For once on the face of the earth
let’s not speak in any language,
let’s stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.
It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines,
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness
Keeping Quiet – Pablo Naruda
Using water to gild wild flowers with gold leaf
The technique requires practise that few will ever
yet still you keep trying,
while the world around you ignores all that you
give: a delicate gift;
desperate attempt to prove that you still exist,
before a silence, so intense
descends, just as you have been dreaming of
your first fascination
with gold leaf & flowers.
The City swells with life
stare at the people & the buildings
& the mundane purpose.
the tide, so an anchor is made:
One must stay busy.
Smoke dances the in rain
by the sickly-white, luminescent light
of the night.
A walk, awake
between night & day, surrounded
by the City, &
always the same shapes:
they’re trying to say something,
these buildings, something
more than their designer or
creators ever intended
I don’t know what it is
any more than they do.
So find nearest breath of green
& living things;
to tilt your head back,
lay down upon the the grass,
& stare at the immense & ancient darkness of
*“Emnacipatory politics must always destroy the appearance of a ‘natural order’, must reveal what is presented as necessay and inevitable to be a mere contigency, just as it must make what was previpusly deemed impossible seem attainable”– Mark Fisher
It isn’t the same, it
can never stay the same.
No grass seeds always ready to
raise their blades again, only
Slow or sudden,
willed or unbidden,
there is only change
& nothing else.
Habit & time,
being & repetition
build an image of difference
but there is only change;
the one constant
dressed as paradox:
there is only change,
& nothing else.
Returned now to habitude & ugly
old attitudes resume.
Refrain from razor-blades against
but now place them instead between the teeth
so during sleep the mouth
fills with blood
forcing shame to keep
a silence unredeemed
by graceful movement or delicate features;
eyes that do not see the open,
of the pulsation, the differentiation
life from death, death from dying.
Until, once again, the morning comes when
a mother bends to brush against
& the animal rejoins the wild challenge
begin a new day, with
different hunters, different prey yet
always the same ancient struggle
the panic, the shit, the pain that afflicts
all living things.
Grace is acceptance, grace is
for the hunter to eat the prey must die,
& for each to drink
the gaze must sink down toward the water.
There, where the reflection resides.
There, where there is nowhere
Mais c’est la machine en elle qui rêvait de caresses… -Sartre
Wrong words sometimes misheard
as the correct ones,
there are no correct words,
only those more or less sufficient.)
dream disguised as prophecies while
all prophets are despised
& each day either a sombre parade
gliding quietly by,
or screaming as it runs into the night.
Were these fiercely defended fantasies
created only to be destroyed?
Is that why
we still desire them?
How strange it is that the urge to leap when crossing
a bridge so rarely corresponds
to the balance
solidarity & isolation;
it seems in hindsight
that colour depends upon more than light:
if we close or open our eyes;
the strength of our sight; what
we choose to see,
we look away.