ghosts in the machine

i often forget that my revelations are at the mercy of a server. apologies for interruptions in flow.

happy new year.

firstly poetry

so, what of the potentials of poetry, extending beyond verse and stanza like the path of a child running into the traffic.

allow poetry its due, the play of color, form and shape. allow a domination over notions of artistic perfection and accepted modes of appreciation, and succession over interpretation of meaning and critical discourse.

the silencing of transcendental ideas.

this avoidance of the detrimental command of language.

rilke first stated, “enclosures around the limitlessly wordless.” the obvious contradiction that takes place within them; a contradiction appreciated and employed by true poets, showing limits and pervasive style functions.

beauty, it seems, is not enough for poetry. it must rise to the ideals of itself, and all the paradoxes contained therein.

in the dream

(originally uploaded by bullish1974.)

i buried my heart in a patch of dirt, in the middle of a sun-scorched field, left it there, never to return.

the grieving lecturer

easing the aim and nutrition of defecation and response with running water, pooled in cupped hands, and then drained and now staring at veins which make me think of the worn old picture frames we used to fascinate over, me and sis, me fascinated while she just watched, sympathetic towards learning.

the bathroom is missing something, perhaps a tape recording, a loop of pre-recorded voices warning or prohibiting, or perhaps a recording of water running played just audible so when i turn the tap off, it is not too much of a shock and i can reach for the towel and not tremble.

leaving the bathroom now, and last night i dreamed of the grieving lecturer, a character over and over again, i dreamed him and erased him and re-dreamed him again and again. i could only remember him as a memory when i awoke. this time he had a heavy beard, was tall, and had a crumpled linen suit and he was holding a brick, in tears, at the front of the lecture theater. if this doesn’t stay as an image, nothing will. he will be different tonight no doubt, but still dying of loss like always.

friend expenditure

paid out our furious evening duplicating ourselves
across town pulling transport and we, fleeting, making it
through doors and around tables donating the good words
and laughing just as loud as the rest,
they were quick to forget that we had arrived,
because we were just there.

the poetics of conversation held stunned in eager mouths,
while revolutions appear on stage, ever altering musicians
aligning upon a axis of longevity and tribute
raising glasses and tempos in the name
of the anniversary of a naming ceremony,
we two had something to celebrate that night
because we were just there.

dislocated

dislocation.

incriminating inactivity

there have been decades of failure contained within the flat recently. drawing the curtains is a cause for celebration, and this keyboard has been left unhammered, the table legs unmarked, the housemates unruined.

i have plans. i coast.

literary dreams of coagulation, sedimentary ideas, several stories laced and bound, layered and bound. the talk will be of the debate, the neurotic documentary, the balding ambition, the stock novel response (eager eyes wait), the shrinking circles i dance in, the plasterboard friends i provoke, the influences stolen away in the breath of night.

i choose to sit elsewhere, away from the noise.

i do a lot of reading and always wake with a headache, foundational migraine but i catch it in due time. the blue notebooks achieves a repetition and i sleep when i am hungry, for the food costs. a rescinding pallor–that word again–heightens the nutrient drain of accessible health.

if only i had a blender and you. for my health and well-being of course, i’m not plotting a death or anything.

king of the mountains

detour de france
(it makes up for my
literary thrift and squallor).