today in six parts

i.
the beginning of a day.
i feel as full as a coffin.

ii.
the writing began (none too quick)
reassessing its position within
the relationship of the day.

iii.
awakelessness!
moving now, corporeal surprise inflected
beyond the formation and towards austere radiance.
(my words mean nothing. this is a joke.)

iv.
the time of repeat and crescendo
suits a minor key and the unreadable scrawl of melody,
note and resonance, all lined with heart
and embittered like the layered perfection
of attraction held between the notes
of a perilous symphony.

v.
i dream of me, aching
for the urgent futures
which fade into silence
with every succinct vibration.

vi.
conclusion:
draw perspective from plans and hours and the day.

slip of the tongue

in this city, the streets are constantly damp. heavy, heavy rain was forecast, but only by me. the ferocity of my predictions enhance the truth of the subject, but not the realism. the obvious conclusion is that nothing is true.

the pavements feel dry underfoot. i might fall.

j

the page has opened, a tear in monotony.

*

stolen passion with fluttering breath sees
eyelids firmed shut, but urgent wanting
drowns vision ahead of physical forms.

i can’t stop touching you:
collarbone, shoulder blade, ribcage,
hipbone, femur, ankle.

you speak of torn dreams of intimacy
in mysterious vowels, whispered,
i don’t understand ich liebe.

drift, drift my sweet
we are both safe
in our own languages

*

we lost the day and saw the night,
revolving pressures of the constellations
suffered through absence
(the vessel expanded as we filled it).

*

i look into your eyes and see
myself exploding through reduction
reducing the everything

the vessel extricates itself from its own implication
opens up, posing as nothing
it is everything, every thought is a removal.

you left on a monday,
on mondays there is more nothing
on mondays there is less something

*

the page has closed, a suspension of routine,
but i’ll see you again.

think

think of the situations, the aching of kidneys and the dry thorny throat. think of the head full of dust and bluff. think of the day that you experienced something. think of the understanding you will achieve in a few days. think of the clipping and precision and masking. think of ornamentalism. think of the inclination and of the drive. think of how you caught us all in your trap, your many traps. think of how you expose me. think of how i must be exposed. think of how to make a human human.

cut to…

(originally uploaded by bullish1974.)

daydreaming memories of an empty pre-season beach, an ocean that tunes the high string in my chest. a bucket, a shovel, the sand crabs, and a million three-year-old questions.

i am beside you

i am beside you
beside you
you
beside yourself.

airshow

i feel sorry for the bottom of the page, even fearful for the journey it awaits over its clear skies. the dark letters accumulate speed like age and become frantic and urgent, slanting in unbecoming diagonals as illegible vapor trails, the sickening loops of the letters nauseating me; enlarged, undulating lower-cases diving towards a conclusion, rushing headlong onto the next page, desperate for an end, throwing all clarity and therefore meaning, to the interpreters waiting upon the nearby airfield in ambulances.

invisible

i am writing. i arrived hours ago.

during the weekend, it is nice to abandon the pen for a while. it is relaxing to be able to pursue thought as an activity, without the finality of ink. conversation becomes an alibi and under the mottled throw of firelight and thick-beamed ceilings, we drink and talk and talk some more.

i pay for nothing, guilty, but the words are currency enough. later in the evening i shall draw pictures and hang them above the bar like a portrait washing line. i try to retain something of the person. some say this is the work of a madman, or of arrogance. i believe in neither.

judgement and adaptation requires patience and dead sound. i speak not a word initially when in new company: i am too wary of my own afflictions. words spoken too early reach shores unchartered and condemn themselves. i am not a sound, yet. remember, i was guilty before i began.

in this way i talk of nothing, think of my journal and allow the relations to unfurl like leaves in first light, the silent hated observer.

but now i pick up the pen and endure the release, this positive waste of time. it stops me talking to people, at least, which i am thoroughly bored of.