moon


Poetry and Music

Sunday, March 31

The Dragon Venus

"...the telescope is gone
which kept my optics free from
all delusion...."
-- Byron.

From this point where? 
The platform of here,
On this sliding iceberg of now,
Its ocean of late spring night's undertow?

Embarrassed into reviling your perfection
Know that the moment of honour
Well honoured will happen along.

You chastise yourself for behaving as you do
Despite reasonable hopes found within.
You chastise yourself for the dangerous joy
Of your complacency.

Does one grown too vicious
In the attempt to be more callous?
Remember that true love is a goddess,
A very dragon of a goddess.

So, as much as life chafes at the fret
In those moments of near regret;
Near despair, near delight,
Deep, deep
In the currents of warm spring nights and
Rainy morning melancholies
While you contemplate your stern 'ghosts of folly'
Remember, its an aesthetic mandala: life, and the dream.
Remember, although torrid torrents in your blood scream
That wastrel is a life of poetry and traveling,
That faith, love, and even hope are biochemical things.

Has life yet made a Medusa of Venus?
Has this fount offered anything to the world's thirsts?
Can you endure the songs of drowning sirens,
And streaming, disassociated faces of Gorgons?

silver and gold 1

What we see
cannot be all.
All we see;
all that we all see,
cannot be all.
All that we all see,
all of it cannot be.

If gold is what all is,
whether we see
or don't see,
and silver is all that we see,
or think we see,
and even if we see a lot,
we see but the silvered side of that.

So i cannot call you gold,
for silver you will allways be.
Perhaps we glimpse one day,
one moment,
what we cannot see
but that would be
gold turning to silver
don't you see?

Though i cannot show you all of me
every day i will try as
i try to show all all of me:
no discretion;
no shame,
no defense,
all blame
rests here on me,
even so this does not render me
gold,
merely silver
where i have been seen.

Cannot Say

A mystery hides within life
and it is at times most loud,
though soundless.
it is amplified
by justice and inspiration;
excited
by manifold and impossible potentialities,
layered
with all that has already been and
all that has already been said:
but saved, in a way, by that fact of the moment
which sublimates all utterences
with its gift
of momentary relevance.

i would write and write and write
for all that i cannot say this to anyone.

memory

Memory,
whisper in time,
justify
that intaken breath
my love,
explain
your smile.

Kisses

Kisses of morning dew
were at first underneath my consciousness,
such a vast part of
what would be later termed
soul
that they were hardly noticed apart
from anything else at all.

There,
in my father's scent
as he returned from camp;
there,
in the nascent mornings
before light appeared but heat
had begun its magic and
the dust began to settle,
there,
joyously in the mid morning glorious leap
as sunfire drank and warmed damp bones,
there,
in that undefinable moment of afternoon
when the dust
began, of its own accord,
to settle,
there,
present secretly in moonlight's dance overland.

Later when these things became something sacred:
metaphorically abused,
subject to classism and jealousy;
when these things became part of a bewildering fight,
the sacred profaned,
a promise thrown into doubt,
all hope bandied about like innermost feelings
were but a toy
they were there
limpid in the midst of an insanity:
kisses of morning dew.

Apathy

So many things slipped away from this time…
So many chances
swimming in this unmatched neutrality.
Such ambivalent times hold
change in the water,
opportunity in the sky, and
everywhere the impetus of revolution-
but apathy has its own momentum.

A modern, endemic monster is guilt in denial,
only genius could acknowledge this plight -
but without these feathers Icarus,
one cannot purport to flight.

The alchemist in me grimly smiles
as time repeats itself impossibly,
we ,
again,
face the challenge,
as ever it seems we might,
of wringing gold from lead,
ideals from values,
sense from indigestiqua.
This place where we find ourselves,
it is to here our folly has led.

The only ballast I see is a shining fact that
what gold exists is safely forgotten,
recognized only in time when it tires, thins and
fades out of veiling vital obscurity,
shines resplendent then in posterity,
so that we see again what we have had,
what we have endangered with our apathy.

Song From Up The Bloody Tree [after 'Living on the Ceiling' by Blancmange]

This time you will try,
find that secret,
tell that secret,
abandon that fight,
(you Prometheus you).
Run
from the fears
of the masses
that follow you,
follow you
up that pedestal
so high,
that pedestal
its vertigo
traps you there -
while they enjoy the ground
under your words,
under your stare,
under your
almost-brave-enough
deathwish -
almost brave enough.
Graced by your maddened stare
their ground is firm,
they look up to you and
they
do not realise
that they
force you to look down,
(except when you are running,
climbing further,
running).

Fly,
dare to fly
(they will congratulate themselves
but no matter
dare to fly anyway).

Shout,
dare to,
and don't worry
when you stare
it is ok
to stare,
really,
for your inspiration
could
lift those masses,
your realisation
could shift
that molasses-slow
consciousness
of theirs,
although
can you be so sure
that they aren't you?

Kissed Thus

Before the big bad world swallows you up and
i must release the promise of you from my arms
i would say this to you:

beautiful man;
happy man,
smiling man: a scintillation
amidst today's
sunshine-over-mountains,
with trumpeting jazz
wavering with this welcome heat
that is half-joy:
Joy which warms my bones.
But brass blazing zeniths
cannot describe
these elations
where hope is overcome and
despair
turns outward
rather than inward, and
the serpent
gnawing at the World Tree's foot
is searched over
for its most brilliant of scales
for curious lovers to study.

Repose is rustic here
as romance aspires
to its solitude's aesthetic, and
one begs dreams ,
the loneliest of dreams,
to become real after all.

Beautiful one;
happy one,
smiling bright as today's
sunshine-over-mountains and
the half sleepy morning jazz
marrying airs from long ago
to those of now,
here,
'...."...if music be the food of love, play on..."...'

For life is
to spend years
kissed thus.

Unkempt Promises

Promise made yesterday, unkempt this day
haunts me now as i write, as i sit, do
what so helplessly must be done today,
i wonder at powers of each excuse
which can desecrate a sacred oath.
What does intent have to do with that vow
before fate wields desultory hand and
vaguely forbids the keeping of this bond?
So well meaning, honest and wise-seeming
now a gritty guilt, for failure and fate
often create impassable moments,
such as these small miseries; dishonoured,
Honour does all but die, ineptitude,
ignoble death: desecrated word!

Were all the promises ever made found -
those that had fallen to unheeded grounds,
placed and ever shored, in some great way swept
together, gathered in a wondrous mound
i would in some future omnipotence,
restore their life, resolved, resilient
to give them Time so that they could be kept
So that forevers are reserved for such:
the making, the keeping of oath and vow.

Worry Stone

Forced optimism mandala chant
suffices when all else fails,
small prayers and reiterated beliefs:
a stack and store of them run through every day,
philosophies like worry-stones
in the pocket of my mind -
  wearied worrying
as i, daily, walk into walls
causes small wells in their centre

Temporality

Snowflakes in my tea and
resting upon your lip -
that moment before they melt,
before they disappear
become a vague cool wetness,
on your skin!

It sends a bittersweet wince
through the body to see
such impermanence,
such lovely temporality,
very much like a kiss.

Falling, they are caught
in your hair and
i am a snowflake now,
from now i
and all my kisses
will ever be -
crystalline jewels landed in your tea.

A Fairytale


Paradoxically one is generalised
yet rendered quite unique by one's experiences and
a tenebrous mystery
is that of freedom's distant possibilities.

More immediate though
are fettering quandaries of meaning,
clumsy appendages of word
flare at times like brighter fires
on darker nights:
their shadow,
(silent ambiguum),
of virtuous flux
contains taboo
as well as that compassionately paved way
for love of youth.

Hiding or lost in the undergrowth
are doubting angels
awaiting the thrill
of rare tactful understandings:
a glimpse of drying iridescent wing,
and punctilio:
the fracturing of a delicate egg.
This is the desire of disaffected violet eyes
expressing at times in bursts of brilliant hyperbole-sunshine,
joyous recognition of stirring growth.

Holy Day



This moment is a sacred place and
all of time an holy day:
soft strokes of marking dust
upon sketch book page
of infinite plane.

This moment though is just a place and
a sliver of time within an holy day
passed in any way is sublime
or challenging as a blank stare
from sketch book page.
                                                   
Scrawl me something grand
with bored,passionate or restless hand:
Pavati divine, in her prime
at the zenith, (that perfect foot!),
exacting, nautch with every step
a monumental execution.

Vaguely play with that expanse
of page and intimate, but obscurely,
the dancer's body
its need to move
capture, with a stroke,
every hesitation
every raw beginning.

Sketch me a still movement
as upon a bubble surface
its wonderful roil impossible
without glycerin slime
and a defining emptiness
surrounded by closed shape
to trap and stretch across
to be freed when wind fills
and pulls it away.
As upon a bubble surface
the dance is most free                  
when self perfected into a sphere.
It then becomes nautical
in the void
sailing upon air,
sailing upon nothing but air.
   
Yea such a moment is a sacred place
within an eternal Holy Day.

Nimbin Ambiguum 20005


Open
pure
future
nothing else
more so exists:
quintessentially unplucked rose
fount of hope
though
entirely mundane
though
promising
tongue-in-cheek ironies
to endure,
demanding
austerities of no complaint.

Heat
paces these streets
drinking in fires
of residual hope,
left-over-lives
calixing out of pasts
unbearably monstrous.

Traffic-tempo
conversational snatches
drifting laboured music
these
determine to exist,
colours mix
confuse themselves
as someone else
lucky
brilliant
rich
or just happy
seems to get the lot,
the golden pot
of each day.

Sweet grasses here bitter
sun glares
clouds bear
'don't-look-at-me' attitudes, and
twist a prying
an escapist
mind
with contemptous image ...
palpability
of the observer effect,
reaction
to 'get out of the way' elbowing
of minds and lives
as pavements become crowded
cracked and
traffic gets louder,
more constant.

This all is at the back:
but intimated yet,though
the opposite exists
always did.

One can only hope
in Taoist optimism
these hollows hold ambrosia,
brave and hopeful ones
must needs thoughtful sip
with sensual apertures open
to utter ambiguum.

Calling away the the spite of mind's gibbet-crows

Calling away the the spite of mind's gibbet-crows
is an exercises of intense admonition.
Play that sweet, sweet music
to tame each fearsome visage
unearthed from complacency's chaos and
rest upon tired laurels
in a semblance of deserved parsimony,
whether for your own hoarse luxury
or the curt reply
reserved for crow-black dragons.
A moment repeats itself,
Small peace,
Lucidity.
Sanely out of context
And
Launched into a dream:
Almost a vision,
Of humanity straining,
Scrabbling over post-Holocaust
Under rearing, twisted girders
Over barren ground.
A landscape
Grey and utterly concreted:
The result of that small luxury
Of sheltering from the rain.
This was stark,
Confronting, and true.
Hope was the reaching of eyes
From star to star
In the night-sky
Mapping distant pathways.

briny seas


The briny seas still wash you and me
wave-slow and thoughtfully.
When all the tears have run,
when time's great hanky has dried 'em,
the briny seas remain
to smish
and smash,
to tumble our thoughts,
to wash,
leaving myth
rounded and jewel-like
of once jagged shards,
blooded history.

All that blood,
o' great ones
               o' passionate ones
                             o' zealots
and infidels,
all that blood
has perhaps run into the seas
and their song
wrings myth
from out of history.

Breath and Hope


'Dum Spiro, Spero'

Yes,
every sustained pull of air -
far travelled air,
from accross
potentially
vast
distances;
every assimilation
of the mystery of the world
to which the song,
in aspiration,
of sustained ideals
of recognition
breaks out from the pith:
a salute like solar wind
reaching through
and around
all
in metaphysical glory.

Every capitulation to oneness:
stirring inner voids;
storming interiors;
shaking frozen worlds;
causing the tremble
of capillarial feelings;
as this helpless, pulsing rythm;
this centrifugal dance;
this turgid flow,
continues
thus far.

Blood


Blood shines,
reflects as jet,
and
has a star,
much like that
of unearthed jewels.

One can drown
in light-laced intricate
depths
seeking
the fallen drop,
one that never did exist,
one lost in shadows -
at times created
by candlelight
limpid in wine.

amphibian


i think you are amphibian
you survived the onward rush
of this great confluence
that hormonal gush
gash of experience
scarletted feelings
in its wake;
grey juxtapositions
of the empty days -
flotsam of every drowned swimmer
attempting this flood,
in the years that have past
i have not
i know
grown more temperate.

i think that my lips are shizophrenic
they wander gentle and soft
then hard and biting
across the desires of every moment
spent in hope
which renders me/us helpless
in this white water fate
rolling boulders
over like pibbles
in its anger
its passion
its own fate of gravity -
how is it you have survived
this alternate universe of fantasy?

how are you not stifled
by its thick velvet indigo nights
and crushed by its unreality
that specific gravity?

tectonic movements
shiver our inevitable oceans
and you are
i see it now
an iceberg singing toward me.

The Mirror's Deception


When the mirror is there;
when one can only stare and ask why,
this is when
deception
is sitting across the table from us and
there is no answer
save an echo of the question.

Can any hope of reply
live perhaps in those pupils,
black and wavering
as you search?
Somewhere there seems to say,
does the moon live in its own shadow?

What anvil else
would one have,
would one trust,
but the delusion of wisdom
to beat one's self into shape upon,
this, the twin dark moons whisper,
is but one more revelation,
just one more small revelation.

Suicide notes and butterfly kisses

Thought leaves itself trailing in a hologram of sorts
or music
mine no less
and
snakes have heard me think
i swear
when entrenched in abject self-pity.

Thinking
no-one would miss me
corner turned and snake,
extremely venomous,
curled:
poised and
daring me to take that indifferent step.

Later,
pregnant,
i trailed along a riverbank
to see
butterflies playing upon a stem
and co-witnessing them
a snake
peacably prepared to let me be.

moth


“…like wine through water…” (Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights)

An isolated dream
that was forgotten
embedded, though, in my change.
My beings secret
lost and kept in a labyrinthine heart
going spasmodically thumpslapthump
so loud that I cannot drive a searching
thought
into any clear remembrance of its delicate veins,
its cellular membranes -
its strands running thin as silver,
tumbling and too light to grasp,
holding its seed and flying over.

Some Mother's Sons


oh "Lawrence of arabia"
you stride across that continent
with your intent camera
trained upon some mothers son or other
trained upon bloodstains
perchance
trained upon a troubled brow?

oh dear children
what have your mothers done
dear children
you grew twisted
insistent
upon this delusion
you are only as tough as your weapon
as cool as your tat
filming rat ta tat tat
as easy as
Bond stirring a cocktail
you think?

Drink the blood of lambs
yes
it has driven you mad

drives me insane
to think that you had
once
upon
a
time
innocence
such as this

my sons
my sons
my sons!

The Beauty



"if you believe that there's a man on the moon"...


Somewhere in that suburban maze
Of apartment and stair
Upon, perhaps, an obscure but hopeful musical score
Written and subsequently perused for rhythm
Or sense or sequence sublime
Breathing near to
But not hampered by
Fibonacci, or "three blind mice".
Maybe in the height of a dream
You in a red shirt with
Challenge in your eyes
Upon some American couple's bed
Who have just popped out the door,
Are haunting the corridor and
May return at any moment
Careless of open doors and furtive lovers
In the haze of Christmas cheer.
More like in the quiet running of
Stream water over toes under shelter of shaded heat
Or in the smooth flourishing ever-shortening
Skip of a smooth feeling stone and
Its herald of splash-trajectory overshot
Before it sinks to the deeps.
The passion that overcomes me
When my child unselfconsciously and lackadaisically
Expresses a sentiment with that opening flower of honesty
That is purity?

A sweet, near-unbearable pain of heart.

In the memory of a ghost upon
A familiar street,
The poignant silence of a headstone
In a morning cemetery.
Also tonight's rainbow nimbused burgeoning moon,
The streetlight ballet of graceful insects
Reminiscent of swimming stars
In sacred stasis
Momentarily
There in the floating petaled wheels
Of flowers dropped from magnificent heights
Upon meniscused surface
Of deeper stiller
Pond of stream.
Briefly in the exposed bill, grey and
Indistinct of platypii and
Their curling dive flicking ripples
In leaving.
There where fate feels unforced and easy.

There where beauty is unafraid.

Where peace breathes and
Shy delights warily move.
Upon each turn of an impossible day
Where spare dreams have made their way
Subtly into reality and
Impertinent calamities
Haven't quite perturbed
The easy smile.

palimpsest


palimpsest
One entry
found for palimpsest.
Main Entry:
pa·limp·sest
Pronunciation: 'pa-l&m(p)-"sest, p&-'lim(p)-
Function:
noun
Etymology:
Latin palimpsestus,
from Greek palimpsEstos
scraped again,
from palin + psEn to rub, scrape;
akin to Sanskrit psAti,
babhasti he chews
writing material
(as a parchment or tablet)
used
one or more times
after earlier writing has been erased
something
having usually diverse layers
or aspects apparent
beneath the surface...
well well.

Tear At A Ravaged Place



Abusus non tollit usum

This child's smudged face
staring through a window of broken glassed
neglected and aged memories
which haunt dreams like cobwebs...

cracks everywhere;
in eyes,
fractured smiles
in the air,
shards severing
(out of desparation)
the self.

Could you look through
that window of broken glass
to find her -
the smudged faced child
the water baby
the soot monkey
covered in black beetles
and shame
hiding under the house
fearing what's under bed and stair
hiding wide unearthly eyes
behind a curtain of hair.

Could you bear
the trauma of clumsy alarm
at the constant breaking
of glasses and plates
forgotten appointments
broken promises,
the problem
with committment?

Saturday, February 2

and the egg is such
a perfect shape
nestled in the physical universe
such a singing thing

its song one
its song beginnings
its very sign
'look ... love's inside ... sleeping ... gestate'

nights like this
when anger wakes you
robbing you of breath
end best when your angellic temperance
lays such eggs
in lieu of dream -

Maybe here the night moths
the insomniacs, instinctively
find each other -
reaching through their regret




Monday, June 4

Respekt Metaphysik


Psychedelik respekt metaphysik
cyberg
     ratio
          dancing
     in those
        androidballmasques
     or the chessgame birthday fantasy -
cherry pits
between your baby teeth
ohmogosh
   ohmigosh
       ohmigosh

Saturday, June 2

harmonograph

curled within that one-dimensional leaf,
that creation
harmonograph realised
and slipped feet into that slipper,
that shell is your shell
and worlds are tucked
into these plains and whorls -
i dream thus a citadel in my fingerprint
that becomes a labyrinth
walled by conjecture.

Alice


There's always a reason
but never an excuse
for there is no
such
thing,
Alice,
as better-than.
You stood there
with your great spotted mushroom
fantasy
telling me
of vodka-soaked expeditions
with the white rabbit.

Defendant


His frown directed sweats
from hairline to temple and neck,
his eyes held fright
like a cup holds black coffee
in some overlit complicit petrol-station roadstop restaurant
intimating something
distasteful but untried;
bought out of habit
like an afterthought
insinuating itself into second nature.
The styrofoam of his collared shirt
stiff and mundane,
destined to be disposed of
with dregs gritting the white and
staining the armpits,
now lies crushed,
abandoned on his laundry floor.

Absconding Angels

When heaven's clouds' temperences,
in spring storm whimsy,
most magnificently bank and rear
great walls of white appear and
arpetures fracture,
break, create arbours.
Into these
absconding angels peer
at mossy-trunked tree - their tusk-branches veined
with fruited vine,
meadow-bank and
green shade,
inviting sylvan recline.

Absinthe: A Satire


Without directly mentioning the perpetrator,
or the victim,
this thrumming summer tide -
an adrenal ocean froment
somewhere,
(and unforgettably near to the bowels),
is at times mentioned as a reason for living.

Paradoxically
people would die for feelings like this,
and it does give us something to drown in, though
this would be an admission of defeat
to the seasoned modern warrior.

Tempered in such heat
things may develop
at their own pace and
within their own contexts,
but is that any excuse for this??

Dreams become complex,
expectations and desires press them,
make heady wine
dissociative in its effect,
somewhat like absinthe in fact.

It is easy to see why they say
that the great poets and artists
got drunk on absinthe,
it is the closest thing
to an amniotic fluid of doubt
in which sensitives of the world swim about.
Not to say that this is immature,
(well maybe),
but life is nothing without its kiss,
but derided dust without its kiss.

To say that true feelings
can be accurately separated here from delusions
would not be true,
and one can perhaps 'protest too much'
of what is, at best,
a tremulous conviction.

This belies a predilection
for rhapsodic fantasies and
delusionist nighttime luxuries of
simultaneous solitude and company.

Perhaps it is only an
ambiguous schism
that is delightful, also
torturous in its many small and
perpetual betrayals,
breathing is sweetly rendered nonetheless.

Daring is encouragd by shouting blood,
and there is a delicious horror can be felt when
even minute transgressions rear their head.

It pleasantly confuses as weighed,
upon divine and delicately tared scales
are each subsequent action,
whether expression profound
or imbecilic absolute,
(at best a point-mute),
and subtleties of entropy
become the greatest boon,
the fiercest, most inimitable of enemies.

The Columbine Bloodletting


i can never seem to find you when i need you,
you grow, in part, inside of me and
i let your blood constantly.
i let your blood constantly
by taking other lovers
for they masquerade as you,
i can never tell the difference until
....

You still wear your masque
it is still you, Harlequin,
who can see me only
and i spin around
and around and
my long golden hair
becomes loosed and flies -
what matter?
no-one else can see me.
no-one else
can ever see me but you.

i let your blood constantly
as you grow inside of me,
in a way, like a poem
so that i don't get you wrong.

oh how i like dancing with you for
you are quite invisible, yet
every nerve
feels every sinew
as we prance through
this harrowing tango.

i am a cobra spitting
when those masques
are unmasked,
unmanned,
unwomanned.
Those kisses fade
and dryly smack
upon arbitrary contours, and
all that is left
is that feeling of need
for something else.

Harlequin, can you see me?
Columbine, where are you?
Harlequin!!
Columbine!!

These veils only part
at the behest
of some fateful breeze,
passionate wind,
or tempestuous storm.

i spin like whirlwind
i gather the dusts up
of anthill,
of civilization, and
my soul
will leave no rock unturned,
no tree unclimbed.

i am pursued
i pursue,
is it always to be so,
is it always invisible you?

Upon Mr Pope's Interpretation of Ovid's 'Metamorphosis'


I'll toast to one
who, methinks, did well,
to hold his silver tongue.
For to utter such opine
is most considerately done,
within silences of the pen.

Dying Refrain


There is a forgotten place
Music reaches for it for it is there...
in some faery realm
down paths known only to folk
as live  deep in velvet green
amongst timeless mossed forests,
highland slopes,
and deep down in rarely discovered valleys.

It is there in intermittent
tinkling of tin-cans, bottle tops,
(hanging for mysterious
superstitious purpose
on fence wire),
for the wind plays these things
and it knows...

It teases at our senses, touches
the lost and displaced part of our souls
with a hint of gorse-flower
with a dying refrain
tangled myths
vague powerful dreams, and
lovers hopes
of wild irish midnight
and selkies.

The rocks and the stones know.
They are still, silent, and holy
the carved sacred remains,
bones
of a civilisation,
bones of some kind of hindsight heaven,
bones of a Brigadoon
or a Summerland
all but lost to us now.

It is like a whispered secret,
its ghosts sit on logs in furs,
around welcoming blazes and
drink honeymead,
  they walk everywhere.

It exists as a spirit
in the lilt and the laughter
twinkling eyes
accents of fast-spoken gaelic -
language in which every word
sounds like an ancient spell,
every word
evokes heather, dragons, and peat flame.

It is to blame
when the wind whistles hard in the eaves
when frost reddens your nose
when a hearth-fire sings in the silence, and
when the moon says "run away with me,
i will show you",
yes the moon knows.

My Thoughts Return to You.


                             


I can at last write to you without guilt
I’ve left him and you are back in town
I can feel it before I know it

Your smile was death’s shadow stomping around in my heart.
I creep in the fields
Of your distaste and I learnt to hate.
In my young life I’ve learnt to hate
And this is a love poem.

Well the fields are lit by moonlight
And my creeping obsessions have been here
For so long they are furtive
They have learnt to survive under the guise of dreams
I’m surprised to see them here at all
It must be a trick of the moonlight.

We live in interesting times my friend
These indeed are interesting times.

I and he
No longer have to practice the subtle art of self-deception
Or self-denial.
We had, and still have, true love: it was born here
Right here in my bed
Right here in the kitchen
Our son
But now he is our only true love and there are to be no more of our children.

Now the heart again begins palpably to beat. A strong calm beat.
I was startled at first that it was not pounding
And feared a loss of passion swallowed up by this sadness
But its life it wants now, not a heart attack.

We stare with limpid lights blinking, a morning’s misted rain on lashes
Fur milky white and blue
Tremble souls in the face of beauty
Travel souls in a secret place
A pale face in an upstairs window sees through for a moment
The palpitating air
And then we are gone
Mist spirits that make your dogs growl
And you call us obsessions because you fear to follow us.
We return when the dogs are sleeping or dead
When your eyes are open right to the soul
To the pith of you
Then you can see
And feel, and know why we hid.
Know the secret of us, why we exist at all.
Our spontaneous form flies then into a curl
Of a swirl
Of a morning’s mist.

I dreamt my friend that I picked up my own skull’s tooth and held it in the air.
I dreamt of the morning that I held my son and our shadows formed as one upon the wall
as we looked at each other
.
I dreamt of the world after everyone had flown for a day: the resultant art, architecture,
Their dreams after that one day.

Sometimes I have nothing to do but watch a candle melt
Life and wax-morality quick, then slow down a pillar.

Around Winter Soltice


i was on the lip of sleep breathing a vapour of dreams
there rising from some pit of consciousness;
some song of self,
the notes of which were ascending images and impressions:
i must be screaming, i must be dreaming.

For if we climb one upon the other,
be a ladder of hope and help,
we perhaps would crawl out of this pit
we stepped into.

i saw your nose last night and
the worlds i remember poised upon its shape.
Those memories keep themselves warm in my chest
and make me hungry:
hungry for the kind of love that makes you shiver,
and bunch your knees up
and turns your toes inward and curls them.
i saw your smile at this communication
and obscure jokes passed between
and so too the thrill of recognition.

i hope you eat an apple today
and have a delicious bath
or hot, hot shower
and a conversation that brings to light
a bit more of our immortal soul
our everlasting inner life.

i hope i heard you say "i hope you sing a song."
        i dreamt that we were talking

i dreamt that you were telling me some intrinsic truth.

i dreamt that if we had made love
that we would’ve released the hounds of hell.

i walked home from the longest night of ninety-eight,
the moon and its star this morning were as some decoration
upon some goddess or other,
her cheek.

i sat upon a grassy uprooted tree stump
and watched its tree burn
and I fell into myself,
into my foolish self,
and knew that it was alright.
The dawn was an abalone's inner shell,
the sun was a jewel.
i saw the land,
valleys with lakes of mist -
mist fjords, solid enough perhaps to walk across.
i drank mulled wine and spoke of fairytales.
i can see the sun now from its reflection upon the leaves
warming the tops of things as it begins its southward curl.
Spring is heralded through the sap of a budding peach tree
and a growing pumpkin.

This bed faces the dawn
This dew hides or drowns.

Sirens of the Deep/ The Final Recompence.


Ministering,
otherworldly, beings -
perhaps they are sirens,
naiads,
called up from the depths
of every flyer's Thanitos:
these sepia nymphs
with caring hands,
rounded arms,
and gentle breasts upon a fallen cheek.

Would that i were laid,
in the end,
in such arms.
Divinities
crowding, in sympathy,
some creature dashed and wasted upon the rocks.

The Widow the Cat and the CarpetBagger.


  (Summer Sydney  1942.)

I was talkin’ to this joker and she walked by...
A small look, a laugh and chat to her friend...
My companion speaks again,
Belonging to the world before her:
“Will we be seeing yer out on Saturdee?”
“The races? Sure”
“Too fat to race anyway, me backs not what it used to be-
visit some when I’m passing through though”

and I stood there thinking that I was trapped by my own society.
There’s a whole world out there mate,
the sun that we see here burning your fat face
is the same one that rises over the pyramids
and touches the face of the Sphinx.
Bet life don’t ask you any riddles,
Lucky bastard
But yer carn't say that to 'em


“anyway tar mate I’ll seeya  next month”

the secret knowledge of stars


they whisper sweet nothings
to the lonely
to the dreamers who stare
for wont of anything else
singing silently
unknowingly
to them
they swing us in sweet circular exstacies
to sleep at night,
every night
sharing
lonely skies with
such dreamers who
must stare
with longing
at stars...

stars are...

they are the voices that chirrup constantly
when dark is quietest

the stars are every latent wish
waiting to fall
every undared kiss
limpid and exalted
dewing lips
of flowers
who still must grow at the wall.

Ripe


i am most absorbent today
soaking up my company
i am a sponge for dialect
reflected gesture
slips of the tongue
and awkward moments
have kept with me all day.
i feel people stare,
just for a moment,
at something dubious
something i cannot quite
put my finger on....
this causes
vague feelings of doubt
which plague happiness
yet
i have this momentum
a prow
which bursts over them
like i am cresting waves

fate may be fleeing with me
despite
and time burgeoning ripe.

Monday, March 26

opacity

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.



Erik Satie - Once Upon A Time In Paris

Sunday, December 3

Thalia


http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SKp3Z1ZC9VU/VGXItjawViI/AAAAAAAABZk/wPQYtfsH9cA/s1600/Henryk_Siemiradzki_-_Greczynka_przy_fontannie.jpg
truly you are
a reluctant and skittish muse
thick handed
throwing dysmorphic glances from
out of hooded gazes
shattering amorousglorioussunshine
whiterosesintheskyallday
moods

The longer we 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

Parataxical Distortion.



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,
rising constantly like
that of cicadas,
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.
They are
gignomai nonetheless.
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 pa,
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 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
if us there be,
whom I these days
hardly believe in
hope for the existence of
feel the intimations of.

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,
the knowing watchers-on
I hardly believe in
pained no more,
indulging in
the very great pleasure,
the final luxury,
of the last delighted 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
joyful sensual moral 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,
my Love,
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,
signalling their obtrusion.
This is but my ire
boring
but real
this turmoil of psychic energy
where shock
unravels itself
in bewildered introversion
and these at their most mistaken
are but transient beliefs
at best
becoming in their own right
art
from out of agonism.


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?