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.
Thursday, 25 February 2010
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.
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