The Dream

Before the shimmer of colour dissolves into images
& the senses synchronise,
before objects gain permanence
& noise becomes language,
as instinct urges
the first scream of protest,
the craving begins:

to touch & to be touched.

A dream proceeds through the senses,
through sadness, through elation,
through bitter-sweet isolation,
& the aleatory revelation
when first we notice the symmetry
between our veins & those
of the leaves:

the dream
that we can reach out to touch
not just the surface but
the ineffable essence.

Melancholia is our mourning for,
& fucking our delirious affirmation of,
this dream;
is our abstract acceptance
that the dream is impossible,
& your smile is the only reason
I sometimes still believe it isn’t,

there are more ways than one
to touch & to be touched…

The Kingdom of Context

it's enough to know
we think that time isn't linear,
that space
has a granular texture,
& that everything
is stardust,

even the dog-shit
your lover stood in this morning,
with a red rose gift
brought because no one ever taught them
any other way to display their affection.

there's just no reason
why things happen, or at least
not one that we can see.

We’re all just subjects
in the Kingdom of context &
must learn to live with it…

                        but please
don't ask me how
I haven't got a fucking clue…

Nothing is sacred

For S

Nothing is sacred unless we make it
so why not run with me naked
through these trees that aren’t
what they seem;
    to be
        or not to be
is not a question we need to answer,
not here, not when we’re together,
where benevolent light
    guides us through the forest
        & into the clearing…

If only you could see
just how
beautiful you are right now with
the wind twisting its fingers
through your hair
    & the air
        enfolding us
            turning golden…

Nothing is sacred,
but we give the void its colours
no meaning
beyond this nascent second
        a flower
            in the sunlight
    reaching up
        in supplication
            to the sky.

* The Myth of Sisyphus – Albert Camus

Funereal Debauch of the Mind*

In hopeless devotion to absurd dreams
I ceaselessly spin a thin web of words:
a hurdy-gurdy turns, a sound
ridiculous yet unnerving emerges;
as the wheel rubs against the strings
the skin begins to bleed a little,
    then fists
        & skull
are slammed against the wall.

But of course,
nothing breaks that isn’t already broken…

Beauty serenely disdains to destroy me**,
so I destroy myself:
beyond the reach of sedatives or sleep,
I cut once & then cut again
        & again
            & again,
    furiously I slash
until my hand
is slick with the wet warm red
    & the blade
slips from my grip.

    there is a brief moment of peace

& I survey the scene: me
    alone in a room
        covered in blood:

A fucked-up,
ridiculous mess.

Laughter is all that is left to turn to
        but soon
that sound too becomes unnerving,
& all that is solid
melts into squalid self-pity.

    what else is there to do?

I don't fucking know, so
– always one for a dramatic gesture,
for the deep allure of hysteria –
I lick away the still warm blood;
        a taste of salt,
the trace of assault
in the crazed nature
    of what I am doing.

There is an undeniable,
sadomasochistic pleasure to this,
which will soon turn to shame
& eventually fade
into just another memory.

So once again the impossible state:
    something both does
        & does not exist:

    everything & nothing
        has changed…


Draped in the word-web, I begin dancing.

A proposal is made,

a proposal that this "I" is a lie,
a reified grammatical necessity,
a reference to the referent,
no more than words hidden beneath skin & skull;
words that haunt a tormented animal,
trapped within a network of veins
& a cage of flesh
that will crumble to powder one day,  
        like butterfly wings:
        useless things.

A proposal is made
that this self is a dislocated time-line,
    badly narrated
        & ultimately boring,

    a thing
severed from transcendence,
reduced to the facticity of presence
        & the unbearable density of being***.

These proposals
are to be considered at a later date,
    but I suspect
that they will be rejected.


I think
the medication isn’t working.

* A Short History of Decay – E. M. Cioran
** First Elegy – Rainer Maria Rilke
*** The Ethics of Ambiguity – Simone de Beauvoir


We are mirrors.

We see ourselves reflected
in the gaze of others,

& what we see
is an image;
        an idea
apperceived by another;
        a collage
of constant conjecture
& depth deception.

We are mirrors.

We need each other
to learn from & uncover
the hidden centre,
       anamorphic perception
& other restrictions
demand a constant shift of position,

usually what we see
is only what we find first,

& those strange little shapes
our final impression makes,
those strange swirling patterns,
shyly mock our vision.