stories we’ve told

they died through the telling of modern tales:
the long evenings of traffic
the forlorn curvature of the bus route
the happening at x of x
the workers strike strike striking
the development borne through consequence
the encyclopaedic decline of potent labors
the landlord not allowing animals
the spectral bond achieved with furnishings
the swollen pots and chequered rugs
the carpeted excuses
the literacy achieved without a phone
the disturbing regularity and frequency of the hour
the condescending tone of the ceiling
the noise at the back door
the arguments with the walls
the casual, doleful lounging at noon
the constructing of a silo for emotion
the trespass into a dream
the words of her
the devil’s version of events
the gravity of the situation
pulling water from the tap.

9 to 5

the murmur of a memoir, the registers are in trays. you get on top of them and meet more people. which is good.

greeting

the thought of the thought of the event reduces me to a slight frenzy of disillusionment and mistrust, culminating in an overall sense of the feeling that leads to an emotion that reasons with logic and argues with disparity before unveiling itself to an erringly eager conciousness which stands up tall, free of all notions of regret and obligation, masked behind lost poems and the voices of dissent, all those hours of hope and the multiple false dawns, the strained eyes looking through the window, waiting waiting waiting, thinking of last time, hoping and waiting again, pleading with the stars to make this the only time, and then waiting again, the singular and the right thing to do, i want this more than anything and together we belong, so i take a deep breath and say, did you have a nice weekend?

summer’s end

my narrative corrosion ended
with that damp, potent association
and the journey into a cold, cold reality
where the rot of literature’s work,
thriving in the heights of repetition,
brought home the message;
there is no voyage without word,
there is no summer without rain.

a token

the harvest moon hangs, like an asterisk in the sky denoting the footnote of the ground.

i rescind from the firmament for a moment, the sentences of the streets pulling away from me and providing references. walking through their perpendiculars seems slower today and my progress appears faltering and sporadic: the distraction of shops in one direction, an accidental interaction with the eyes of another, as though he was looking through me. suddenly, where am i? a forgotten task, the distraction of shops in one direction, chewing gum tastes like metal, indiscernible sensory realization. this is the way.

caution would love to laugh at spontaneity, but is too afraid.

the evenings haul themselves over the city, summertime has almost ended and i have to suffer the great slumbering body of night, shifting its hulk over the horizon and flattening out the heavens, denying day, darkness removes warmth, though; foresight and hope are difficult to maintain in the heat. chin into clothing, hands into pockets and suddenly that sickening, fulsome feeling, like death but quicker, warms my insides and makes my heart nauseous, it is the remembrance of loss and the execution of will, the reminder that i control nothing and the choice was not, will never be mine, a splintering of facades and convenient lies, all the false dawns i have ever made from paper and sticks, all of them.

in my pocket, a letter.

the human condition

despite the fact that i know the
difference between glass and enamel,
i have just been to the toilet
and i feel like a mammal.

mainly guesswork

today was praising of me,
full of exactitudes and song;
poems came too easily.

tonight is different,
full of possibles and song;
sleep will come too soon.

return, enter

a restart of sorts: hours of cabling workmen, technical support, forced tears, restricted malice, ipconfig commands, microsoft networking solutions, have disk, compact flash error detected.

a restart of sorts: come and fix the windows and i still have work to do. fine. this one? that one. nine times out of ten that’s [pointing] the problem. well, is it? no, not really.

a restart of sorts: the information in this pack is correct at the time of going to press, but xxxxxx reserves the right to make subsequent changes to it and services may be modified, supplemented or withdrawn. this is a legally binding contract.

a restart of sorts: back to the feeling that i don’t exist, startled by mirrors and a distance between mind, emotional presence and social character. this is apparition. i am ghost. i feel spirit. my bed is still unmade.

—-o—-oOo—-o—-

blank page, no resistance. just more complexities without rhythm, blue skies above me, the weather in this sunny summer keeps turning on me, i am back in line at last. the horoscopes are as they should be.

the depth of field continues, creating patterns live/s. previously no means to express but now, glowing in a positive rejection of institutionalised creativity (and reeling from perpetual failed relationship) there is at last a feeling of full space.

there must be someone near. there is no one near.

surround myself with creativity, disregard blistered thoughts of obligation-fucking-obligation, dislocation, time spent, dust in throat and eyes, i remain remote, fluid and without emotive stance.

there is no catchment area for how i feel. the tradition is the platform. i cannot compete with your love for the world.

(sorry, it has been a while.)