the shape & sound of thoughts
contort as they rise & fall
in the darkness.
I cannot catch them all.
So now pure instinct reigns supreme
& the Will relents
to every whim
of this self-destructing machine:
not a subject;
& not the I.
Or is that just one more excuse?
When tomorrow becomes today,
perhaps it all will change
or stay the same.
*No Future Part 111 – Titus Andronicus
the talk goes on forever;
unfocused, the tumult of noises sounds
like the symptom of a fever.
I pick out one voice after another,
disappointed as each
seems to me to be a foreign language
I cannot speak.
It’s the silent ones I can understand,
shrouded in loneliness or pensive thoughts
or maybe just nothing at all.
Are they, like me,
as to how the past
from Spring into Winter
As the noise, the
noise goes on forever…
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 utter lack of meaning,
overwhelmed by purpose:
one must stay busy.
Smoke dances the in rain
by the sickly-white, luminescent light
of the street lights:
sentry post for every building.
They are trying to say something,
these buildings, something
more than their designer or
creators ever intended,
but I don’t know what it is
any more than they do.
So I flee to the nearest breath of green
& living things;
I tilt my head back,
as I 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.
The city lights always invade the night:
I just want to fuck you in pure moonlight
or beneath a furious storm,
but the city forever prevents me.
I dream of our escape, but first
we must learn how to be caged
The weight of the rain cripples the name
of a person & place
once delicately traced,
like a a sketch by Toulouse-Lautrec;
all colour & movement, sweeping angles
tangled into a lie more real than the truth:
who is that person now?
What do they dream about?
That the past is forever lost
is the only proof we have that it existed*,
but the city,
the city stays standing:
poisonous giant always reneging
on its promise to keep us safe.
Just as memories will disappear
so too will the city
& all those within it & all those yet to come.
Even the light will die in time
& nothing will remain of the elegant lines;
not yours or mine.
Our strange gift is to know this
& then try
to accept it.
* J.M. Coetzee
The game is rigged, every decision made
into a mistake, chained
& to regrets;
the boulder becomes heavier & heavier.
No matter how we carry it
– in the stomach or on our shoulders –
the weight will break our backs one day.
Violence is the only way to break the chain,
only through solidarity can we regain
the dignity they stole from us
before the game began.
Fear holds us back,
but we’re always afraid anyway, so:
Losers of the world unite!
All we have to lose are our lives.