She speaks French to me #1

Tu est le con
tu sais le bon, mais
toujours choisis l’exception.

Constant
répétition du mal:

pourquoi les fausses decisions et
pourquoi de la destruction de toi?

Regarde la merde se déverser sur le sol
est-ce que tu voulais, est-ce que tu a besoin?

Il y a ton futur qui se mourant:
tu es apprécier de lui faire?

Pathétique

For days I’ve said only
half of what I did and didn’t want to say,

& did all the things I do every day:

tried to escape.

I don’t know what I’m doing anymore
& escape makes such a mess on the floor.

Maybe one day I’ll make a decision
I won’t regret again
        & again
            & again:

always the same,
always failing to stand up to myself
& forgetting
to hide from the scaring knowledge

that all things are pretence
yet everything is true…

but I’m lying to you
            again.

I have no pain
just a feeling of constant nausea
& all the talk of trying to escape

is just a way
to plead for sympathy;

pathetic, really,

            isn’t it?

Alienation

Fleeting insights
                like
cinders drifting into the night,
reclaimed by the hive-mind
blind to the mantic fury of the lost
                futures
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
               in anything

beyond the pleasure principle,
where something waits,
                impatient,
for the machines to fulfil their purpose?

But that question came to me in a dream
                so ignore it:

because
                this isn’t poetry

                just alienation.

The War

Is my story more exciting than yours?
Or did you get those scars in a bloodier war?

The pen can be mightier than the sword,
but guns would kill us all.

If only you could summon up the balls,
to stain the floor with your bullet-ridden corpse

                            or

vomit away your soul

                            &

say goodbye with the sound of broken bones
& a leap into the unknown.

Would your mind change before hitting the ground?
or would you leave with a taste of regret?

The war started before you were ready,
the fighting will fall silent without you knowing,

                            but

you were never ready for anything

at all.

Rain

“I love the sensation of shelter from
                the storm.
I like it when it rains outside,
how it makes me feel warm.”
she said.

“I used to feel like that.”
I said back. “It’s a safety thing, I think”.

She said “Maybe…”

& I replied:

“It doesn’t happen now though, now the sound
just makes me sad.”

“Why?” she asked

“I can’t say I think about it
all that much any more…I just
don’t care.

It isn’t worth a waste of words.”

Then we were silent:

I was evading the question

                again.

****

Created from a structure of complex
cells & cells we find ourselves in:

always questioning more than answering;

a distance between who we are & what we love;
                the difference
between what we do &
                what we dream:

we are everything & nothing:

both subject & object,
the language animal playing games in the cave…

We’re the process of knowing that
we’re reading this poem;

body & mind,
trapped in time &
sub specie aeternitatis*;

                double-helix dance of meaning.

****

Security is the supremacy
of survival.

Natural data & culture
compel the worship of the Self,

but worship has always been dangerous:

people do not treat their gods well.

If they did there would be
less fear of Hell,

                or banishment.

****

“I wish I could feel content again, like
when we were young,
but I’m trapped by everything I
have and haven’t done”

I said.

“But you are content” She
said back. “You told me once,
that only the moments of fleeting, true
feelings mean anything to you”.

“I say a lot of things my love
..and I talk far too much”

But then came her smile &

I fell silent

                again.

* Sub specie aeternitatis

#First World Problems

Swept along by the causal tide,
riding the waves of time

or

        if the numbers cease to speak
& the edifice crumbles,
revealing only a single peace-
full, temporal ontology,

what then?

How do we end
or continue, or begin to
make sense of it all without stories we
can now only read
            but never believe?

I think a 12-hour shift
constantly on your feet,
making pointless shit for foreigners you
will never meet

could answer that question:

“I don’t care anymore.
All I want is to feed my family
& sleep beneath a roof & between 4 walls…”

Broken corollas

For D

Pressing flowers between the pages of
                    stolen poetry books,
not knowing
or caring
how long the process took
or if it would work or
                    just cover us
in the evanescing colours
of broken corollas…

Gladly wasting away the day
we discussed stolen poetry & plucked
                    flowers;
distinctions & equivalence;
the thrill of transgression
& the ambiguity of possession.

Telluric currents of nuance
passed through us as
a consequence of curvatures
                    of time,
of our spines, of
the invisible line

unspoken, our agreement breaks
upon the edge of love & hate:
permanent & inconclusive

our ideas about true beauty
make it hard to live
but if you promise to stay
            I’ll promise not to leave…

“I remember when we were young”*

“With rebellion, awareness is born.” – Albert Camus

When we were young
They told us
“Never look directly at the Sun.”

& for a while we didn’t.

Not from deference
to the authority of parents,
but out of reverence
                for the warmth:

It was the animal – the It
& not the I – that compelled us
to wear the warm veil of our eyelids
when we dared to approach the source
of all light & benevolent warmth…

…but we are human:
curiosity always defeats humility,

& so we looked

& what we saw
changed us forever:

suddenly
small animals stood before ancient energy,
a cosmic distance too magnificent
for our minor eyes to ever truly see;

a violence our gaze could never meet,
but only lose itself
in a fatal & final ecstasy
            of rebellion.

Once
I looked directly at the Sun,
& now

I’m not afraid anymore.

*Insight – Joy Division

The Gaze

“That which is light looks at me,
and by means of that light in the depths of my eye,
something is painted.”
– Jacques Lacan

The gaze contains a curse & a gift, it
turns us into an object yet
confirms that we exist.

The vision of the other can either
become a prison, a figment
of our imagination, or
the one & only means of escape:

take your pick, because either way
it's not what you think;

the light decides
between a painting or a stain,
between pleasure or pain…

everywhere & nowhere but
                    always outside,
it will eat us alive
from the inside:

thoughts of what the other thinks,
                    a black hole
into which we sink
as comprehending apperception
twists the thread
again & again…

                …until the light fights back,
& unties the knots: there is not (yet)
an answer, only the fantasy of two dancers
moving slowly then faster,
both tragic & absurd,
as an audience laughs
& cries as they turn.

Here in the Light

Here in the light
that forever fights the darkness,
we exist. Incomplete
                    objects;

nothing more than sentient flesh, yet
there’s always a surplus,
haunting us &
always finding ways to evade our gaze.

We call this thing our Self.

We can never have it; never know it,
not by demanding
                    or calmly asking

but we can see it,
                    sometimes,
in other eyes.