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,

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,
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
    as a gift
        in the form of
            pure & perfect

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.
to destroy the “I” we must release it;
    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

Thrown into consciousness,
left alone with this ancient


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

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
      as all things must…


death is just a perspective trick:

there is only change;
                nothing can stay the same

permanence is impossible…


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

two ancient creatures enclosed in amber
        our limbs

Bipolarity in Post-Modernity

Here I’m alive; a mediocre, twice-
failed suicide,
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

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.

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

        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

The World Outside…

From the window of my room I watch as
the surrounding houses begin to glow;
little photographs of light develop
in the night & again I wonder why
I’m doing this, wasting my existence
            at the expense of action…

Into the distance
            the sodium heather
of suburban plains
            sprawl out forever,
                    & to the East
the city tries to reach
        ever further toward the sky:

this world to which we all belong does not
belong to me;
            a comforting lie,
a lullaby
to soothe fears crowding behind these eyes
that receive the light
            & gives it to a mind
capable of doubting its own existence.

I’m watching from the window of my room
as my neighbours continue with their lives,
wondering what they are doing, & if
they could, or would ever want to,
            understand mine…

A New Year: Part ii

A New Year: Part i

This year violently begins
            & our eyes
                open again.

Winter now literally keeps us warm:
Spring heat
            – 20 degree February

Last night,
            I had a dream,
that poetry still mattered &
you presented me
            with lilacs as
                    behind you
the crowd demanded answers, but
we calmed them with elegant words.

Then I awoke,
                to this world
where desire is just another
                is money
        & the roots of memory
are concrete foundations;

the old bones of Moloch
who has long since claimed the dead land,
    every day
        more bodies
            pile up in the streets.

So wide-awake, or still
stubbornly clinging to sleep,
            we divide
along well-worn lines:

            the only lilacs
I’ve ever seen in this city,
are those you once showed me
beneath a cracked screen,

in a world run by cunts,
where the terrifying truth
is that our very existence
makes us all complicit
with a system
    built upon suffering
        & destruction.

This year,
    the seasons
       have rejected our measurements,
& forced our predictions
        to confront us.

Now is the time for new values,
    now is the time to choose:

            Which side are you on, &
                what is to be done?



The frayed remains of two daydream decades
listlessly slides glass beads across
an abacus

are so delicate that they break
upon contact
        & the shards
                are lost
to the permanence of

the Sun walks away toward the west as
each sunset colour elides the other,
            leaving behind
the blue creeping twilight
            & a shrouded moon

                a widow leaves flowers
at the grave of
                a secret lover.

Ignorant of all but their game,
the frayed remains
        sees nothing beyond
            the broken glass,


in a present moment
       empty of all content:

a skeleton
with hollow bones.