reasonable

the envelope on which i wrote a poem, it raises itself as a question. the poem was not a poem but an aphorism.

potency is the regard of the dreamer, it said.

i left the envelope in a friend’s room. it was nothing to do with him, save his presence. he read it and felt ashamed.

i have been a bad friend, he said.

i denied his statement.

that wasn’t about you, i said. that was about someone else.

but it could have been about me, he said. it could have been about me.

it wasn’t, i insisted.

it may as well have been, he said. it may as well have been.

fare

regrets and disillusionment mean nothing to me; they are a want forgotten.

a taxi pulls up outside the house. it, in its own ridiculous, pertinent way, is exactly what i talk of. it is desire arriving with the gentle crescendo of pitch.

i hear it, alert.

perhaps it is an old lover, i think: mistaken and apologetic, knocking at my door to seek reconciliation, friendship and physical warmth.

i walk down the stairs and open the front door, just to be sure. there is nothing there except the cold, rainy night.

you promised me poems

gulp stream
the freshwater air
coming through my window
is the cause of an error.

discipline
i try not to respond
or form a movement
when denied something
that i am used to.

plot
a manifesto,
like all books,
of survival.

working nights
cautious mornings where i get up late,
are sites for rumbling traffic
and tired hate.

i need net curtains
obnoxious passers-by
crane their necks.
i would rather wring them.

modest
nine times out of ten,
our hearts just get dissolved.

horizontal
choking on chocolate,
i realize that my diet
isn’t wholly appropriate
for this time of night.

denial
the last time i tried
to shut everything out
i trapped my face in the door.

magazine
i should like to write a magazine.
i will be the editor and i shall
write the articles and do the pictures
and the design and the cover,
as well as the interviews,
marketing and promotion,
advertising and distribution.
i will then buy it.
i will be the only one.

glyph

a short statement relaying a maxim of general truth.

i wrote this earlier, but could not find the book. it was under an ashtray. i have clearly foregone writing in order to pursue death.

on reading old words, i shudder. they seem to indicate a lack of presence, they do not seem to be me. i cannot judge them or comment upon them. i am too busy realizing a fascination with my own handwriting. it speaks to me more than the words.

i wanted to say so much more.

too many to choose from

(originally uploaded by bullish1974.)

this butterfly can’t decide which flower to land on.

a sense of decorum

for us, distance is beautiful,
decisiveness lies in the clouds
and futures are eradicated.
we have lost our rhythm.
we are a ruptured sonnet.

dreamweaver

i dreamt of smoking cigars, and woke up eating cadbury’s chocolate fingers. there is nothing more to be said.

tomorrow is forever

walking the streets tonight
whilst thinking that tomorrow
is forever and yesterday is a lost dream.

james everyman, 1911-1987

they hear me, always.

—-o—-oOo—-o—-

we spoke in conversation last night, a conversation i had suggested, and managed to set up an expanse of land between ourselves so that, as we shouted across the expanse, the words became distorted with distance and were misheard. we employed methods of communication, sometimes repeating the words over and over, or drawing out the vowels and accenting the hard sounds.

nothing worked, we were deaf to each other. i picked up a guitar and you waited for me to play. you did the same and we sat in silence.

my fingers quivered as they pressed the strings, without noise. soon they were playing, but it was too late to retrieve the onus. i tried to follow your footsteps, picking my way through a minefield disguised as a vegetable patch, pursuing your secure path. we soon grew bored of this unstated chase and you stopped playing.

i continued for ten minutes while you investigated the ceiling and measured the lengths of your fingers.

soon after, i left.

your house is the only one in the street with steps and foliage. as i walked down to the level of the street, sideways, i felt the cold and turned to say goodbye. you were already laughing and closing the door in a friendly way. i took my first step onto the street among the first swing of rainy nights and then turned as i heard you speak. the door was already closed. i set off down the road, swore that i heard it open once more.

—-o—-oOo—-o—-

the park is dangerous at night; i have been told.

—-o—-oOo—-o—-

full of invigorating melancholia and interesting fatigue, i walked home. this only happens to cynics and critics.

the city was dead and the streets were empty. pockets of life were seen encapsulated behind the curtains of a flickering living room, or heard, breathy, through a barely open window.

my plan was always to walk and take pictures. such was the parity of the situation.

the camera took pictures of streetlights mainly. some were at a distance, caught communal in clusters, while others were strung out in regulated formation, confirming perspective, distance and the curve of the journey home, angling the camera as it passed under the flare of the light.

i wanted to take pictures of the ghost of myself.

when walking alone at night, through deserted streets, it is possible to take pictures of the ghost of oneself as it extends beyond us looking for sleep. it was past midnight and i photographed nothing of interest.

i was soon home.

—-o—-oOo—-o—-

i was not expecting to see anyone, and i didn’t. this is how things usually are. they hear me as i return to sleep. i hear them as they usher quiet goodbyes under the door.