November 29, 2010 § Leave a comment
I certainly will not.
That will be you. A job for you. A task to do. Tick it off, the box beneath. Tick and read.
The lines hold out their arms and open up. Tick and read between them.
Again, an elevator.
I’m always the waiting star in white noon prayer.
Speed, pitch, focus.
It comes with hair.
It came in my hair, there.
November 28, 2010 § Leave a comment
November 26, 2010 § Leave a comment
Am I, walking, a womb or a woman? A womb in a woman? Or a woman around a womb?
This lamb doesn’t sell condos, on the coast or otherwise.
Is there a difference?
November 26, 2010 § Leave a comment
being with a man feels like
being without fingernails
being unable to peel my own mandarins
that’s what it feels like
being with a madman, rather than
being with a mandarin I can’t PEEL
still, I don’t want to be had
and you, told of you, told right
not wanting something you could not grasp
a hold of
you replaced it with people, lots of them things
just people, being
and at that layer, I would rather
have ‘seemed to be’
than ‘be seen to be seeming’
there is a difference, it lies between the third and fourth layers
the catch is
if you are without fingernails
you won’t ever find the difference
and this makes all the difference
to my existence
November 24, 2010 § Leave a comment
With your Blackpool eyes lighting the streets? How dare you make my knees quiver like leaves on a Fall Pile.
Who do you think you are?
Because you’re not you. You’re me. And I’m nobody.
To you. Ergo, you are no one to your SELF.
God the shiver like a river quiver quiver. Downriver I’m the giver you’re the take take taker.
I don’t mind. You make me tremble, make me ache/shake/quake.
There is me. And there is you. A you. And you are me; nobody.
Boldly I’m beginning to understand that ‘two’ is an illusion, necessary maybe. We’ve crafted words and phrases. We delude ourselves; we think we understand each other. Is there anybody out there? We are alone in our old old souls. This grows on me. You don’t know me. You are me. Yet you are apart from me.
What am I trying to say?
Just that I…am frightened of the reality of aloneness. And I need my delusions. And my okayness.
G’night, strange stranger. Stranger things have happened.
November 21, 2010 § Leave a comment
The wise woman in Flat 3/3 can smell snow, or so she tells to me. I am reminded of then, when we sat on my sill and smelt it coming through the streets. It settled beneath us. It was black and we looked out, and we could feel it. Yet I could see nothing, and my feet were cold and trembling. I leaned back. And that was that.
November 17, 2010 § 2 Comments
‘She could scarcely reach the chinaberry tree, where she waited in the growing heat while inside her she knew the cold river was creeping up and up to extinguish that eye which must know by now that she knew.’
She knew. Oh she knew.
And she cannot help speaking thrifty thrifty, third person. Singular. An omnipresence in the eye of a caspian. Those, assumed dead and gone. Spotted from time to time. Striped more often.
November 17, 2010 § Leave a comment
I speed up the pitch and discover that everything
when it’s unclear, or when it’s moving to fast for you
to hear the praise between the lines
or lack thereof
for nothing is this easy anymore
not even locking the door, or remembering to lock it thrice because
you don’t live here anymore
perhaps you never have (were you frozen, were you)
dead to the world above the boards you batter into place BANGA BANGA
your existence is a noise
they close ranks, and ears, eyes even
and you are not here, nor there, nor anywhere
you exist only in your own understanding
your own tip-toeing idea of your
that Ghose suggests is bourgeois- too safe to stick (well, she would)
and there is nothing beyond the bracken-yellow notion
of a man
onto the forty-three
and a half
there is nothing beyond no one no owning
and there endeth this
November 16, 2010 § Leave a comment
In an elevator.
I hope I can tell stories to kids as well as my mother did.
I hope I can two-face it when you’re two-stepping.
God you’re lovely.
God it’s good.
God who the hell are you? Where are you? When are you?
I notice your name reads from right to left; this leaves me speechless. I once loved letters.
Now, serious. No, seriously.
I’ll swap you my tonsils for your numerals. They’re pretty pink, did I mention? Enjoy them.
Your existence is a theatre. I enter. Here you are. There are you. Is this an answer to my ‘where are you?’
Side: Ahoy my crank, ahoy my creature.
Yes, this is an answer.
I need dreams, shelter. More surely, I need sleep.