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…
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
cinders drifting into the night,
reclaimed by the hive-mind
blind to the mantic fury of the lost
buried beneath the crumbling tomb of history;
with no future,
the past becomes a desert &
the desert grows
moving toward us with the slow
creeping of midnight mist…
If I started to scream,
would you believe it came
from both pleasure & pain;
can you believe
beyond the pleasure principle,
where something waits,
for the machines to fulfil their purpose?
But that question came to me in a dream
so ignore it:
this isn’t poetry
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,
to soothe fears crowding behind these eyes
that receive the light
& gives it to a mind
capable of doubting its own perception.
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 ever would
want to understand mine…