Our Silences

For S

“The moment exists only in silence…” – Søren Kierkegaard

I like our silences,
        those shared moments
beyond the hungry gaze, into
a simple but absolute
                    attention.

I like it when we’re quiet
        because then, when
our eyes meet & I see you seeing me,
I can believe
        in the existence
            of what you see.

Your silence is still & speaks to me
like star-light speaks of intense heat;
defined by distance & perspective,
        a secret
            revealed in concealment,
traverses immense distance
to bring warmth,
        colour
            & life.

In silence, as in soil,
slow roots grow strong,
& the dilation of every second
            endures beyond
the depraved authority of time: we
cease to be a complex pattern
            woven from
                a fabric of neurons
& electrostatic dreaming,
                    
to become

something more,
something I am only sure exists when
we twist together beneath the sheets,
sharing our body heat,
giving the prayer of our attention*
seeing beyond the iris reflection,
to where it lays waiting

                in the silence.

* Attention and Will – Simone Weil

Lost Futures

For S

Today gave me a vision
of what could have been; I saw
between all the mistakes
I’ve made,
there in your home where
you & your children live:

an echo of
hauntology;
the lost future that could have been
if only

life had treated us differently,
if only

we’d received

what we really wanted.

King Panic

With so many questions lacking answers
& too many others
            lacking comfort,
& the days slipping past us
                faster & faster,

once again King Panic* wins:

thin layer of foil beneath the skin**,
            & as if in a dream
wind contributes to the scene:

the rain hard & wild against the window,
& the Sun fleeing the grey sky
as tired eyes
            shrink from the fading light.

Sullen shudders of self-awareness &
            the contemplation
                
            of desperate measures.

Sensing this,
            the tachhyonic voltage
running between us
            prompts you to ask
“What’s wrong?” & though
I fail to convey it to you
through speech,
language is not all that we need
for us both to believe
that the other understands:

the calm of your hand against my neck
            slowly
                    returns me,
& the questions no longer matter:

without an answer
there can be no question to begin with;
in silence, there is peace

                    in silence

there is the strength to start again.

* Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams – Sylvia Plath
** Leaving the Atocha Station – Ben Lerner

The Days Flow Away…

The days flow away & through me;
body submerged completely
in the river,
                where the light bends
& quivers
bringing with it
                a vision,
a form of seeing
beyond deceiving perception,
                & choosing
not just appearance,
                but essence:

                the nothingness
which only seems to have being.

                & as such
is not so much a nothingness
as the presence of an absence:

that which lives in me is only a dream.

The tragedy lies only in what I
cannot describe:

the rest is a beautiful,
        hideous
                mess.

The rest
                
            is life.

The Self

“We possess nothing in this world […] except the power to say ‘I’.
That is what we have to give to God – in other words, to destroy.
There is absolutely no free act which it is given us to accomplish
– only the destruction of the ‘I’.” – Simone Weil

Our concrete existence
must suffer; though it gives pleasure
the flesh decays,
the mind feels pain
           & must endure
thoughts that crawl like worms through the dirt
        of the mind,

to where the “I” resides
& rejects its transience,
    insisting
on a permanence
that could only become
a state of affliction
    without hope
        of redemption.
       
Everything of value,
    without exception,
doesn’t derive from the “I” but arrives from
outside,
    as a gift
        in the form of
            pure & perfect
                attention.

We posses nothing else except the “I”
& the one who writes this
    wants to give you
        something better
            as compensation for
every twisted time it relents
        to temptation & attempts
to see you suffer,
which is really only a hand trying to cover
the mouth that wants to cry:

        “Why have you not forsaken me?”

because the “I” knows it is undeserving,
when it is only self-serving:

        we cannot live alone.
        
So
to destroy the “I” we must release it;
allowing
    the evanescence
        of instinct
to detach itself & so accept death
    as a gentle friend,
wanting only to welcome us
at the end that comes to catch us all,
        as we fall.

& this is why we must
        destroy the “I”:

So that we can leave behind deception,
        believe in impossible perfection,

& finally become human.
 

Sheltered & Protected

We are all nothing more than a movement
within a motion of water
forming currents in the ocean;

we are
insignificant.

Thrown into consciousness,
left alone with this ancient

        incomprehension,

& the glacial erasure of indifference;
the unutterable excess & erosion
    of existence.

Each
        confrontation
with the void,
        inside & beyond
             time & space;
every spin of the wheel
depletes a small piece…

                    …but I am not alone:
you are here too,
& as the opalescent light of your eyes,
        open wide,
all I see
        is this moment;

all that exists
is the two of us together,
        laying here
below my bedroom window,

sheltered & protected
            beneath rainfall music…

Here, there, everywhere*

When meaning twists & coils
over & over again, &
becomes the slain god-monsters of
our ancient ancestors;

when the specific, the particular
is devoured by this monster
        the other
            ceases breathing
& becomes deserving of sacrifice
        to the mess
            we've made:

        this is our fate,
neither a bang nor a whimper

        but a mass-psychosis

            with an ironic posture.

* Here, there, everywhere – Sam Kriss

What we cannot talk about…

“Was sich überhaupt sagen lässt, lässt sich klar sagen; und wovon man nicht reden kann, darüber muss man schweigen.” – Ludwig Wittgenstein

Words as thoughts,
as the libidinal urge
of consciousness.

Words as the sound of thoughts that drown
trying to escape the cave,
through the mouth.

Words as inert, lifeless objects
that become the conduit
for what I want to believe:

that thought is feeling, & feeling
has meaning beyond the context of this
place where we must exist;

that we can learn to live in peace
with the silence that speaks from beyond the symbol;

that brushing my fingers along your cheek
            down to your collarbone,
                without ever needing to speak,

you know what I'm trying to say…

A Beautiful Lie

For S

I can't stand the thought
            of those
white roses
I've placed over your eyelids
             dying,
      as all things must…

but

death is just a perspective trick:

there is only change;
                nothing can stay the same
                        forever:

permanence is impossible…

but

when my fingertips traverse your skin, when
you look at me & truly see;
when you give the grace of your love,

I despise truth.

I want to believe a beautiful lie,
one big enough
        for us both to climb inside
                together:

two ancient creatures enclosed in amber
        our limbs
            entangled
                forever…

Bipolarity in Post-Modernity

Here I’m alive; a mediocre, twice-
failed suicide,
                hypomanic
in hyperreality
writing unremarkable poetry,
failing to be
               Homo Economicus, but
I’m not the only one

I know;
        this system fucks us all,
& so many of you are depressed too.

This ‘condition’ though; the flame forever
either roaring or falling so low
that it almost gives up the heat
            permanently:

the Accursed Share* tearing me apart,
sometimes corrupts so intensely
            that thinking about tomorrow
is more than I can bear..

                & then there is the voice,
I’m sure you’ve heard it too,
                telling you
it’s all your fault,
a flaw, a weakness
            
                – worthless piece of shit,
                can’t just get on with it.
                You’ve got so much privilege:
                just look at how much you can get when
                half the world lives on less than
                you earn in an hour.

                Don’t be so pathetic: you don’t deserve it –

Sometimes, I think the voice is right.

Sometimes,
I realise what it really is:
            
the propaganda of our disgusting society
that’s wormed its way inside of my psyche.

& yet knowing this doesn’t help

because
        this mind of mine can’t find
meaning in
the featherweight consolation
       of ironic distance.
I need
the romance of defiance;
I need
        all or nothing.

There’s only one decision to be made
if we’re ever going to change,
only one choice to make:

“Revolution or suicide”**

* The Accursed Share – Georges Bataille
** Guy Debord