I have officially moved to tumblr. It is lots more exciting. I might sometimes come back here for the other blogs I follow... But otherwise, auf wiedersehn!
Come visit- http://sorejigsaw.tumblr.com/
Thursday, 30 September 2010
Thursday, 16 September 2010
Tumbl Tumbl Bumpl
I'm thinking of moving onto Tumblr... It seems like there are more people on there, I follow a few of them anyway.
Also Blogger is a bit primitive design-wise. Watch this outer space.
Also Blogger is a bit primitive design-wise. Watch this outer space.
Strainer
Violent curtains clipped on do nothing to quell
sharp light showers scratching my eyelids open
to greet melange flower blancmange worlds, no longer
skeletal but, shadows swapping, their coloured prints left behind my eyes
like the pin pricks I find in the dark.
I fight but I've never before tried
to hold out a stronger impulse than the engulfing light,
heat creeps up my spine, I watch my toes from snow to red,
and a back, moles, clammy multiply-
I touch my nose to shoulder blade, but still my body agitates
to watch the show.
A body so still, the skin exposed so cold it feels like requested death,
like the broken words distant that were almost disconnected,
the dead heats a little and the rattling cars
shake peripheral distractions into vibrating spikes
which pierce my tear ducts and induce sanitary saline.
A small frame weighs in my head far more than its gravity
I can't move its perfect straight arms,
only shift wisps of pale hair from beneath my cheek.
Silence speaks and asks me to stay awake
and I politely decline,
gripping my love log body fallen asleep and praying for a copycat,
empathy pregnancy.
Heart beats meld together as the ventricles get slapped in time
only broken by the vehicles at intervals,
creaking wood, cracking aches and bright disdain.
sharp light showers scratching my eyelids open
to greet melange flower blancmange worlds, no longer
skeletal but, shadows swapping, their coloured prints left behind my eyes
like the pin pricks I find in the dark.
I fight but I've never before tried
to hold out a stronger impulse than the engulfing light,
heat creeps up my spine, I watch my toes from snow to red,
and a back, moles, clammy multiply-
I touch my nose to shoulder blade, but still my body agitates
to watch the show.
A body so still, the skin exposed so cold it feels like requested death,
like the broken words distant that were almost disconnected,
the dead heats a little and the rattling cars
shake peripheral distractions into vibrating spikes
which pierce my tear ducts and induce sanitary saline.
A small frame weighs in my head far more than its gravity
I can't move its perfect straight arms,
only shift wisps of pale hair from beneath my cheek.
Silence speaks and asks me to stay awake
and I politely decline,
gripping my love log body fallen asleep and praying for a copycat,
empathy pregnancy.
Heart beats meld together as the ventricles get slapped in time
only broken by the vehicles at intervals,
creaking wood, cracking aches and bright disdain.
Sunday, 12 September 2010
Après la débardeur, la fin du monde
The whole world is defined by disease, lines,
they laugh and scratch on permanent marker armways
to make it their own. The
boyfriend in a misnomer is making no friends
except
and how can we scream for one another
when disease won't make you dumb?
The world simultaneously screams and spits in paralysis
nothing but asthmatic dissonance escapes
the breath red pit of meaninglessness
tumbling
its hands reach for furniture and time pieces
and claim them,
slippery,
marker won't write yet you're still stuck in your hospital bed
and the marker that loves you instead
writes dots on your shrunken eye sockets
where the incisors would go.
Tiny creatures claim you with claws instead
shining eyes pierce through screens
and tickle your sore coccyx.
Void has fists.
they laugh and scratch on permanent marker armways
to make it their own. The
boyfriend in a misnomer is making no friends
except
and how can we scream for one another
when disease won't make you dumb?
The world simultaneously screams and spits in paralysis
nothing but asthmatic dissonance escapes
the breath red pit of meaninglessness
tumbling
its hands reach for furniture and time pieces
and claim them,
slippery,
marker won't write yet you're still stuck in your hospital bed
and the marker that loves you instead
writes dots on your shrunken eye sockets
where the incisors would go.
Tiny creatures claim you with claws instead
shining eyes pierce through screens
and tickle your sore coccyx.
Void has fists.
Thursday, 26 August 2010
Sagash
Tumbling empty spaces
twist and turn
the platform in my head speaks tomes, quick, thousands
beating out the rhythms
of the lights behind my eyelids- just pinpricks
rainbows falling behind you,
beat it out, beat it out, and another, and how many can you take
before they shrivel up spent?
Lives plaited spread in my eyes and I'm watching a girl behind glass,
she beckons to the person stood behind me
a beetle
a cactus
and nobody can hear me, as curling sensations hold my body in rapture
so weak, pushing a sheet
doesn't cause a crease.
My childhood toys have had their eyes removed but limbs left
black dots circle my bed
I want to cry in their eyes, not mine,
cascade of cotton wool liquid drowns my metre of space-
boys lying on the floor, tiny shrunken boys.
Sand and concrete fill my head,
High rise lawyer wants me dead,
Culture conquest at an end,
Jesus won't you be my friend?
Apnoea never came close to these rattling dirges,
chemistry left me empty handed and my body disappears,
leaving my head and hands separated-
a mother? A grip? I'm so distant
and I know you're further still- beyond choking supermarket patrons
pricking the hairs on the back of my neck.
These things don't reflect in the vacuum of hours
in which forever and I sleep together, protected. Rubber just removes reality.
Enormous rodents pick apart my head
and wonder what it's good for,
plant eyes on my back
and twist nails into my kneecaps, thigh, the back of my hand,
I focus on specific patches of my skin
the patterns whirl and disperse when I watch them too hard-
the hairs refuse to stand up any longer
I am pneumonia,
hidden in a tree trunk.
Ranking amateurs by their own admission,
there is no truth in recognition.
There is no poetry in language-
no life in my text messages-
dead leaves.
Defiant bastards stride beyond my peripherals into screens
tell me I'm wrong and sick, my first person absorbs even vampiric-pseudo-kindness.
Racking brains leaves only bars to swing from in the night time
sniffing with only a wall to hide me
back into Toyland.
You're still outside of here, in the commune,
waiting for word from God. She's misogynist busy.
I asked my mind last night, and he said very clearly,
he said he's not sure how we got here,
but it's so bright it must be good.
There are gorgeous trees in the distance I see
and enormous ocean
animals love me, blue beautiful and pretty giggle cupflosscake: welcome!
I am Snow White and I am immortal,
we're going to be here for an awfully long time, so settle in, it'll change to suit your mood,
your consciousness was caught on a rock, that's all,
this is the sparkling waterfall.
Desert to the East will give you rides on dunes piled on top
and we all feed from electricity here, resources will run out, but we can't perish,
there are huge turquoise ferns waving purple rivers rushing over motionless fish
their bug eyes don't swivel except in winter when the ice contains them-
the rainforest smells good
and there are no civilisations except the ants, which coincidentally, are edible.
We all wear dresses all the time
the church bells chime
for eucharist wine
your cornea will scream
for our scenes,
it's perfect and forever
perfect and forever
perfect and forever.
twist and turn
the platform in my head speaks tomes, quick, thousands
beating out the rhythms
of the lights behind my eyelids- just pinpricks
rainbows falling behind you,
beat it out, beat it out, and another, and how many can you take
before they shrivel up spent?
Lives plaited spread in my eyes and I'm watching a girl behind glass,
she beckons to the person stood behind me
a beetle
a cactus
and nobody can hear me, as curling sensations hold my body in rapture
so weak, pushing a sheet
doesn't cause a crease.
My childhood toys have had their eyes removed but limbs left
black dots circle my bed
I want to cry in their eyes, not mine,
cascade of cotton wool liquid drowns my metre of space-
boys lying on the floor, tiny shrunken boys.
Sand and concrete fill my head,
High rise lawyer wants me dead,
Culture conquest at an end,
Jesus won't you be my friend?
Apnoea never came close to these rattling dirges,
chemistry left me empty handed and my body disappears,
leaving my head and hands separated-
a mother? A grip? I'm so distant
and I know you're further still- beyond choking supermarket patrons
pricking the hairs on the back of my neck.
These things don't reflect in the vacuum of hours
in which forever and I sleep together, protected. Rubber just removes reality.
Enormous rodents pick apart my head
and wonder what it's good for,
plant eyes on my back
and twist nails into my kneecaps, thigh, the back of my hand,
I focus on specific patches of my skin
the patterns whirl and disperse when I watch them too hard-
the hairs refuse to stand up any longer
I am pneumonia,
hidden in a tree trunk.
Ranking amateurs by their own admission,
there is no truth in recognition.
There is no poetry in language-
no life in my text messages-
dead leaves.
Defiant bastards stride beyond my peripherals into screens
tell me I'm wrong and sick, my first person absorbs even vampiric-pseudo-kindness.
Racking brains leaves only bars to swing from in the night time
sniffing with only a wall to hide me
back into Toyland.
You're still outside of here, in the commune,
waiting for word from God. She's misogynist busy.
I asked my mind last night, and he said very clearly,
he said he's not sure how we got here,
but it's so bright it must be good.
There are gorgeous trees in the distance I see
and enormous ocean
animals love me, blue beautiful and pretty giggle cupflosscake: welcome!
I am Snow White and I am immortal,
we're going to be here for an awfully long time, so settle in, it'll change to suit your mood,
your consciousness was caught on a rock, that's all,
this is the sparkling waterfall.
Desert to the East will give you rides on dunes piled on top
and we all feed from electricity here, resources will run out, but we can't perish,
there are huge turquoise ferns waving purple rivers rushing over motionless fish
their bug eyes don't swivel except in winter when the ice contains them-
the rainforest smells good
and there are no civilisations except the ants, which coincidentally, are edible.
We all wear dresses all the time
the church bells chime
for eucharist wine
your cornea will scream
for our scenes,
it's perfect and forever
perfect and forever
perfect and forever.
Lalaaa Giraavaru
I didn't drop off the face of the earth, I just went underneath for a while.
Hello real world, I didn't miss you one bit.
Back to notepad.. I've got a couple of little projects up my sleeve for when I get back into Brighton, watch this Floetic space. I need a handheld tape recorder. I'm sure there's one in the house, it used to sit on my bookcase but it ran away... Also, a brown paper bag.
Lex asked if I would do something with him. Maybe I will try writing something for it.. Or should I wait?
Hello real world, I didn't miss you one bit.
Back to notepad.. I've got a couple of little projects up my sleeve for when I get back into Brighton, watch this Floetic space. I need a handheld tape recorder. I'm sure there's one in the house, it used to sit on my bookcase but it ran away... Also, a brown paper bag.
Lex asked if I would do something with him. Maybe I will try writing something for it.. Or should I wait?
Thursday, 5 August 2010
Swapsies
In me, I'll be in you, making white line boundary
signals of stretch where I fit in,
don't want no blue eyes, I want yours-
rip the scalp like velcro noises that I miss, kiss your innocent pale bone on top
and take your hair, too,
short or long bright or dull he'll love it:
bags of lipids leaping over fences- you have mine,
share with me all you know-
and this must be love because because
now I'll really be L G B T
never felt before I guess you're tighter than me too
and what love doesn't seek a perfect, opposite, symmetry..
leaking a little, your socket swivels and I'm sick
of you now
inside me
it went topsy turvy, I might be patched up
with your pretty qualities
but now I've got your ghost on the brain, pinching with tweezers
from your make up bag, picked out nail polish around smut sinks,
mess is so OUT THERE-
she knows these parts don't fit:
synapses reject my thighs, not enough ripped off-
my face, nose refused to detach-
this brain, there's not enough.. grey or.. white- it's red,
haemorrhage banquet laid out
you eat it with what organs I left you
and we're together at last.
signals of stretch where I fit in,
don't want no blue eyes, I want yours-
rip the scalp like velcro noises that I miss, kiss your innocent pale bone on top
and take your hair, too,
short or long bright or dull he'll love it:
bags of lipids leaping over fences- you have mine,
share with me all you know-
and this must be love because because
now I'll really be L G B T
never felt before I guess you're tighter than me too
and what love doesn't seek a perfect, opposite, symmetry..
leaking a little, your socket swivels and I'm sick
of you now
inside me
it went topsy turvy, I might be patched up
with your pretty qualities
but now I've got your ghost on the brain, pinching with tweezers
from your make up bag, picked out nail polish around smut sinks,
mess is so OUT THERE-
she knows these parts don't fit:
synapses reject my thighs, not enough ripped off-
my face, nose refused to detach-
this brain, there's not enough.. grey or.. white- it's red,
haemorrhage banquet laid out
you eat it with what organs I left you
and we're together at last.
Coraly Voy
Black brown covers dash about
pink pony tail ties twitching, stray thin blades
curl up. Move on. She's running over gym equipment, and
all there is, is hair ties, is tiny clothing bought by
guardian.
In a room, another room, thousands of square spaces define
your head, tiny feet, bumping into others,
once or twice
shiny dark eyes see the unknown, void,
in echo chambers always with them them they stand, walk, sit,
talk, push you, your body not shaped
in peripheries I search you out,
my own head emptied in language and horgone
waking dream-
arms like vegetables reach upwards and I am upwards I see them
pick you up, body so light glances at me
and in a moment I'm analysed:
transformed into an elaborate hiding place-
where better to hide than within another?
You stay quiet in my clavicle
I can feel your nose nudge, erratic breathing,
nails too short for sharpness rather exfoliate
for seconds I'm a mother. And yours. Yours now found deep down.
Instructors abort you for the next way to fill your day-
Caesar's scissors on my chest cut lightly bleed milkshakes-
shoulders break.
Tiny badminton life.
pink pony tail ties twitching, stray thin blades
curl up. Move on. She's running over gym equipment, and
all there is, is hair ties, is tiny clothing bought by
guardian.
In a room, another room, thousands of square spaces define
your head, tiny feet, bumping into others,
once or twice
shiny dark eyes see the unknown, void,
in echo chambers always with them them they stand, walk, sit,
talk, push you, your body not shaped
in peripheries I search you out,
my own head emptied in language and horgone
waking dream-
arms like vegetables reach upwards and I am upwards I see them
pick you up, body so light glances at me
and in a moment I'm analysed:
transformed into an elaborate hiding place-
where better to hide than within another?
You stay quiet in my clavicle
I can feel your nose nudge, erratic breathing,
nails too short for sharpness rather exfoliate
for seconds I'm a mother. And yours. Yours now found deep down.
Instructors abort you for the next way to fill your day-
Caesar's scissors on my chest cut lightly bleed milkshakes-
shoulders break.
Tiny badminton life.
Who wants a pretty picture, then?
I've been talking to Lex about starting a comic... He doesn't want to draw of course, so I've been playing around- god it's been a long time, though. My skewed sense of proportion almost makes me want to get the oil paints out and check I can still at least control the muscles in my hand... It's funny how just living your (my) life is probably the biggest obstacle to perspective!
Never mind. I'll be back in Brighton soon, and I'll start life drawing again, and then there'll be no excuse for these messy JTHM inspired stick figures. No more whining to the Samaritans about how my life is a dead end uncreative ditch. At least the poems are still coming in some form or another. I did think about stopping. But then there really would be nothing. Or rather, just one more thing to whine about.
In the mean time, can somebody please do a riot grrl cover of You're Gonna Miss Me by the 13th Floor Elevators? I've been dreaming about this for the past week or so.
Dirty words.
Monday, 2 August 2010
Purkinje Evangelist
No month, decade, moment is cruel, horribilis-
Fur coats wave wands at admirers
blaming,
ruptures in nerve endings cause knee-jerks denting suds
sending the spine into g-forces, axis,
organs bump skin-
but no tick clock caused a baton brought down
on your language. Your tongue,
made it.
And whilst I wither on the sidelines of interaction,
I'll make my own time boundaries-
blank clock faces twisting into letters-
the dream train headbutts willow branches
bending them to submission,
stewardess offers drugs
and John and Yoko fuck on your white walls,
girl bends backwards, dragon head-
tiny buzzing of lilac insects licking.
Snail pace catches up to my forehead
and leaves slimy trails that mutate
into gods.
They leave when they're done, declaring abstinence,
enjoying bright stings in the choroids
tearing up manifesto after manifesto beating down
like the monsoon that never arrived,
papilla punctures,
atarres aro, atarres aro, atarres aro,
starves the head.
Fur coats wave wands at admirers
blaming,
ruptures in nerve endings cause knee-jerks denting suds
sending the spine into g-forces, axis,
organs bump skin-
but no tick clock caused a baton brought down
on your language. Your tongue,
made it.
And whilst I wither on the sidelines of interaction,
I'll make my own time boundaries-
blank clock faces twisting into letters-
the dream train headbutts willow branches
bending them to submission,
stewardess offers drugs
and John and Yoko fuck on your white walls,
girl bends backwards, dragon head-
tiny buzzing of lilac insects licking.
Snail pace catches up to my forehead
and leaves slimy trails that mutate
into gods.
They leave when they're done, declaring abstinence,
enjoying bright stings in the choroids
tearing up manifesto after manifesto beating down
like the monsoon that never arrived,
papilla punctures,
atarres aro, atarres aro, atarres aro,
starves the head.
Thursday, 22 July 2010
Voicd
Empty light bulb buzzing sits,
you, the carbon base, the mountain pulsing with moles
made me, continue to gather residue
from diamond minds
in the mouths of creatures larger than suns-
no derivative:
a thunderclap announces winged insects
deep down
and your golden hair falls past shoulders, touching me,
tickling my face next to yours
as I slip unconscious,
beyond harm, held.
Beyond paupiere I attempt conjuration
face buried in dracula
arms emerging inches from my skin
in the hot black night-
sharp breath swerves above my head, hitting emulsion.
Ruched sheets prove poisonous mushrooms
are all that's left
of the bunny in my head.
Rapunzel, let me in,
the servants in your castle leap into washing machines
and murder themselves with detergent-
your head edging closer to the ground
as I tug on strands,
forgetting each second the nerve endings
shrieking behind your eyes.
you, the carbon base, the mountain pulsing with moles
made me, continue to gather residue
from diamond minds
in the mouths of creatures larger than suns-
no derivative:
a thunderclap announces winged insects
deep down
and your golden hair falls past shoulders, touching me,
tickling my face next to yours
as I slip unconscious,
beyond harm, held.
Beyond paupiere I attempt conjuration
face buried in dracula
arms emerging inches from my skin
in the hot black night-
sharp breath swerves above my head, hitting emulsion.
Ruched sheets prove poisonous mushrooms
are all that's left
of the bunny in my head.
Rapunzel, let me in,
the servants in your castle leap into washing machines
and murder themselves with detergent-
your head edging closer to the ground
as I tug on strands,
forgetting each second the nerve endings
shrieking behind your eyes.
Friday, 9 July 2010
Knots Ruhtt
footstep moths batter incandescants
inducing numbing phobias
of their most driving desires-
brush buzzes in the nook of gum,
head detached,
a schizophrenic locust without connotations-
silent presence
in endless walls
speaks to the insects now isolated
in their darkened lamp shades
extinguished-
poised without motion within linen
sense deprived
a long wait stretching in the desert night
their bodies barred-
heat and ecstasy and then unconsciousness
a menu envisaged by lethargy
and solitude-
creeping, empty hands
search for meaning
feelers feeling, twitch-
species beside species
reap dire consequences-
the sound of strings writes itself
into skull patterns
to accompany nothingness
blurring at boundaries-
speech stretched, touched, an accordian-
faces elongate, muscles dissipate
into sharpened mucus
too large for an imagination,
creates electricity in soles-
and is gone.
inducing numbing phobias
of their most driving desires-
brush buzzes in the nook of gum,
head detached,
a schizophrenic locust without connotations-
silent presence
in endless walls
speaks to the insects now isolated
in their darkened lamp shades
extinguished-
poised without motion within linen
sense deprived
a long wait stretching in the desert night
their bodies barred-
heat and ecstasy and then unconsciousness
a menu envisaged by lethargy
and solitude-
creeping, empty hands
search for meaning
feelers feeling, twitch-
species beside species
reap dire consequences-
the sound of strings writes itself
into skull patterns
to accompany nothingness
blurring at boundaries-
speech stretched, touched, an accordian-
faces elongate, muscles dissipate
into sharpened mucus
too large for an imagination,
creates electricity in soles-
and is gone.
Hindvirgin
Palindromic time is the only
Time I will twenty eleven eleven two makes a couple
bouncing
ever ever thirty three missed the ticker
and you're too good anyway-
what bollocks my younger head, forty five fifty mortality
thought. Green time, red time, black time,
empty head, empty bed, sixty goes back to nothing
in an instant
and I was left with thoughtless phrases circling my hairline
that's it
that's it
that sit
that sit
that's sit
that's shit.
My friend sees me, hears me, sends messages on white bread
I keep close my tactical fucking,
imagine you dismayed five o'clock you call me ten o'clock
but you just want my brain in prime time condition don't want me dead on you
midnight crawling like our children you talk about
your face on a child
2am, 2 thirty five and my eyelids slip onto the hard linoleum
it squawks like some vulgar parrot in the beating, breathing silence.
What loud problems these bildungs romans lend us
what static electricity in their touches, leaping across gaps.
Distorted sleep, glaring eyes
out of the dark room
you thought they were drugged asleep but they drag up
throats vibrating and grasp at your skin, garish.
You learn politics to put a void between you and them, their dirt,
you lie on the mattress watching the jealousy pulled to a peak
and acceptance.
Time I will twenty eleven eleven two makes a couple
bouncing
ever ever thirty three missed the ticker
and you're too good anyway-
what bollocks my younger head, forty five fifty mortality
thought. Green time, red time, black time,
empty head, empty bed, sixty goes back to nothing
in an instant
and I was left with thoughtless phrases circling my hairline
that's it
that's it
that sit
that sit
that's sit
that's shit.
My friend sees me, hears me, sends messages on white bread
I keep close my tactical fucking,
imagine you dismayed five o'clock you call me ten o'clock
but you just want my brain in prime time condition don't want me dead on you
midnight crawling like our children you talk about
your face on a child
2am, 2 thirty five and my eyelids slip onto the hard linoleum
it squawks like some vulgar parrot in the beating, breathing silence.
What loud problems these bildungs romans lend us
what static electricity in their touches, leaping across gaps.
Distorted sleep, glaring eyes
out of the dark room
you thought they were drugged asleep but they drag up
throats vibrating and grasp at your skin, garish.
You learn politics to put a void between you and them, their dirt,
you lie on the mattress watching the jealousy pulled to a peak
and acceptance.
Monday, 28 June 2010
Remna(n)ts now
I jointly won the Stanmer Prize that I previously mentioned entering, yay! The poem that I entered was 'High Sooner', the last poem published on this blog in May if you'd like to read it. Hello £100! I have a feeling it's only going to see the inside of my savings account for a while, though.
May I also say, this heat is abominable.
May I also say, this heat is abominable.
Wednesday, 23 June 2010
Trunk
Sliced ham and pascal bone?
Oh yeah and spicy weight.
Trapped fingers singing alone in a junkyard
USA ditties sitting next to the neck
of the giraffe the white animal
the fuzzy wuzzy inanimate blog leaking
demands underwear.
Stare softly at your feet until you turn blue
and blur your kiwi eyeballs-
no rest for the wicked peeled off goodforit dance partner
won't be a long day
tick away, drums thump underground
and would you like to wake up at intervals, sir?
Nature is a podgy dwarf
waddling in excrement and expressing new music
a pile of white wax atop his vintage crown-
they rarely speak, the others.
Head slows down.
Oh yeah and spicy weight.
Trapped fingers singing alone in a junkyard
USA ditties sitting next to the neck
of the giraffe the white animal
the fuzzy wuzzy inanimate blog leaking
demands underwear.
Stare softly at your feet until you turn blue
and blur your kiwi eyeballs-
no rest for the wicked peeled off goodforit dance partner
won't be a long day
tick away, drums thump underground
and would you like to wake up at intervals, sir?
Nature is a podgy dwarf
waddling in excrement and expressing new music
a pile of white wax atop his vintage crown-
they rarely speak, the others.
Head slows down.
Digression
Diabolical thoughts hit the back of skull
knocking the wind out of the electric connections
and briefly murdering.
Swimming children don't roll alone
without assistance
and there are signs telling us where to jump,
see, street: birds encircle the morally unwell, shriek of pains
beyond recovery
and don't fulfil promises written in scratched ink claws.
You can buy a lucky rabbit's foot within two miles of here;
tablets, stone and sugar coated,
stomach linings for the mentally ill,
coat hangers tangled inside washing machines
found to be redundant,
are taken back with due respect and reported simply,
'inadequate'
not broken, like the hobby horse in his eye-
swirling, gracing us with ugly eyes and stretched teeth,
morphing from grin to grimace leaping from pupil to lens
to terrorised ocean.
Fishes are blue and laugh.
Golf buggies strewn and abandoned form shoals, bobbing up,
playing electric guitar.
What happens if you throw a toaster in the sea?
Sirens go off and on
the chest of drawers screeches to a halt
avoiding narrowly
resentment:
for it contains mercy of the purplest hue.
Entirely acceptable, and to be served
with artichoke.
Lovers watch their only alarm clocks being bleached
and time stretches his arm around Mrs. S. and whispers
'I'd say polenta, wouldn't you?'
Who can know what Mrs. S. replied?
Her flippers play a final viola farewell
and melt into a bakery.
knocking the wind out of the electric connections
and briefly murdering.
Swimming children don't roll alone
without assistance
and there are signs telling us where to jump,
see, street: birds encircle the morally unwell, shriek of pains
beyond recovery
and don't fulfil promises written in scratched ink claws.
You can buy a lucky rabbit's foot within two miles of here;
tablets, stone and sugar coated,
stomach linings for the mentally ill,
coat hangers tangled inside washing machines
found to be redundant,
are taken back with due respect and reported simply,
'inadequate'
not broken, like the hobby horse in his eye-
swirling, gracing us with ugly eyes and stretched teeth,
morphing from grin to grimace leaping from pupil to lens
to terrorised ocean.
Fishes are blue and laugh.
Golf buggies strewn and abandoned form shoals, bobbing up,
playing electric guitar.
What happens if you throw a toaster in the sea?
Sirens go off and on
the chest of drawers screeches to a halt
avoiding narrowly
resentment:
for it contains mercy of the purplest hue.
Entirely acceptable, and to be served
with artichoke.
Lovers watch their only alarm clocks being bleached
and time stretches his arm around Mrs. S. and whispers
'I'd say polenta, wouldn't you?'
Who can know what Mrs. S. replied?
Her flippers play a final viola farewell
and melt into a bakery.
Monday, 21 June 2010
Transport
I want to crawl inside your carcass-
your heart won't need to beat,
I'll do the work
I'll squeeze it in-out make
blood pictures in finger prints and
can you still live
when I'm sat on your liver?
It's just so cosy in here
and it's a wholesome activity
to be filling a cavity
assisting coronary
in murk undulating dark.
I reach up your neck and wave hello-
we have to keep up the charade of politeness.
Your skin is plenty for me,
stroke it back down
(raised like spokes)
People greet you and think you're alone
but it's ok I'll put them right,
there's no need for anyone to come near
when I'm doing your life job.
I'll crunch my spine in line with you
make like a foetus
reach through intestines and trace
patterns through flesh layers.
You have to guess the letters
from the outside.
You're moving slower these days
people can't stand the stench,
back away.
But I know you see my stroked letter words.
And I know your smell,
I can find it with nostril twitches
if I pull out hair strands,
savour
them,
one by
one.
Inhaling is all I do.
I get hungry these days
but I don't mind when I can't see,
I'll follow your head noises
on the Gravesend train stopping.
your heart won't need to beat,
I'll do the work
I'll squeeze it in-out make
blood pictures in finger prints and
can you still live
when I'm sat on your liver?
It's just so cosy in here
and it's a wholesome activity
to be filling a cavity
assisting coronary
in murk undulating dark.
I reach up your neck and wave hello-
we have to keep up the charade of politeness.
Your skin is plenty for me,
stroke it back down
(raised like spokes)
People greet you and think you're alone
but it's ok I'll put them right,
there's no need for anyone to come near
when I'm doing your life job.
I'll crunch my spine in line with you
make like a foetus
reach through intestines and trace
patterns through flesh layers.
You have to guess the letters
from the outside.
You're moving slower these days
people can't stand the stench,
back away.
But I know you see my stroked letter words.
And I know your smell,
I can find it with nostril twitches
if I pull out hair strands,
savour
them,
one by
one.
Inhaling is all I do.
I get hungry these days
but I don't mind when I can't see,
I'll follow your head noises
on the Gravesend train stopping.
Thursday, 17 June 2010
Agoraphibia
Sunshine outside hits slick child tongues and reaches
for avalanchian appalachian styles that look good inside out-
where bees leave your face unstung,
my nose clear as the day it was formed,
empty fingernails
pulled
off.
The walls smile and sigh in syrup sticking to my hips
holding me
and upsetting my stomach, bubbles
of oxygen in my blood surface as words, alphabetti, spelling
orthodontist.
I can't see blue, I see magnolia.
I don't need clouds when I have swirls of paint.
Expanse of air.
Reaches out, hands me a bargain, I'm ugly.
Mock brickwork, dizzy wasps, regal leaves see me through glass,
they caught a fish a a-live a life- magnified- burned- died.
Grease keeps the old ticker going still when it's emptied of haemo-
glow-stick-inside. Dripping through, ironic filter,
gentle, don't-
tilt
her. Smashed rotten.
Moving film scenes take images and resurrect them,
they are blind and do not see me staring-
they love one another and I am not here-
they live all together and I am outside in here-
I would like to riot if it wouldn't itch to try.
Speak in tonsils to my cortex cerebelly just past the elbow,
it's ticklish after five-
come closer?
Because there is lighter fluid just here
and it's useful
to see natural light, receptors
might as well be velociraptors to irises asleep
clawing cutely
ripping past eyelashes to juicy jelly whites.
I like toys, but
create my new head
and I'll move.
for avalanchian appalachian styles that look good inside out-
where bees leave your face unstung,
my nose clear as the day it was formed,
empty fingernails
pulled
off.
The walls smile and sigh in syrup sticking to my hips
holding me
and upsetting my stomach, bubbles
of oxygen in my blood surface as words, alphabetti, spelling
orthodontist.
I can't see blue, I see magnolia.
I don't need clouds when I have swirls of paint.
Expanse of air.
Reaches out, hands me a bargain, I'm ugly.
Mock brickwork, dizzy wasps, regal leaves see me through glass,
they caught a fish a a-live a life- magnified- burned- died.
Grease keeps the old ticker going still when it's emptied of haemo-
glow-stick-inside. Dripping through, ironic filter,
gentle, don't-
tilt
her. Smashed rotten.
Moving film scenes take images and resurrect them,
they are blind and do not see me staring-
they love one another and I am not here-
they live all together and I am outside in here-
I would like to riot if it wouldn't itch to try.
Speak in tonsils to my cortex cerebelly just past the elbow,
it's ticklish after five-
come closer?
Because there is lighter fluid just here
and it's useful
to see natural light, receptors
might as well be velociraptors to irises asleep
clawing cutely
ripping past eyelashes to juicy jelly whites.
I like toys, but
create my new head
and I'll move.
Remna(n)ts
I entered my poem, 'High sooner' in for the Stanmer Prize at my uni, I should have mentioned- I am not sure if much will come of it. I think the idea was that we would submit the pastoral poems that we wrote for the Aspects seminars, but I hated mine so much that I wrote another one, without so much intentional fabrication. Still, always worth trying I guess. They said we could give in an optional explanation of the poem, but what use would that have been anyway? Calling it 'pastoral' is ugly enough. I wonder if the judges share my sentiment?
I doubt being delusional is particularly supported amongst eco-poets, anyway. Did they ever consider that it's probably the only solution?
It's not our world, pompous fools.
I doubt being delusional is particularly supported amongst eco-poets, anyway. Did they ever consider that it's probably the only solution?
It's not our world, pompous fools.
Friday, 11 June 2010
Narcissus
I have decided that I should become less self-obsessed in my writing.
Having said this, it's hard when I have no purpose and the world is an enormous filthy pit shouting my name and asking nicely when I could next come over for tea because its feet are getting cold and it needs more bone marrow to throw on the fire.
So, as you can see, solipsism is swallowing my head. I'll get out of it.
Having said this, it's hard when I have no purpose and the world is an enormous filthy pit shouting my name and asking nicely when I could next come over for tea because its feet are getting cold and it needs more bone marrow to throw on the fire.
So, as you can see, solipsism is swallowing my head. I'll get out of it.
Screaming Swan
Various lies on scattered eyes that wreak fiction on tense thighs -
a particularly cold bed is this that vomits each morning and quivers in the bath-
room. Where is my mental breakdown? Where is my vice?
Slumped in sober lands of pine and looking down telescopes at Jonestown
horrors and sea holocausts, gentle junkie floats on
cloud formations, dystopian tree tops, crows cackling
like witches reaching for broom sticks in their search for the kitchen.
I can't admit to libido again. Stunted ramblings
towels thrown across the floor-
wrinkled, fronds become spines, metonymous-
voids, villi, voids -
beyond GCSEs there is only anguish and only beauty comes from resistance :
not revolution. It is all very well to tell me-
'You don't want that'
'It's not the sort of thing you should get involved with'
'It will drag you down too'
'Leave, leave, LEAVE'
It chose me, I am aware and invertebrate and indolent. I will screw my skin
with nails ten inches with rusted moustaches, mallet wielding,
to the sticking place. No mercy for those whose hearts don't thud,
but instead lie stoic, waiting for the body to collapse, give up, rot.
Dualism interested me but repulsion of the gut struck hard at noon and fucked
the unsuspecting customer to my solid doom.
Pulsing in trees and wrecking in car park there's a love that can't be spoken about
because my last words will be you, your head.
Lovely trauma, caressing bones, kissing tendons stretched and snapped long ago.
Transform me into assertion and leave me at the gutter,
I want palpable cruelty, things that stand on courts, stand on the jury, it's me, I'm the victim, the perpetrator, the delinquant. I lied to my parents.
a particularly cold bed is this that vomits each morning and quivers in the bath-
room. Where is my mental breakdown? Where is my vice?
Slumped in sober lands of pine and looking down telescopes at Jonestown
horrors and sea holocausts, gentle junkie floats on
cloud formations, dystopian tree tops, crows cackling
like witches reaching for broom sticks in their search for the kitchen.
I can't admit to libido again. Stunted ramblings
towels thrown across the floor-
wrinkled, fronds become spines, metonymous-
voids, villi, voids -
beyond GCSEs there is only anguish and only beauty comes from resistance :
not revolution. It is all very well to tell me-
'You don't want that'
'It's not the sort of thing you should get involved with'
'It will drag you down too'
'Leave, leave, LEAVE'
It chose me, I am aware and invertebrate and indolent. I will screw my skin
with nails ten inches with rusted moustaches, mallet wielding,
to the sticking place. No mercy for those whose hearts don't thud,
but instead lie stoic, waiting for the body to collapse, give up, rot.
Dualism interested me but repulsion of the gut struck hard at noon and fucked
the unsuspecting customer to my solid doom.
Pulsing in trees and wrecking in car park there's a love that can't be spoken about
because my last words will be you, your head.
Lovely trauma, caressing bones, kissing tendons stretched and snapped long ago.
Transform me into assertion and leave me at the gutter,
I want palpable cruelty, things that stand on courts, stand on the jury, it's me, I'm the victim, the perpetrator, the delinquant. I lied to my parents.
Wednesday, 2 June 2010
Plot
Lies are tiny spies, sitting on our eyes,
Waiting for the slip that condemns our minds,
For nobody thinks: 'and now I shall lie',
and so thoughtless falsities trip quickly by.
Waiting for the slip that condemns our minds,
For nobody thinks: 'and now I shall lie',
and so thoughtless falsities trip quickly by.
Thursday, 20 May 2010
High Sooner
Nothing akin to the pathetic light of day wakes you
with such a start as a connection-
our earlier death marked the rise of a totalitarianism that picks
at the scabs on my knees until they are white,
click click and removal, pricks my ears with dark joy
at your head, your mouth, your breath that is also mine and the rabbit
that stared and stuffed its mouth with gemstones,
we gave it rhinestones
and it stared in disbelief, piercing sun shine beams knotting in its brow.
It's so dark but I saw an ear twitch, I heard slurred shouting
and broken glass mixed with the heady toxins of his mother's little precious
taking cocaine and whiling away the days until the dole office pays
and the trees mid-sway condemn the light of day
for agreeing to illuminate our stuttering bodies, rancid frames that strip off and
join together, filling soil and water and plant life with the overflow
from our dissatisfied minds.
England is dead, only the Pavillion remains. My butterfly answers swamp your
violent lies and latch onto the burden of rhyme,
black men walk through my head on blue fishes, asking me to strike
a match. But there's no time to sit down and reason
because the world is schizophrenic and I cannot argue with the mind
that walks in buttercup valleys and seeks the candyfloss reptiles
that dart and twitch for the next fix to keep their blood hot.
There is no longer a collective, and even the most militant of feminists can't shout
loud enough to drown out the sound of drool falling from billions of mouths
onto steel.
Shallow dystopias mapped out in the minds of pessimists crumble before
a vision of paradise. In your beautiful head, there is no you. Nor me.
with such a start as a connection-
our earlier death marked the rise of a totalitarianism that picks
at the scabs on my knees until they are white,
click click and removal, pricks my ears with dark joy
at your head, your mouth, your breath that is also mine and the rabbit
that stared and stuffed its mouth with gemstones,
we gave it rhinestones
and it stared in disbelief, piercing sun shine beams knotting in its brow.
It's so dark but I saw an ear twitch, I heard slurred shouting
and broken glass mixed with the heady toxins of his mother's little precious
taking cocaine and whiling away the days until the dole office pays
and the trees mid-sway condemn the light of day
for agreeing to illuminate our stuttering bodies, rancid frames that strip off and
join together, filling soil and water and plant life with the overflow
from our dissatisfied minds.
England is dead, only the Pavillion remains. My butterfly answers swamp your
violent lies and latch onto the burden of rhyme,
black men walk through my head on blue fishes, asking me to strike
a match. But there's no time to sit down and reason
because the world is schizophrenic and I cannot argue with the mind
that walks in buttercup valleys and seeks the candyfloss reptiles
that dart and twitch for the next fix to keep their blood hot.
There is no longer a collective, and even the most militant of feminists can't shout
loud enough to drown out the sound of drool falling from billions of mouths
onto steel.
Shallow dystopias mapped out in the minds of pessimists crumble before
a vision of paradise. In your beautiful head, there is no you. Nor me.
Tuesday, 11 May 2010
Be little
playing the white noise in my head
purple barriers march to the tune of a luna goon
tapping angrily at a useless keyboard
without noticing that in fact
it is not passé
work out what I'm saying and put a tune to it
put a tune to what I'm saying and work out to it.
Heroin
likes my mother at night time in the special night
they lunge for her with brittle fronds
and grasp with foam fingers a new life strife
amidst the heat the beat creeps to our heads and strikes out at a rabbit
pointing towards nodding something yes or no but never
communicationing flying ing
the g is so important.. and not at all.
defy full stop. My bra weighs time. Oh so you think I am female now?
Oh let's fuck off. I can't vacate my seat at this precise point in time, neither can I do anything else, or anything after that.
Everything growls.
Growl is the most versatile word in the English language.
There is pressure on each side of my neck.
purple barriers march to the tune of a luna goon
tapping angrily at a useless keyboard
without noticing that in fact
it is not passé
work out what I'm saying and put a tune to it
put a tune to what I'm saying and work out to it.
Heroin
likes my mother at night time in the special night
they lunge for her with brittle fronds
and grasp with foam fingers a new life strife
amidst the heat the beat creeps to our heads and strikes out at a rabbit
pointing towards nodding something yes or no but never
communicationing flying ing
the g is so important.. and not at all.
defy full stop. My bra weighs time. Oh so you think I am female now?
Oh let's fuck off. I can't vacate my seat at this precise point in time, neither can I do anything else, or anything after that.
Everything growls.
Growl is the most versatile word in the English language.
There is pressure on each side of my neck.
Sweat (disrupted poem)
A horse threw a coconut at my throat
watching glitter stars scratch their backs
on empty chewing gum wrappers
shaped like disc butter.
There are kids rapping at the door
making fruit in digestion
making fascists on their mother's knees
watching glitter stars scratch their backs
on empty chewing gum wrappers
shaped like disc butter.
There are kids rapping at the door
making fruit in digestion
making fascists on their mother's knees
I
Stabbing my starbucks
On top of the 25
Where teen spirit can't sniff me out
Nothing happier than me
In my ears
On top of the 25
Where teen spirit can't sniff me out
Nothing happier than me
In my ears
Monday, 19 April 2010
Composed several miles below the hill in question, upon my bed during Easter. 16th April 2010.
I strode across the quiv’ring fields and yet
saw not a prick of bramble twinge, impinge upon my vulnerable toe;
I could not hear the hissing wind’s echo,
Nature’s Mercury, ambivalent, goes.
Ezekiel and Tarantino tell
of shepherding, tyranny and righteous thoughts
as stray branches they waft in my synapses and indicate action
beyond the shady copse of poetry.
A hare careens, cutting curves in the fog,
absorbed within the safe shape of its fluctuating silhouette;
why can I not amble with such ease?
In the form, the leverets are devour’d.
Better hare than rabbit: I cannot fall
into a form. I still stumble, struggling, grappling with thin arms,
that reach out promisingly and snap.
Static.
Above, the clouds ignore my human husk
and down here there is only stale dirt, alien fingers of moss,
cold stones, insects crawling over
foetal Bones.
saw not a prick of bramble twinge, impinge upon my vulnerable toe;
I could not hear the hissing wind’s echo,
Nature’s Mercury, ambivalent, goes.
Ezekiel and Tarantino tell
of shepherding, tyranny and righteous thoughts
as stray branches they waft in my synapses and indicate action
beyond the shady copse of poetry.
A hare careens, cutting curves in the fog,
absorbed within the safe shape of its fluctuating silhouette;
why can I not amble with such ease?
In the form, the leverets are devour’d.
Better hare than rabbit: I cannot fall
into a form. I still stumble, struggling, grappling with thin arms,
that reach out promisingly and snap.
Static.
Above, the clouds ignore my human husk
and down here there is only stale dirt, alien fingers of moss,
cold stones, insects crawling over
foetal Bones.
Larot sap
The next poem I'll post is the one I'm going to hand in for my uni assignment. I won't post my analysis of it, but here it is anyway. I'm not sure I like it very much, but the whole point was to make it as derivative as possible..
Wednesday, 14 April 2010
Jonquille
Pale smoke is crackling and seeping into violet clouds,
head fish swirl on the tongues opening silent mouths
in protest against the incessant vacuum lung fire-
lists form on wood scrolling without touching skin
and eyes turn away towards sinking voids.
Your body looks like a conch shell and I post through the gaps
requests. All white in my mind. A fainting sensation pricks up vertigo in my soles
and kicks unexpectedly. Sharp spines curl into French curves
on television there is a man on a unicycle, tipping,
spokes twirling into candyfloss and murdering him.
Churning blood there are bystanders and without announcements
a bee walks by and beyond and instead I am not bored,
grasped by levitation and clawed by feminists I touch soil beside us-
it's pretty. Crippling doubt. Bad taste is not the worst thing that could happen.
head fish swirl on the tongues opening silent mouths
in protest against the incessant vacuum lung fire-
lists form on wood scrolling without touching skin
and eyes turn away towards sinking voids.
Your body looks like a conch shell and I post through the gaps
requests. All white in my mind. A fainting sensation pricks up vertigo in my soles
and kicks unexpectedly. Sharp spines curl into French curves
on television there is a man on a unicycle, tipping,
spokes twirling into candyfloss and murdering him.
Churning blood there are bystanders and without announcements
a bee walks by and beyond and instead I am not bored,
grasped by levitation and clawed by feminists I touch soil beside us-
it's pretty. Crippling doubt. Bad taste is not the worst thing that could happen.
Cuntry
You can tell it's desolate
by stepping on my feet,
asking us to move and finding
we're glued.
The lie of us reverberating on piss coloured walls-
it sneaks. The wind is brittle. I can't feel
anything, my fingertips hesitate, shake,
isolate air, cut the fog until it bleeds oxygen.
Heat doesn't even relieve pock marks
blue stark streaks
dirt, celtic.
Your bed high up,
deep voices shouting orders and you follow,
crisp shirt sleeves papercutting and it rings in my orifices:
the ache.
Reaches bodies like jelly, slicing easily
burns it burns without you, Rab.
There's no black. Tiny feet kick skin in the back of my head.
Ask for renewal.
by stepping on my feet,
asking us to move and finding
we're glued.
The lie of us reverberating on piss coloured walls-
it sneaks. The wind is brittle. I can't feel
anything, my fingertips hesitate, shake,
isolate air, cut the fog until it bleeds oxygen.
Heat doesn't even relieve pock marks
blue stark streaks
dirt, celtic.
Your bed high up,
deep voices shouting orders and you follow,
crisp shirt sleeves papercutting and it rings in my orifices:
the ache.
Reaches bodies like jelly, slicing easily
burns it burns without you, Rab.
There's no black. Tiny feet kick skin in the back of my head.
Ask for renewal.
Thursday, 8 April 2010
Stones and sticks
I haven't written anything new in a while.. Trust the empty month to be the one in which my birthday sits. I've been trapped in the countryside again- this time writing a pastoral poem at the request of uni- I might post it here. I have been so busy sleeping recently. Vivid dreams all the time. I wish I could thank my unconscious for trying its hardest to fill in the gaps, even if it doesn't understand human protocol sometimes.
Sunday, 14 March 2010
Dinner
Penguin flight covers the night with deep groans
emanating from nobodies behind the head
reflecting dread of a raid, a break of the rhythm,
apnoea. Travelling.
Faster trees relax onto the breeze
from the bodies of shaken rats and cocoons
from which they emerged now broken,
growths on them, disgusting the senses entering
in order to experience.
My lack, breaks the spine of the everlasting motionless
idea that springs back with each tab and perforates my ear drums,
with the heady beat, perfumed defeats echo
in my small walls something that you'll never reach.
At least not lying down, not staring,
eyes dripping form rings of dew on coffee tables
seeing people in capsules watching televisions in bubbles
there are veins pumping out there, leaking,
shrieking with blockage and carrying foetal remains
out to the gutter,
kicking in the oil and wasting stems. Breaking them.
Empty then. To here knows when it will become a glum state
of affairs. Laughter glares.
emanating from nobodies behind the head
reflecting dread of a raid, a break of the rhythm,
apnoea. Travelling.
Faster trees relax onto the breeze
from the bodies of shaken rats and cocoons
from which they emerged now broken,
growths on them, disgusting the senses entering
in order to experience.
My lack, breaks the spine of the everlasting motionless
idea that springs back with each tab and perforates my ear drums,
with the heady beat, perfumed defeats echo
in my small walls something that you'll never reach.
At least not lying down, not staring,
eyes dripping form rings of dew on coffee tables
seeing people in capsules watching televisions in bubbles
there are veins pumping out there, leaking,
shrieking with blockage and carrying foetal remains
out to the gutter,
kicking in the oil and wasting stems. Breaking them.
Empty then. To here knows when it will become a glum state
of affairs. Laughter glares.
Mittelschmerz/ Space Head
Pitter patter on the evening door seeks to wander
seeks to wonder what my time is for
and I'm watching in the window for the empty floor.
The static is creeping up my neck to break the sound
to find, search around for nerves that stopped
when they heard the clocks that make ripples
in the static
of the empty evening door.
Ticking turns to clicking of my body's mechanism
not alone but in a bubble and I know it isn't
real in the sense that it ought to be
and the dread seeping through and in my arms isn't free
but it's standing quite plainly right in front of me
I can see it, it's moving, but it's not to be,
it slinks away laughing when your eyes turn sideways
slinking and giggling in unison with you.
seeks to wonder what my time is for
and I'm watching in the window for the empty floor.
The static is creeping up my neck to break the sound
to find, search around for nerves that stopped
when they heard the clocks that make ripples
in the static
of the empty evening door.
Ticking turns to clicking of my body's mechanism
not alone but in a bubble and I know it isn't
real in the sense that it ought to be
and the dread seeping through and in my arms isn't free
but it's standing quite plainly right in front of me
I can see it, it's moving, but it's not to be,
it slinks away laughing when your eyes turn sideways
slinking and giggling in unison with you.
Wednesday, 10 March 2010
Slow Facts
Yesterday was terrifying and awful but at least now I can say I have done it! You can see my work amongst all of the other Quick Fictions here:
http://www.myriadeditions.com/Quick-fictions
I really enjoyed listening to the others. There was really a huge variety of exciting words and such. At least my own slot was fairly early on, although I truly think that the electricity twinging at my gut was an exaggeration. For god's sake, what if I ever have anything real to be afraid of? She says, having just screamed at someone for abandoning her in the middle of a dark woody path. Thank goodness for irrational toyland and pretend shadows and embodied invisible voices and rattles.
http://www.myriadeditions.com/Quick-fictions
I really enjoyed listening to the others. There was really a huge variety of exciting words and such. At least my own slot was fairly early on, although I truly think that the electricity twinging at my gut was an exaggeration. For god's sake, what if I ever have anything real to be afraid of? She says, having just screamed at someone for abandoning her in the middle of a dark woody path. Thank goodness for irrational toyland and pretend shadows and embodied invisible voices and rattles.
Monday, 8 March 2010
Photographilia (to accompany Blacklipsonamissioninthedark)
I made this over a year ago.. I think it almost fits.
Saturday, 6 March 2010
Blacklipsonamissioninthedark (revised short story version)
Sigh. Excuse me, madam; excuse me, full stop and perhaps later on, a comma. I have been drowning cherries since 1911. I think I know a thing or two or twenty thousand about drowning cherries.
Everyone has grammatical slips once in a while. I should know, mine is purple and laced up like a shoe. Donkey tight.
As he was saying, he enjoys it. That is the main pierce; point of our repertoire tonight. He enjoys it, ladies and gentlemen, there you go. What more justification can there be? Watching their puffed up pink faces, spherical shining skins, bloated, not reacting at all, comma and full stop. To the surrounding pond.
Their single, eyes, on stalks, or amputated. Either way they, see.
And therefore your point would be, sigh, what, exactly?
Well, stunted, that’s what it is.
Exactly. You’re talking garbage. Yes, I can say that. Don’t, condemn me. You are not in the rabbit hole. You are, not even in sight of it. No burrows, warrens, wardens, dogs. Just drowned cherries, sigh, and this is my point.
Everyone has grammatical slips once in a while. I should know, mine is purple and laced up like a shoe. Donkey tight.
As he was saying, he enjoys it. That is the main pierce; point of our repertoire tonight. He enjoys it, ladies and gentlemen, there you go. What more justification can there be? Watching their puffed up pink faces, spherical shining skins, bloated, not reacting at all, comma and full stop. To the surrounding pond.
Their single, eyes, on stalks, or amputated. Either way they, see.
And therefore your point would be, sigh, what, exactly?
Well, stunted, that’s what it is.
Exactly. You’re talking garbage. Yes, I can say that. Don’t, condemn me. You are not in the rabbit hole. You are, not even in sight of it. No burrows, warrens, wardens, dogs. Just drowned cherries, sigh, and this is my point.
Station Actions!
I am sorry, first of all, for filling this blog with more inane chatter than usual- more poems will come, I'm sure, but for now- BIG NEWS! The short story competition I entered actually came back to me- I got an email from Nick Royle the other day asking if I would read Blacklipsonamissioninthedark out this Tuesday (minus the last 11 lines, which I was happy to sever.. My art isn't sacred) so, eek! I'll post the shortened version so anybody who happens upon it will have a sneak preview.
I also have to send in a complimentary photograph.. I have been scouring my art folders and so far have a shortlist of about 20...
So please, if you can be at the Meeting House at Sussex University for 6pm this Tuesday, March 9th, please do!
I also have to send in a complimentary photograph.. I have been scouring my art folders and so far have a shortlist of about 20...
So please, if you can be at the Meeting House at Sussex University for 6pm this Tuesday, March 9th, please do!
Monday, 1 March 2010
Head Pains
Low sung sang low.
The see saw saw a sore jig
pattering out patterns
on the wet, stained floor.
Deep tones wafting
hit the rafters
and the place remains upright
although not for long.
See saw batters holes
in the carpet
stains it, strains teabags
in your child eyes.
In your child songs typed out.
Singing low.
The jig jiggles cells
which shake in your lip reflections
in your shining lip reflections
which leave us violated
on the floor.
Long black trails
of trailing matter follow.
My lines get shorter
in an ode to your sorrow.
The see saw saw a sore jig
pattering out patterns
on the wet, stained floor.
Deep tones wafting
hit the rafters
and the place remains upright
although not for long.
See saw batters holes
in the carpet
stains it, strains teabags
in your child eyes.
In your child songs typed out.
Singing low.
The jig jiggles cells
which shake in your lip reflections
in your shining lip reflections
which leave us violated
on the floor.
Long black trails
of trailing matter follow.
My lines get shorter
in an ode to your sorrow.
March Hare Lip
Thank god February has gone, the bastard month.
I think I am going to post my last poem even though I really dislike it.. Perhaps it will grow on me. Why have I suddenly started writing poems with such short lines? Stray Signals night tomorrow, Floetics the day after.. You wait aeons to perform and then they all come at once.
I have started writing something autobiographical. It reflects my stumbly memory. I might post sections, at least, up here?
I am also considering entering another creative writing competition, but I'm not sure that I could ever be inspired by 'sport and sporting challenge' - I expect I could if I twisted it enough.. But then I doubt they'd like me very much. How dare you laugh at our games, child! Do you not know that this is an international event of the most dire importance? Back to the woods with you!
I think I am going to post my last poem even though I really dislike it.. Perhaps it will grow on me. Why have I suddenly started writing poems with such short lines? Stray Signals night tomorrow, Floetics the day after.. You wait aeons to perform and then they all come at once.
I have started writing something autobiographical. It reflects my stumbly memory. I might post sections, at least, up here?
I am also considering entering another creative writing competition, but I'm not sure that I could ever be inspired by 'sport and sporting challenge' - I expect I could if I twisted it enough.. But then I doubt they'd like me very much. How dare you laugh at our games, child! Do you not know that this is an international event of the most dire importance? Back to the woods with you!
Thursday, 25 February 2010
Eye So Lay
I just re-read my Hindspect post in light of my friend George's post about egotism... Bugger. I think the reason Wordsworth makes me squirm may also be the reason I'm having a personal dilemma.
You'll notice, observant readers, that I'm blogging at this time, again... Sigh.
I'm almost regretting posting some of the previous poems. I feel like I'm getting worse. Either way, there is a Floetics soon and I'm determined to read one out if it kills me.
You'll notice, observant readers, that I'm blogging at this time, again... Sigh.
I'm almost regretting posting some of the previous poems. I feel like I'm getting worse. Either way, there is a Floetics soon and I'm determined to read one out if it kills me.
Wednesday, 24 February 2010
Meadow
Forever they sit staring
down doors
flying down them,
sliding around through notches
in wood
which cracks back and opens onto
the outside.
Perpetual landscape freezes jelly
eyeballs, creating cracks.
Fields lounge out beyond
and hedges surround and bend down
to take in the dark electric twitches of night,
the harsh high pitched brush
of branches
against skin.
And I can see the sky is empty now
and our eyes are thin.
Epidermis whispers soft nothings to the cold
and it does not reply.
Tiny hairs stand erect reaching out,
tiny men stand and salute the wet
grass,
covering itself in insects.
They lie in it. Slime comes inside
and the silence reverberates.
The glutton, darkness, fats itself
with human.
Our breath is caught on barbed wire
which sheep will later wake to find and digest,
the metal pricks scraping at their teeth.
Dark answers meet echoes at last-
a mental breakdown of wet leaves,
skimmed stones,
broken branches,
mud ditches,
white flints,
empty, empty, empty, empty, empty,
bars.
Which I once swung from
loom, now, creating vulgar words,
hiding murderers
and rapists.
Hills lose their summits,
ditches their hollows,
trees their outlines
and the pull of the warmth distracts.
The black hangs, is hanged,
and wants life.
It sucks at the horizons which are so close now
they may enter nostrils.
All is close, stroking,
and anxious.
down doors
flying down them,
sliding around through notches
in wood
which cracks back and opens onto
the outside.
Perpetual landscape freezes jelly
eyeballs, creating cracks.
Fields lounge out beyond
and hedges surround and bend down
to take in the dark electric twitches of night,
the harsh high pitched brush
of branches
against skin.
And I can see the sky is empty now
and our eyes are thin.
Epidermis whispers soft nothings to the cold
and it does not reply.
Tiny hairs stand erect reaching out,
tiny men stand and salute the wet
grass,
covering itself in insects.
They lie in it. Slime comes inside
and the silence reverberates.
The glutton, darkness, fats itself
with human.
Our breath is caught on barbed wire
which sheep will later wake to find and digest,
the metal pricks scraping at their teeth.
Dark answers meet echoes at last-
a mental breakdown of wet leaves,
skimmed stones,
broken branches,
mud ditches,
white flints,
empty, empty, empty, empty, empty,
bars.
Which I once swung from
loom, now, creating vulgar words,
hiding murderers
and rapists.
Hills lose their summits,
ditches their hollows,
trees their outlines
and the pull of the warmth distracts.
The black hangs, is hanged,
and wants life.
It sucks at the horizons which are so close now
they may enter nostrils.
All is close, stroking,
and anxious.
Venereal Disease
Another day spent waiting;
I've gone over my lifetime third, 5 per day, 54 per week..
Biscuit barrels sit and mock, because even they occupy more space-
my own bell jar vacuum inside my ears squashes my brain
in permanent migraine.
Maybe you won't even come. But each time I can't quite let you
...
and each crouch and rock by my pillow spells
... something.
I can't remember. It's lost. In beds too warm with girls too small,
and the beating of my overdriven mind
wanting contact,
a brush,
to dust away cobwebs tangled in my synapses.
And even then they'd still be embedded because I am trapped in me.
I've gone over my lifetime third, 5 per day, 54 per week..
Biscuit barrels sit and mock, because even they occupy more space-
my own bell jar vacuum inside my ears squashes my brain
in permanent migraine.
Maybe you won't even come. But each time I can't quite let you
...
and each crouch and rock by my pillow spells
... something.
I can't remember. It's lost. In beds too warm with girls too small,
and the beating of my overdriven mind
wanting contact,
a brush,
to dust away cobwebs tangled in my synapses.
And even then they'd still be embedded because I am trapped in me.
Isolate
Screams peter out into goose feathers belonging to strangers:
white reaching out and dirty hands that smell unfamiliar grasping
my cheek- label me- appearances dissolve angrily,
hissing likes beasts defending land with money drops,
pear drops lose taste in your mouth and stroke you.
Sugar killing your enamel, killing your roots your head.
Your ridiculous head. It leans like no building I have ever glimpsed
on a sunny day, towering over my tiny, empty body
crushing in imagination, sending soft shocks through my muscle,
bone marrow. Those buildings never fell, though, and your head.
Your head threatens. Screeches, fights. Contorts itself,
twisting skull bones like plasticine into embarrassing shapes that drag
out
jaws. And speak to me. Finally.
white reaching out and dirty hands that smell unfamiliar grasping
my cheek- label me- appearances dissolve angrily,
hissing likes beasts defending land with money drops,
pear drops lose taste in your mouth and stroke you.
Sugar killing your enamel, killing your roots your head.
Your ridiculous head. It leans like no building I have ever glimpsed
on a sunny day, towering over my tiny, empty body
crushing in imagination, sending soft shocks through my muscle,
bone marrow. Those buildings never fell, though, and your head.
Your head threatens. Screeches, fights. Contorts itself,
twisting skull bones like plasticine into embarrassing shapes that drag
out
jaws. And speak to me. Finally.
Saturday, 20 February 2010
Hindspect
Even the knowledge that Amanda Palmer and Neil Gaiman were up at this hour enjoying themselves somewhere isn't much help (and believe me it usually is)
What's wrong with me? What's my obsession with VD? What do I WANT exactly? I am fed up of being told what it is that I want, what it is that I feel, what I am like. I have had no chance to decide these things for myself and there honestly is only a precious opening of time for deciding these things and if you miss the boat you're fucked. I think I am fucked. Weirdly, though, I think I almost like being a shell if only for the fact that it means I'm not full of dirt, if you catch my drift. Well, the drift is precisely the point. In my idealist mind I like to think I can be buffeted about by things and that's ok. I'm not sure if that's true. But I'm not sure if I care. I'm not sure what it is that I'm supposed to be doing with myself, and I have a strong suspicion that all of these things point to the fact that my 'self' should not be in a position to be 'doing', or any other sort of verb.
For fuck's sake, why am I even writing this in a blog? Am I this concerned? I don't think so. It's true.
I wrote the above a few nights ago. At least it's still pertinent... If a bit embarrassing. I think I'll post it anyway. Fuck, what are blogs for? I've been in this frustrated position so many times now that I'm sure I'll find myself awake and alone in the early hours of the morning many times after this, and maybe if I keep reading this then I'll actually have the backbone to speak up about it.
Until then, poetry ^.^
What's wrong with me? What's my obsession with VD? What do I WANT exactly? I am fed up of being told what it is that I want, what it is that I feel, what I am like. I have had no chance to decide these things for myself and there honestly is only a precious opening of time for deciding these things and if you miss the boat you're fucked. I think I am fucked. Weirdly, though, I think I almost like being a shell if only for the fact that it means I'm not full of dirt, if you catch my drift. Well, the drift is precisely the point. In my idealist mind I like to think I can be buffeted about by things and that's ok. I'm not sure if that's true. But I'm not sure if I care. I'm not sure what it is that I'm supposed to be doing with myself, and I have a strong suspicion that all of these things point to the fact that my 'self' should not be in a position to be 'doing', or any other sort of verb.
For fuck's sake, why am I even writing this in a blog? Am I this concerned? I don't think so. It's true.
I wrote the above a few nights ago. At least it's still pertinent... If a bit embarrassing. I think I'll post it anyway. Fuck, what are blogs for? I've been in this frustrated position so many times now that I'm sure I'll find myself awake and alone in the early hours of the morning many times after this, and maybe if I keep reading this then I'll actually have the backbone to speak up about it.
Until then, poetry ^.^
Tuesday, 9 February 2010
Room
Dull impressions of pale socks swing behind like tails
while I listen to you beating. I'm scared. I'm comfortable.
Pressure on my chest hanging in mid air,
ribs rigid limp twigs, white glory savour and don't dangle but are static.
Clawing. I feel like me. I close my eyes to the light show
pretty rainbows gasping clocks tiny men. I'm moved.
I feel about you. I have nothing to say to you.
Violent silent explosion hurts my head hurts me hurts
and I back away like oil from water, slipping in air.
Trembling carpets hold my sticky grey feet and breath judders in metal
with spoons playing along,
you stare.
It's ok. A fly lands and dust creates mountains between our eyelids
empty flesh pulses, unfortunately.
Gross layers spread out in dull blue, it's simple, mine. It's red, mine. It's bright.
Again. Here, again.
Buzzing lack of presence. A torn tissue between kitten claws
lost in fibres in the air, buffeted by gusts.
We can turn away.
while I listen to you beating. I'm scared. I'm comfortable.
Pressure on my chest hanging in mid air,
ribs rigid limp twigs, white glory savour and don't dangle but are static.
Clawing. I feel like me. I close my eyes to the light show
pretty rainbows gasping clocks tiny men. I'm moved.
I feel about you. I have nothing to say to you.
Violent silent explosion hurts my head hurts me hurts
and I back away like oil from water, slipping in air.
Trembling carpets hold my sticky grey feet and breath judders in metal
with spoons playing along,
you stare.
It's ok. A fly lands and dust creates mountains between our eyelids
empty flesh pulses, unfortunately.
Gross layers spread out in dull blue, it's simple, mine. It's red, mine. It's bright.
Again. Here, again.
Buzzing lack of presence. A torn tissue between kitten claws
lost in fibres in the air, buffeted by gusts.
We can turn away.
Eden Carnival
I have this on repeat almost constantly at the minute.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jEgX64n3T7g
Feeling very empty. February is a terrible month. It feels like swatting moths. Devoid, lacking, unconscious and breathing. Noticing that I might need to be slightly more accommodating. Often, though, girls are just awful. Why do people have to wallow in false virtue? It's sickening. I want to beat to a pulp every shy, gentle, attractive one that I see.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jEgX64n3T7g
Feeling very empty. February is a terrible month. It feels like swatting moths. Devoid, lacking, unconscious and breathing. Noticing that I might need to be slightly more accommodating. Often, though, girls are just awful. Why do people have to wallow in false virtue? It's sickening. I want to beat to a pulp every shy, gentle, attractive one that I see.
Sunday, 31 January 2010
Exinsistent
Catapults graze my eyes eagerly awaiting new disguises:
disgusting digestions spewed as excuses and your black tongue,
smudged face, leaking white jelly balls tell me the rest-
soft skin hard mind.
Mints strewn on the floor.
Where was I? Where am I? When?
Sensations fizzle out at my stomach and I become a nun,
pain in my umbilical noose reminding me of the void that lies
beyond. Cavernous chasm of my insides, growing- red- pulsates alone.
Swirling patterns on the sheets mock me and imprison strangers
flickering on and off.
On and off. Buttons pressed with no consequence.
Swung from tree to vomiting tree with no end in sight and rope burn
and matches striking themselves over and over on my thighs,
which wave in the breeze like great white flags on ship's masts.
White surrender leaking and salt water overflowing onto the deck
drowning even the stowaways.
Water, air, soil still seem empty to the corpses without worms.
disgusting digestions spewed as excuses and your black tongue,
smudged face, leaking white jelly balls tell me the rest-
soft skin hard mind.
Mints strewn on the floor.
Where was I? Where am I? When?
Sensations fizzle out at my stomach and I become a nun,
pain in my umbilical noose reminding me of the void that lies
beyond. Cavernous chasm of my insides, growing- red- pulsates alone.
Swirling patterns on the sheets mock me and imprison strangers
flickering on and off.
On and off. Buttons pressed with no consequence.
Swung from tree to vomiting tree with no end in sight and rope burn
and matches striking themselves over and over on my thighs,
which wave in the breeze like great white flags on ship's masts.
White surrender leaking and salt water overflowing onto the deck
drowning even the stowaways.
Water, air, soil still seem empty to the corpses without worms.
Wednesday, 27 January 2010
Tentacle snoozes
My lovely friend ranting badger has made a beautiful illustration for 'Lullaby' (below) which she posted on her blog ^.^ Yay!
What a nice blip in an otherwise vapid day. I have spent it drifting in and out of sleep, barely able to read. It's pathetic of me to shut myself down. I am usually good at putting a bright face on the sick. Sleeping is just easier.
What a nice blip in an otherwise vapid day. I have spent it drifting in and out of sleep, barely able to read. It's pathetic of me to shut myself down. I am usually good at putting a bright face on the sick. Sleeping is just easier.
Sunday, 24 January 2010
Lullaby
Dull thuds on stubble carpeted surfaces serve to wreck
tongue and intestines, girls. Subjects and imaginary sensations.
Silent rippling walls talk reams of fish
and I can smell it nearby.
Rough hot sheets in black voids consume nothing but stomach
walls acid villi, sheets that lift and scream into shapes
and monstrous mouths with monstrous tales to bring convicts to death.
Sick hauntings asphyxiate themselves on my viscous eyeballs,
mute fumblings rustling at the back of both of our thoughts-
pillow screams emptied into troughs.
Vile consciousness consuming.
tongue and intestines, girls. Subjects and imaginary sensations.
Silent rippling walls talk reams of fish
and I can smell it nearby.
Rough hot sheets in black voids consume nothing but stomach
walls acid villi, sheets that lift and scream into shapes
and monstrous mouths with monstrous tales to bring convicts to death.
Sick hauntings asphyxiate themselves on my viscous eyeballs,
mute fumblings rustling at the back of both of our thoughts-
pillow screams emptied into troughs.
Vile consciousness consuming.
Blacklipsonamissioninthedark (short story version)
Sigh. Excuse me, madam; excuse me, full stop and perhaps later on, a comma. I have been drowning cherries since 1911. I think I know a thing or two or twenty thousand about drowning cherries.
Everyone has grammatical slips once in a while. I should know, mine is purple and laced up like a shoe. Donkey tight.
As he was saying, he enjoys it. That is the main pierce; point of our repertoire tonight. He enjoys it, ladies and gentlemen, there you go. What more justification can there be? Watching their puffed up pink faces, spherical shining skins, bloated, not reacting at all, comma and full stop.
To the surrounding pond.
Their single, eyes, on stalks, or amputated. Either way they, see.
And therefore your point would be, sigh, what, exactly?
Well, stunted, that’s what it is.
Exactly. You’re talking garbage. Yes, I can say that. Don’t, condemn me. You are not in the rabbit hole. You are, not even in sight of it. No burrows, warrens, wardens, dogs. Just drowned cherries, sigh, and this is my point.
Cherries are not pointed, they are round. Spheres. The music of the spheres, the cherries, I believe, is what you are feeding from. Much as I ache for the rabbit hole, undertone, sigh, I am happy in my cherry tree.
Why are you so fixated on cherries, anyway? Sigh.
I like cherries.
My justification previously mentioned, I think, wench: I win.
How did this turn into a dialogue anyway, sigh? Stop dividing my monologue. I was happy monotonically. Monobrowed rabbits monologuing on monorails, that’s where I was, and you have broken it. There is no you. I will stop introducing the you. Third person! Cherries, rush in. Ah, the voice was such a wise voice, and so beloved, and now it is gone.
Everyone has grammatical slips once in a while. I should know, mine is purple and laced up like a shoe. Donkey tight.
As he was saying, he enjoys it. That is the main pierce; point of our repertoire tonight. He enjoys it, ladies and gentlemen, there you go. What more justification can there be? Watching their puffed up pink faces, spherical shining skins, bloated, not reacting at all, comma and full stop.
To the surrounding pond.
Their single, eyes, on stalks, or amputated. Either way they, see.
And therefore your point would be, sigh, what, exactly?
Well, stunted, that’s what it is.
Exactly. You’re talking garbage. Yes, I can say that. Don’t, condemn me. You are not in the rabbit hole. You are, not even in sight of it. No burrows, warrens, wardens, dogs. Just drowned cherries, sigh, and this is my point.
Cherries are not pointed, they are round. Spheres. The music of the spheres, the cherries, I believe, is what you are feeding from. Much as I ache for the rabbit hole, undertone, sigh, I am happy in my cherry tree.
Why are you so fixated on cherries, anyway? Sigh.
I like cherries.
My justification previously mentioned, I think, wench: I win.
How did this turn into a dialogue anyway, sigh? Stop dividing my monologue. I was happy monotonically. Monobrowed rabbits monologuing on monorails, that’s where I was, and you have broken it. There is no you. I will stop introducing the you. Third person! Cherries, rush in. Ah, the voice was such a wise voice, and so beloved, and now it is gone.
Quick Fictions
I have cut down my Black lips on a mission in the dark 'story' (it's prose- it counts as a story, right?) and I'm entering it in a short story competition at my uni- I'll post the truncated version. I hope I win something! Maybe something banoffee-ish...
Thursday, 21 January 2010
Dormantra
Chanting murmurs flutter onto your wide mouth,
open grass, open grass,
plunged dark and fucked daybreak skittering,
careening without relief.
Open grass, swallow me whole-
shudders and judders conscious awake and sharp heavy shocks
to the bones until they break and weighing pink light
on scales in warehouses telling boxes they're tinier than most inside houses
and shrieking in the beating eyelid, the jumping vein leaps to attention
emptying the water from your heavy head, dead head.
You give it to me. Scratches make dark glitter on the lilacs.
Open grass, swallow me whole.
Suck you down, swallow seedlings, swallow bright light noise
breaking capillaries at the edge of your skin needing entrances.
Acid rushing through the very top layer- dead skin, head skin- shocking nerves
into feeling pricked loss. White water, white blood, noticing pink curves
and burning wood. Suffering stifled in duvetquilts, pulled to the nose
and sniffed hard for comfort, killing dustmites, feeling guilt.
Open grass, swallow me whole.
You know I'll never come back again.
open grass, open grass,
plunged dark and fucked daybreak skittering,
careening without relief.
Open grass, swallow me whole-
shudders and judders conscious awake and sharp heavy shocks
to the bones until they break and weighing pink light
on scales in warehouses telling boxes they're tinier than most inside houses
and shrieking in the beating eyelid, the jumping vein leaps to attention
emptying the water from your heavy head, dead head.
You give it to me. Scratches make dark glitter on the lilacs.
Open grass, swallow me whole.
Suck you down, swallow seedlings, swallow bright light noise
breaking capillaries at the edge of your skin needing entrances.
Acid rushing through the very top layer- dead skin, head skin- shocking nerves
into feeling pricked loss. White water, white blood, noticing pink curves
and burning wood. Suffering stifled in duvetquilts, pulled to the nose
and sniffed hard for comfort, killing dustmites, feeling guilt.
Open grass, swallow me whole.
You know I'll never come back again.
Deviendroid
Lies of and not of omission dot your head
plaits of straw leaking lies from technology,
wittling away wooden poles into totem
frightening me.
Elements of comedy pigment your face and speak
drones.
Lonely children fuck in the night.
Each time I try to leave nothing for you to take,
each time, leeches edge back towards my cervix
and cling, waiting.
Baise-moi was untrue, for me,
and I'm all that matters, here.
Empty black empty red the colours mix and mend
when all that's left is empty paint empty blood.
Jolted awake,
I stare at stippled ceilings listening to pipes hissing
whilst beside me you hum like a machine
churning.
[...]
They twist and turn faces away, folding neck skin,
pursing lips and crunching eyelids
to avoid
touching.
plaits of straw leaking lies from technology,
wittling away wooden poles into totem
frightening me.
Elements of comedy pigment your face and speak
drones.
Lonely children fuck in the night.
Each time I try to leave nothing for you to take,
each time, leeches edge back towards my cervix
and cling, waiting.
Baise-moi was untrue, for me,
and I'm all that matters, here.
Empty black empty red the colours mix and mend
when all that's left is empty paint empty blood.
Jolted awake,
I stare at stippled ceilings listening to pipes hissing
whilst beside me you hum like a machine
churning.
[...]
They twist and turn faces away, folding neck skin,
pursing lips and crunching eyelids
to avoid
touching.
A warning
Next approaches: and empty poem, followed by a full one. Read each with due caution and suspension of disbelief.
Monday, 11 January 2010
Black Lips on a Mission in the Dark
Sigh. Excuse me, Madam, excuse me, full stop and perhaps later on, a comma.
I have been drowning cherries since 1911.
I think I know a thing or two or twenty thousand, comma, about drowning cherries.
Everyone has grammatical slips once in a while. I should know, mine is purple and laced up like a shoe. Donkey tight.
As he was saying, um, comma, he enjoys it. That is the main pierce, point of our repertoire here tonight. He enjoys it, ladies and gentlemen, comma, there you go. What more justification can there be? Watching their puffed up pink faces, rounded shining skins, bloated, reacting in no way at all, comma and full stop. To the surrounding pond. Quagmire, gloam and false lights. That's all. Their single, comma, eyes, on stalks or amputated. Either way they, comma, see.
And therefore your point would, sigh, be, comma, what exactly?
Well, stunted, that's what it is.
Exactly. You're talking garbage. Yes, I can say that. Don't, comma, condemn me. You are not even in the rabbit hole. You are, comma, not even in sight of it. No burrows, warrens, wardens, dogs. Just drowned cherries, comma, sigh, and this is my point.
Cherries are not pointed, comma, they are round. Spheres. The music of the spheres, the cherries, I believe, comma, is what you are feeding from. Much as I ache for the rabbit hole, undertone, sigh, comma, I am happy in my cherry tree.
Why are you so fixated on cherries, anyway? Sigh.
I like cherries.
My justification previously mentioned, I think, wench: I win.
How did this turn into a dialogue anyway, sigh? Stop dividing my monologue. I was happy monotonically. Monobrowed rabbits monologuing on monorails, that's where I was, and you have broken it. There is no you. I need to stop introducing the you. Third person! Cherries, rush in. Comma, sigh. Ah, the voice was such a wise voice, and so beloved, and now it is gone.
... Did it work?
No, no questions! It certainly worked. Where was I? Ah yes, 1911. And cherries. Many cherries. There is no question as to whether there have been too many cherries because, comma, all I can see is, sigh, cherries.
I have been drowning cherries since 1911.
I think I know a thing or two or twenty thousand, comma, about drowning cherries.
Everyone has grammatical slips once in a while. I should know, mine is purple and laced up like a shoe. Donkey tight.
As he was saying, um, comma, he enjoys it. That is the main pierce, point of our repertoire here tonight. He enjoys it, ladies and gentlemen, comma, there you go. What more justification can there be? Watching their puffed up pink faces, rounded shining skins, bloated, reacting in no way at all, comma and full stop. To the surrounding pond. Quagmire, gloam and false lights. That's all. Their single, comma, eyes, on stalks or amputated. Either way they, comma, see.
And therefore your point would, sigh, be, comma, what exactly?
Well, stunted, that's what it is.
Exactly. You're talking garbage. Yes, I can say that. Don't, comma, condemn me. You are not even in the rabbit hole. You are, comma, not even in sight of it. No burrows, warrens, wardens, dogs. Just drowned cherries, comma, sigh, and this is my point.
Cherries are not pointed, comma, they are round. Spheres. The music of the spheres, the cherries, I believe, comma, is what you are feeding from. Much as I ache for the rabbit hole, undertone, sigh, comma, I am happy in my cherry tree.
Why are you so fixated on cherries, anyway? Sigh.
I like cherries.
My justification previously mentioned, I think, wench: I win.
How did this turn into a dialogue anyway, sigh? Stop dividing my monologue. I was happy monotonically. Monobrowed rabbits monologuing on monorails, that's where I was, and you have broken it. There is no you. I need to stop introducing the you. Third person! Cherries, rush in. Comma, sigh. Ah, the voice was such a wise voice, and so beloved, and now it is gone.
... Did it work?
No, no questions! It certainly worked. Where was I? Ah yes, 1911. And cherries. Many cherries. There is no question as to whether there have been too many cherries because, comma, all I can see is, sigh, cherries.
Hill
There is no antidote like the one served on a silver platter-
there is no excellent feat, but to hear feet patter next to glass,
teetering. Gently breaking, softly smashing and reaching to strain harder
and harder, and harder, all the while draining the energy
remaining at a loss for breath and lexical relief- skin-
rolls aren't a problem now but ripples breaking the water
the ice like shards of honourable discussion around tables that can't
won't hold up under the weight of these false legs,
spread open to let communication in and receiving only static.
My head is a blur now. And you're shaking it roughly,
cerberus people dance lightshows beyond peripherals,
creating internal monologues that spout cracked tin cans,
wailing through the silent air and colliding with a screech.
How long can I keep up this tense before you all notice that it's a technique?
Before I notice that living in the present gifted present just
isn't it. It won't fight, won't vomit or spit like I'm so desperate for it to do.
Where is my washing machine now?
there is no excellent feat, but to hear feet patter next to glass,
teetering. Gently breaking, softly smashing and reaching to strain harder
and harder, and harder, all the while draining the energy
remaining at a loss for breath and lexical relief- skin-
rolls aren't a problem now but ripples breaking the water
the ice like shards of honourable discussion around tables that can't
won't hold up under the weight of these false legs,
spread open to let communication in and receiving only static.
My head is a blur now. And you're shaking it roughly,
cerberus people dance lightshows beyond peripherals,
creating internal monologues that spout cracked tin cans,
wailing through the silent air and colliding with a screech.
How long can I keep up this tense before you all notice that it's a technique?
Before I notice that living in the present gifted present just
isn't it. It won't fight, won't vomit or spit like I'm so desperate for it to do.
Where is my washing machine now?
Icicle sword
I'm back at Sussex, away from stifling home. There is so much snow here.
I have recently been trying to work out, instead of how many times I have been lied to, just how many times I have been told the truth? Enormous chunks of life turning out to be farcical.
I also need to pick a couple of these poems to read out at Floetics- I am going to FORCE myself!
I have recently been trying to work out, instead of how many times I have been lied to, just how many times I have been told the truth? Enormous chunks of life turning out to be farcical.
I also need to pick a couple of these poems to read out at Floetics- I am going to FORCE myself!
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