drops down to this point
anything that will do any good
must observe this point
where it lands
at any one time
i am breaking open
my nadirs exposed
to let all gold in,
innocence will blare like
dunchen blasts
over the breadth of horizons
palpable
inviolable
clear.





Monday, October 13

folly II

A distinct but abstract attributive point of nadir
is a faultline,
the crack in the teacup,
the metaphysical wasteland
the point of address
open to the skies
where the water and the gold falls to
where all the holes touch ground
with their silver toes
with their insular woes
this is where
the atrocity is
where the abomination
presently exists
where the truth
has its place
where every intellect must collect
to make its point.

Monday, September 29

shadow of a heart


i jumped into my own shadow
&
 playing with this heart
exposed the darker
shadows of alterity
'n
realised
catching 'em -
 sending 'em back
to where they came from  
             
is
justified

for all these shades
have their origin:

here in this place
i am
dancing off
a spider's bite
or
maybe
aiming for
incredible heights

sublimating
this self's fool
or
needing to
revive
the music -
at the very least
refusing to be
dispirited
by any
shadow of a heart

Sunday, September 28

Vessel


i would rather
drink from the cup
that is you
your body
your intellect
than demolish the vessel
desire is marbling the clay of me
i am in flux
'n
i am on fire
this
 molten
will
in time
be just as rock -
tempered by such forces
my opinionated mind
seeks to be dunked
in cool water -
a newly forged sword