Friday, 3 December 2010

putting on your shoes,
I think for a long time
how you've got me now

walking to the reservoir
I remember
how you said so little

we the people,
moss-eyed accidents
our
mouths
are cemented over

we risen mudfolk
of the pine- strewn swamps
scattered car parts everywhere

grow for me-

you've got me walking to the reservoir
where there are reeds and marsh and ducklings
and phantoms for me

can't you grow for me?

I have
all this pithy hope
pushing on your shoes.

rise up mud-folk
and be good to yourselves

or I will wed incomplete she
and whirlwinds come crashing down
until the end of days

Tuesday, 16 November 2010

feeling of post-school

cross-table growing

quiet quiet

groupsong
in

browntime

your hair
it is the season for it

sun shouts

me! me!

like a flier

behind the zoetrope
in the treetops

sun! sun!

your teeth
white as a sky coming

I am

getting


to


know


you

Wednesday, 4 August 2010

avia

"look at the way the light is moving in the tree
over there
It sparkles, it bursts!
it glimmers,

but if your head’s a locked-steel-safe,
you’ll see nothing.

Am I making you uncomfortable?
Move your head that way and kiss me.

For more than three seconds!
You’re not very good at this.

You should go climb a tree. You should do it.

see my body's bop eternal!

blue and green and green and blue and white light,
do you think we are all just some process?

isn't it amazing?"

east manhattan

wet buoyant,
in slithy out cafes we dined
before the fall came fast
and winter rained

your hand shelters between the
towers, things immemorial,
black and red and tall

there was a rain
that was good

Thursday, 15 July 2010

bye bye run-away freedom

bye bye houndrel
bye bye musket
bye bye ra-ra
bye bye ragdog

yap yap yap with a
scrawl and yelp
run and hunt
sneer and growl
dive and whine

licking confusion
growling protection
panting the window pane
butting the doorframe

angry for a day
dead in an hour

bye bye
musket
ragdog
freedom

Saturday, 10 July 2010

Occultic Linguistic Substitutions

I didn’t know much about filigree when I set out to Zod, but I was sure- by God I was sure- I would know when I got there. This was not the case. When I arrived, a troupe of troubadorian heretics merely stuttered and stammered and tried to distract me with taverns and local statues of a heroic pub landlord from five centuries ago, and not a single resident in that blasted town would speak a word of filigree. I was damned insulted. I left in shame, and, to this day, regret that long, foodless journey from Alkaron to the promised land of Zod. Of course, it is in those filigrean words I remark upon it now- “ig temoria tepdilep, sukomo fun pap pap.” This means, in the Chochokian dialect, “Fuckers fly where vastness lies,” and I suppose it is a little nihilism about my whole journey. I have always flown to vastness and stood waiting for a majestic Prick to burst from the ash or sand, and of course it never would. I suppose that in some way or another all of us are standing in valleys of ash, waiting for pricks.
Another great saying of the Chochok-tribe is “Zelulu andulu kelumina ap prapabat.” Something of a mouthful, it means, “I’m no sinner to things my momma says ub-luvely.” Now this is a little confusing, because ‘ub-luvely’ is an unusual English word. It’s actually an occultic linguistic substitution; a very difficult phenomenon to explain. But I will try my best:
The human heart is composed of sensations. No one is sure how many. It was once thought by the Chochok that Five Primal Senses governed the human spirit, but the modern age has heralded one new sense after another, until the diversification became so intense that an infinite number of sensations can now be assumed to exist. Love, hate, masochism, sex, brother-love, egoism: all are sensations. In language, words are used to denote these sensations. The Chochok scholars believed that most of the time there are always a greater number of words per sensation than there are sensations per words. This meant that a complex sentence or an involved speech might be entirely the subconscious’ controlling of the conscious to express a single sensation. This entirely re-imagines the concept of the adjective in language. Now all of language is a description for something unknown which can never be properly described- the great silent thing at the back of all our minds, trying to get out in stumbling sentences, sprawling paragraphs, and whole lives.
And so the Chochok synthesised a new language. Now there would be words to denote the primal sensations- not adjectives, not nouns, but substitutions for ‘real words’. A replacement of the former, fallible words, with new, deliberately senseless words. Of which primal force ‘ub-luvely’ in particular is supposed to summon into existence I cannot say, because no one knows what the primal forces are. Maybe the primal sensations are not discrete, but intermingled in a constant jelly-like mass. So I cannot tell you the meaning of ‘ub-luvely.’ I understand its meaning innately, but I would find it impossible to convey. The closest comparison to occultic linguistic substitutions predating their development that I can think of is the Tao; if you can imagine a million Taos all fighting for breathing space and lusting for human lives to conquer.
I mention the ub-luvely because it has been, if nothing else, the driving force in the last few decades of my long life. I have seen it pull me drowning into the surf, drag me wailing down a Dolomite peak, and incline my head to hear a voice calling to me from the very bottom of the sink. Ever since I was a child I have been convinced that greater beasts lie concealed under the plughole, singing whalesong into the bathroom for me. Their ub-lovely tones would swirl for me about the shower-curtain and entreat deep into my armpits and testicles. Their voices were cold like a chill wind, and I felt like I was showering on some Scottish moor in on a dead autumn morning, droplets of fluoride-treated water blown from my body by the natural claws of that wind, goosebumps rising from my tactile thighs to my icy nipples; the Dawn Chorus of satan...

Sunday, 4 July 2010

sleeping facebook profile,
sleeper,
inhuman pouring
quiet, at least with the nightime ramble
up on these hills
you can glance at the windows
with glinting passing kitchen doings
tireless humans
refuelling
after another hour