Old familiar sights, the smell of the night.
A cut to the back of the throat,
stops the heart beating right.
Breathe it in deep
& close your eyes,
the promenade of bullshit cavalcades
is about to begin again:
As the world still turns,
as the Sun still burns
for another way to escape,
another way of saying the same thing
…but the images are all gone.
All that remains
is the feeling,
the relentless bastard,
to be purged.
Here we are as we love & complain,
orgasm & menstruate;
vomit & piss & waste our hate
on the smallest of things.
Here we are
with or without
mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters;
comrades or enemies;
consumers or revolutionaries*,
attack or defence,
for or against:
reasons so solid yet insubstantial
at the same time.
An accident upon infinite accidents,
as to constitute a miracle,
here we’re alive
to the glorious light:
your life is not a cage, a stage
or a performance,
it’s just an accident.
You’re alive, & one day you will die
So…laugh until we burst**?
*Those Anarcho Punks Are Mysterious – Against Me!
**Idioteque – Radiohead
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.
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
You want to put the barrel of the gun in their mouth,
to stop the noise drowning the music out;
in thrall to the curvatures described by birds in flight
& feelings inscribed in nameless street lights.
You want a language defiant of time:
chords of memory
transcendental & sublime,
the contingencies of life unified
You want what you cannot have:
an abstract/visceral expression of all that
sound enclosed within bones
where the brain sits
& compels you to this
the fading gaze of a caged beast,
never the same as its first raw moment