taken to certain stillpoint
to sit bemused cross-dressing
witness potential feuds
unmade marks flourescing
winner
Political Economy
14 years ago
Saturday, 31 May 2008
town
taken to certain stillpoint
to sit bemused cross-dressing
witness potential feuds
unmade marks flourescing
winner
to sit bemused cross-dressing
witness potential feuds
unmade marks flourescing
winner
Friday, 30 May 2008
Wrongman
This man you believe in
Can you make me believe too?
The one you stare at intense
Black eyes weeping curse of praise
Before me: who?
And after?
Can you make me believe too?
The one you stare at intense
Black eyes weeping curse of praise
Before me: who?
And after?
Wrongman
This man you believe in
Can you make me believe too?
The one you stare at intense
Black eyes weeping curse of praise
Before me: who?
And after?
Can you make me believe too?
The one you stare at intense
Black eyes weeping curse of praise
Before me: who?
And after?
headswarm
Hounds the wonder
night-bringing disaster
discursive interlude
divides tomorrow's
sweet-song yesterdays
can you tell
with rhythm picking
empty glows
sweat delight furious
free storming
endless act-ion
and ramp-ant
exileless swingeing current
beats sorrow unknown
brought empty draining
excellence beneath
stilted showers' heat
satin sheets
bent spaghetti
exercise
brown
night-bringing disaster
discursive interlude
divides tomorrow's
sweet-song yesterdays
can you tell
with rhythm picking
empty glows
sweat delight furious
free storming
endless act-ion
and ramp-ant
exileless swingeing current
beats sorrow unknown
brought empty draining
excellence beneath
stilted showers' heat
satin sheets
bent spaghetti
exercise
brown
headswarm
Hounds the wonder
night-bringing disaster
discursive interlude
divides tomorrow's
sweet-song yesterdays
can you tell
with rhythm picking
empty glows
sweat delight furious
free storming
endless act-ion
and ramp-ant
exileless swingeing current
beats sorrow unknown
brought empty draining
excellence beneath
stilted showers' heat
satin sheets
bent spaghetti
exercise
brown
night-bringing disaster
discursive interlude
divides tomorrow's
sweet-song yesterdays
can you tell
with rhythm picking
empty glows
sweat delight furious
free storming
endless act-ion
and ramp-ant
exileless swingeing current
beats sorrow unknown
brought empty draining
excellence beneath
stilted showers' heat
satin sheets
bent spaghetti
exercise
brown
Friday, 16 May 2008
Monday, 12 May 2008
Zuza
“This will be my whole life”
She intoned in a Czech accent dented by 4 years in Inverness, now Edinburgh.
Dark hair and steel-rimmed glasses, breasts loosely held in a an duck-egg blue sweater.
It was the first day of summer. The world was on the Meadows sitting cross-legged in groups, drinking beer, smoking , soaking away winter's dust. Bikes lay beside make-shift picnics hustled from the local deli, supermarket or organically prepared at home as contrivance required. Red and yellow gymnasts, jugglers and circus performers – fresh from the season's first festival (face paint still visible behind the ears) garbled to drums and hypnotic music booming from an amp powered by a car battery.
Our four was gorging on oatcakes and avocado exchanging stories about violence experienced as youths and inwardly celebrating summer with a sigh and thrill that life could be so perfect, so easy and would be intermittently for the next four months. I'm lying on my back getting carried away with the sky, the hum of ball games, relaxed and excited chatter, bored contentment at old friends' stories that I've got nothing to add to but affectionate insults to throw them off balance.
Then from above my head drops and approaches the Czech princess speaking philosophy to unseat me this time. A drama student, talks of plays, books she's read, projects she's engaged with as though each were merging, encircling the other, dreams and reality barely knowing a difference making just as fond impression; what the rest of us would consider joyful, sincere, depressing were for her equal bubbles to be grasped at, admired and pricked according to a whim that somehow managed to spin unconcerned perfection while avoiding none of it.
“I want my whole life to end like this. In nothing. Everything I've done, say or do fading to stillness.”
She was working on a project for her drama degree: “Getting raped by God”.
She had a habit of staring single focused as mental elegies poured from her; piercing eyes behind glasses, serious expression, fine china lines of her jaw shattering into glorious grins at the intermittent pauses where she forgot high-spun theories about Faust, eccentric mysticism, the forgotten history of Eastern Europe.
It was the kind of intellectualism I had come to treat as a bad habit: that existence was to be understood from day-to-day entanglement with it, not spinning in intellect's farther reaches, grasping at straws that couldn't capture its beauty any better than actual happening. But was it possible that she was weaving something that illuminated rather than obscured, breathed life into each Czech-inflected word, gave flesh to dry and dusty concepts otherwise hidden in forgotten storehouses, poured over by the neurotic and obsessed? She would tail across ranges populated by Dadaists, Dionysans, Situationists, send fleeing ideas that took men of grand minds manifold centuries to fashion and divine, weaving ill-conceived threads into something that chimed with her own impressions, life as she saw it. This was not some dirging textbook recital but impassioned symphony of the spirit. I was intoxicated.
“This is how I want my life to be, like my theatre. Collapses to nothingness. Stillness. Just existing in pure peace.”
A phrase to dispel the notion that my fascination was a bi-product of admiration for the vessel from which it flowed.
We sat listening and exchanging long after the other two had gone and the Meadows turned cold: the 6 o'clock shadow swept down from the trees in an arc that scraped up sun seekers as it went, depositing them to cafes, bars or home to work, children and the next day albeit with a warm glow that for at least one afternoon they'd been free.
We walked up George IV Bridge in fading light, bought a pizza and sat on the Mound watching the Forth mistening and darkening, the city below it – a throwback to its days of Enlightenment punctuated by squalor – today relaxed in a warm haze of aged gentrification. Cars and buses somnambulantly cruising Princes street and past tired shoppers, their red lights pricking the dusk.
The evening was taking on the colour a love affair, emerging from the status of mutual appreciation or so I thought, praying that signs of simulated interest in my observations and amusement at statues of cats peering from red-tile roofs were pointing to something that could tentatively be described as 'more'.
Summer's first night was deepening and long summer was stretching before a 'me' dreamed of as an 'us' that pirouhetted in intellectual orgasms between fevered gasps of love making; long breakfasts after long lie-in mornings and creative afternoons devising plays that would allow people to know the ecstasy that forged them.
But dreams and insights were falling short of her galactical grasp:
“There's no understanding and nothing creates. This is the first principle of theatre, before it can really happen”
So the summer would be an education then, rather than a shared exuberance, but it was time to return to studenthood - and with such a sublime teacher - if God could just grant a razor-chinked opportunity to ground our ruminating souls in carnal communion. Passion dodging like a schizophrenic between guises of base lust and romantic longing and whether it made my very being there an exercise in disgust or heroism, I'm still sitting here trying to decide.
For lustiness, the night was unsuccessful.
For peace, it was sheer delight.
Walking by her side, bike wheeling between us, combined contentment at what was shared, daring to thrill at what was to come
the night stopped
went blank
pedestrians and cars cease beyond memory of moving,
light surrenders to conquering dark,
lost
to the ghost of a failed second.
And, emerging, stillness, the shining face of an author who catches my eye knowingly as if the non-experience was a device in one of her perfectly orchestrated plays, and bidding goodbye, wheels through a grey envelope of sky, pavement. Love fading with a light less certain than minutes before.
Alone, I'm distracted by a rap from the window of Vittori's revealing the Mullins brothers – grinning and ginger - drinking wine, inviting me to join; converting my night to one of comforting revelry, though one bemused by its lack of significance, an easy enough burden for both the plain and the terrifying man, but cursed by the wonder at what it is to be plain or afraid when the even fog of alcohol can't hide that it's very screen is a desperately confused veil worn through days lost in counting, causing scenes that expect to be engaged with once the reality underpinning them has been shredded and forgotten and in here we're meant to find a will to continue?
Love gives the wanderer such pleasant tokens to continue as, in the final act, it is fatally ripped away.
She intoned in a Czech accent dented by 4 years in Inverness, now Edinburgh.
Dark hair and steel-rimmed glasses, breasts loosely held in a an duck-egg blue sweater.
It was the first day of summer. The world was on the Meadows sitting cross-legged in groups, drinking beer, smoking , soaking away winter's dust. Bikes lay beside make-shift picnics hustled from the local deli, supermarket or organically prepared at home as contrivance required. Red and yellow gymnasts, jugglers and circus performers – fresh from the season's first festival (face paint still visible behind the ears) garbled to drums and hypnotic music booming from an amp powered by a car battery.
Our four was gorging on oatcakes and avocado exchanging stories about violence experienced as youths and inwardly celebrating summer with a sigh and thrill that life could be so perfect, so easy and would be intermittently for the next four months. I'm lying on my back getting carried away with the sky, the hum of ball games, relaxed and excited chatter, bored contentment at old friends' stories that I've got nothing to add to but affectionate insults to throw them off balance.
Then from above my head drops and approaches the Czech princess speaking philosophy to unseat me this time. A drama student, talks of plays, books she's read, projects she's engaged with as though each were merging, encircling the other, dreams and reality barely knowing a difference making just as fond impression; what the rest of us would consider joyful, sincere, depressing were for her equal bubbles to be grasped at, admired and pricked according to a whim that somehow managed to spin unconcerned perfection while avoiding none of it.
“I want my whole life to end like this. In nothing. Everything I've done, say or do fading to stillness.”
She was working on a project for her drama degree: “Getting raped by God”.
She had a habit of staring single focused as mental elegies poured from her; piercing eyes behind glasses, serious expression, fine china lines of her jaw shattering into glorious grins at the intermittent pauses where she forgot high-spun theories about Faust, eccentric mysticism, the forgotten history of Eastern Europe.
It was the kind of intellectualism I had come to treat as a bad habit: that existence was to be understood from day-to-day entanglement with it, not spinning in intellect's farther reaches, grasping at straws that couldn't capture its beauty any better than actual happening. But was it possible that she was weaving something that illuminated rather than obscured, breathed life into each Czech-inflected word, gave flesh to dry and dusty concepts otherwise hidden in forgotten storehouses, poured over by the neurotic and obsessed? She would tail across ranges populated by Dadaists, Dionysans, Situationists, send fleeing ideas that took men of grand minds manifold centuries to fashion and divine, weaving ill-conceived threads into something that chimed with her own impressions, life as she saw it. This was not some dirging textbook recital but impassioned symphony of the spirit. I was intoxicated.
“This is how I want my life to be, like my theatre. Collapses to nothingness. Stillness. Just existing in pure peace.”
A phrase to dispel the notion that my fascination was a bi-product of admiration for the vessel from which it flowed.
We sat listening and exchanging long after the other two had gone and the Meadows turned cold: the 6 o'clock shadow swept down from the trees in an arc that scraped up sun seekers as it went, depositing them to cafes, bars or home to work, children and the next day albeit with a warm glow that for at least one afternoon they'd been free.
We walked up George IV Bridge in fading light, bought a pizza and sat on the Mound watching the Forth mistening and darkening, the city below it – a throwback to its days of Enlightenment punctuated by squalor – today relaxed in a warm haze of aged gentrification. Cars and buses somnambulantly cruising Princes street and past tired shoppers, their red lights pricking the dusk.
The evening was taking on the colour a love affair, emerging from the status of mutual appreciation or so I thought, praying that signs of simulated interest in my observations and amusement at statues of cats peering from red-tile roofs were pointing to something that could tentatively be described as 'more'.
Summer's first night was deepening and long summer was stretching before a 'me' dreamed of as an 'us' that pirouhetted in intellectual orgasms between fevered gasps of love making; long breakfasts after long lie-in mornings and creative afternoons devising plays that would allow people to know the ecstasy that forged them.
But dreams and insights were falling short of her galactical grasp:
“There's no understanding and nothing creates. This is the first principle of theatre, before it can really happen”
So the summer would be an education then, rather than a shared exuberance, but it was time to return to studenthood - and with such a sublime teacher - if God could just grant a razor-chinked opportunity to ground our ruminating souls in carnal communion. Passion dodging like a schizophrenic between guises of base lust and romantic longing and whether it made my very being there an exercise in disgust or heroism, I'm still sitting here trying to decide.
For lustiness, the night was unsuccessful.
For peace, it was sheer delight.
Walking by her side, bike wheeling between us, combined contentment at what was shared, daring to thrill at what was to come
the night stopped
went blank
pedestrians and cars cease beyond memory of moving,
light surrenders to conquering dark,
lost
to the ghost of a failed second.
And, emerging, stillness, the shining face of an author who catches my eye knowingly as if the non-experience was a device in one of her perfectly orchestrated plays, and bidding goodbye, wheels through a grey envelope of sky, pavement. Love fading with a light less certain than minutes before.
Alone, I'm distracted by a rap from the window of Vittori's revealing the Mullins brothers – grinning and ginger - drinking wine, inviting me to join; converting my night to one of comforting revelry, though one bemused by its lack of significance, an easy enough burden for both the plain and the terrifying man, but cursed by the wonder at what it is to be plain or afraid when the even fog of alcohol can't hide that it's very screen is a desperately confused veil worn through days lost in counting, causing scenes that expect to be engaged with once the reality underpinning them has been shredded and forgotten and in here we're meant to find a will to continue?
Love gives the wanderer such pleasant tokens to continue as, in the final act, it is fatally ripped away.
Zuza
“This will be my whole life”
She intoned in a Czech accent dented by 4 years in Inverness, now Edinburgh.
Dark hair and steel-rimmed glasses, breasts loosely held in a an duck-egg blue sweater.
It was the first day of summer. The world was on the Meadows sitting cross-legged in groups, drinking beer, smoking , soaking away winter's dust. Bikes lay beside make-shift picnics hustled from the local deli, supermarket or organically prepared at home as contrivance required. Red and yellow gymnasts, jugglers and circus performers – fresh from the season's first festival (face paint still visible behind the ears) garbled to drums and hypnotic music booming from an amp powered by a car battery.
Our four was gorging on oatcakes and avocado exchanging stories about violence experienced as youths and inwardly celebrating summer with a sigh and thrill that life could be so perfect, so easy and would be intermittently for the next four months. I'm lying on my back getting carried away with the sky, the hum of ball games, relaxed and excited chatter, bored contentment at old friends' stories that I've got nothing to add to but affectionate insults to throw them off balance.
Then from above my head drops and approaches the Czech princess speaking philosophy to unseat me this time. A drama student, talks of plays, books she's read, projects she's engaged with as though each were merging, encircling the other, dreams and reality barely knowing a difference making just as fond impression; what the rest of us would consider joyful, sincere, depressing were for her equal bubbles to be grasped at, admired and pricked according to a whim that somehow managed to spin unconcerned perfection while avoiding none of it.
“I want my whole life to end like this. In nothing. Everything I've done, say or do fading to stillness.”
She was working on a project for her drama degree: “Getting raped by God”.
She had a habit of staring single focused as mental elegies poured from her; piercing eyes behind glasses, serious expression, fine china lines of her jaw shattering into glorious grins at the intermittent pauses where she forgot high-spun theories about Faust, eccentric mysticism, the forgotten history of Eastern Europe.
It was the kind of intellectualism I had come to treat as a bad habit: that existence was to be understood from day-to-day entanglement with it, not spinning in intellect's farther reaches, grasping at straws that couldn't capture its beauty any better than actual happening. But was it possible that she was weaving something that illuminated rather than obscured, breathed life into each Czech-inflected word, gave flesh to dry and dusty concepts otherwise hidden in forgotten storehouses, poured over by the neurotic and obsessed? She would tail across ranges populated by Dadaists, Dionysans, Situationists, send fleeing ideas that took men of grand minds manifold centuries to fashion and divine, weaving ill-conceived threads into something that chimed with her own impressions, life as she saw it. This was not some dirging textbook recital but impassioned symphony of the spirit. I was intoxicated.
“This is how I want my life to be, like my theatre. Collapses to nothingness. Stillness. Just existing in pure peace.”
A phrase to dispel the notion that my fascination was a bi-product of admiration for the vessel from which it flowed.
We sat listening and exchanging long after the other two had gone and the Meadows turned cold: the 6 o'clock shadow swept down from the trees in an arc that scraped up sun seekers as it went, depositing them to cafes, bars or home to work, children and the next day albeit with a warm glow that for at least one afternoon they'd been free.
We walked up George IV Bridge in fading light, bought a pizza and sat on the Mound watching the Forth mistening and darkening, the city below it – a throwback to its days of Enlightenment punctuated by squalor – today relaxed in a warm haze of aged gentrification. Cars and buses somnambulantly cruising Princes street and past tired shoppers, their red lights pricking the dusk.
The evening was taking on the colour a love affair, emerging from the status of mutual appreciation or so I thought, praying that signs of simulated interest in my observations and amusement at statues of cats peering from red-tile roofs were pointing to something that could tentatively be described as 'more'.
Summer's first night was deepening and long summer was stretching before a 'me' dreamed of as an 'us' that pirouhetted in intellectual orgasms between fevered gasps of love making; long breakfasts after long lie-in mornings and creative afternoons devising plays that would allow people to know the ecstasy that forged them.
But dreams and insights were falling short of her galactical grasp:
“There's no understanding and nothing creates. This is the first principle of theatre, before it can really happen”
So the summer would be an education then, rather than a shared exuberance, but it was time to return to studenthood - and with such a sublime teacher - if God could just grant a razor-chinked opportunity to ground our ruminating souls in carnal communion. Passion dodging like a schizophrenic between guises of base lust and romantic longing and whether it made my very being there an exercise in disgust or heroism, I'm still sitting here trying to decide.
For lustiness, the night was unsuccessful.
For peace, it was sheer delight.
Walking by her side, bike wheeling between us, combined contentment at what was shared, daring to thrill at what was to come
the night stopped
went blank
pedestrians and cars cease beyond memory of moving,
light surrenders to conquering dark,
lost
to the ghost of a failed second.
And, emerging, stillness, the shining face of an author who catches my eye knowingly as if the non-experience was a device in one of her perfectly orchestrated plays, and bidding goodbye, wheels through a grey envelope of sky, pavement. Love fading with a light less certain than minutes before.
Alone, I'm distracted by a rap from the window of Vittori's revealing the Mullins brothers – grinning and ginger - drinking wine, inviting me to join; converting my night to one of comforting revelry, though one bemused by its lack of significance, an easy enough burden for both the plain and the terrifying man, but cursed by the wonder at what it is to be plain or afraid when the even fog of alcohol can't hide that it's very screen is a desperately confused veil worn through days lost in counting, causing scenes that expect to be engaged with once the reality underpinning them has been shredded and forgotten and in here we're meant to find a will to continue?
Love gives the wanderer such pleasant tokens to continue as, in the final act, it is fatally ripped away.
She intoned in a Czech accent dented by 4 years in Inverness, now Edinburgh.
Dark hair and steel-rimmed glasses, breasts loosely held in a an duck-egg blue sweater.
It was the first day of summer. The world was on the Meadows sitting cross-legged in groups, drinking beer, smoking , soaking away winter's dust. Bikes lay beside make-shift picnics hustled from the local deli, supermarket or organically prepared at home as contrivance required. Red and yellow gymnasts, jugglers and circus performers – fresh from the season's first festival (face paint still visible behind the ears) garbled to drums and hypnotic music booming from an amp powered by a car battery.
Our four was gorging on oatcakes and avocado exchanging stories about violence experienced as youths and inwardly celebrating summer with a sigh and thrill that life could be so perfect, so easy and would be intermittently for the next four months. I'm lying on my back getting carried away with the sky, the hum of ball games, relaxed and excited chatter, bored contentment at old friends' stories that I've got nothing to add to but affectionate insults to throw them off balance.
Then from above my head drops and approaches the Czech princess speaking philosophy to unseat me this time. A drama student, talks of plays, books she's read, projects she's engaged with as though each were merging, encircling the other, dreams and reality barely knowing a difference making just as fond impression; what the rest of us would consider joyful, sincere, depressing were for her equal bubbles to be grasped at, admired and pricked according to a whim that somehow managed to spin unconcerned perfection while avoiding none of it.
“I want my whole life to end like this. In nothing. Everything I've done, say or do fading to stillness.”
She was working on a project for her drama degree: “Getting raped by God”.
She had a habit of staring single focused as mental elegies poured from her; piercing eyes behind glasses, serious expression, fine china lines of her jaw shattering into glorious grins at the intermittent pauses where she forgot high-spun theories about Faust, eccentric mysticism, the forgotten history of Eastern Europe.
It was the kind of intellectualism I had come to treat as a bad habit: that existence was to be understood from day-to-day entanglement with it, not spinning in intellect's farther reaches, grasping at straws that couldn't capture its beauty any better than actual happening. But was it possible that she was weaving something that illuminated rather than obscured, breathed life into each Czech-inflected word, gave flesh to dry and dusty concepts otherwise hidden in forgotten storehouses, poured over by the neurotic and obsessed? She would tail across ranges populated by Dadaists, Dionysans, Situationists, send fleeing ideas that took men of grand minds manifold centuries to fashion and divine, weaving ill-conceived threads into something that chimed with her own impressions, life as she saw it. This was not some dirging textbook recital but impassioned symphony of the spirit. I was intoxicated.
“This is how I want my life to be, like my theatre. Collapses to nothingness. Stillness. Just existing in pure peace.”
A phrase to dispel the notion that my fascination was a bi-product of admiration for the vessel from which it flowed.
We sat listening and exchanging long after the other two had gone and the Meadows turned cold: the 6 o'clock shadow swept down from the trees in an arc that scraped up sun seekers as it went, depositing them to cafes, bars or home to work, children and the next day albeit with a warm glow that for at least one afternoon they'd been free.
We walked up George IV Bridge in fading light, bought a pizza and sat on the Mound watching the Forth mistening and darkening, the city below it – a throwback to its days of Enlightenment punctuated by squalor – today relaxed in a warm haze of aged gentrification. Cars and buses somnambulantly cruising Princes street and past tired shoppers, their red lights pricking the dusk.
The evening was taking on the colour a love affair, emerging from the status of mutual appreciation or so I thought, praying that signs of simulated interest in my observations and amusement at statues of cats peering from red-tile roofs were pointing to something that could tentatively be described as 'more'.
Summer's first night was deepening and long summer was stretching before a 'me' dreamed of as an 'us' that pirouhetted in intellectual orgasms between fevered gasps of love making; long breakfasts after long lie-in mornings and creative afternoons devising plays that would allow people to know the ecstasy that forged them.
But dreams and insights were falling short of her galactical grasp:
“There's no understanding and nothing creates. This is the first principle of theatre, before it can really happen”
So the summer would be an education then, rather than a shared exuberance, but it was time to return to studenthood - and with such a sublime teacher - if God could just grant a razor-chinked opportunity to ground our ruminating souls in carnal communion. Passion dodging like a schizophrenic between guises of base lust and romantic longing and whether it made my very being there an exercise in disgust or heroism, I'm still sitting here trying to decide.
For lustiness, the night was unsuccessful.
For peace, it was sheer delight.
Walking by her side, bike wheeling between us, combined contentment at what was shared, daring to thrill at what was to come
the night stopped
went blank
pedestrians and cars cease beyond memory of moving,
light surrenders to conquering dark,
lost
to the ghost of a failed second.
And, emerging, stillness, the shining face of an author who catches my eye knowingly as if the non-experience was a device in one of her perfectly orchestrated plays, and bidding goodbye, wheels through a grey envelope of sky, pavement. Love fading with a light less certain than minutes before.
Alone, I'm distracted by a rap from the window of Vittori's revealing the Mullins brothers – grinning and ginger - drinking wine, inviting me to join; converting my night to one of comforting revelry, though one bemused by its lack of significance, an easy enough burden for both the plain and the terrifying man, but cursed by the wonder at what it is to be plain or afraid when the even fog of alcohol can't hide that it's very screen is a desperately confused veil worn through days lost in counting, causing scenes that expect to be engaged with once the reality underpinning them has been shredded and forgotten and in here we're meant to find a will to continue?
Love gives the wanderer such pleasant tokens to continue as, in the final act, it is fatally ripped away.
head swim
thorough winding on soft shores
brutal loneliness scars through
heat of what you say
still renting
new storms
quake through me
wash feathered existence
stand alone
and strong
devastated to leave back
but face braver
instances
more shiny
free
and wonders can't imagine
they say
brutal loneliness scars through
heat of what you say
still renting
new storms
quake through me
wash feathered existence
stand alone
and strong
devastated to leave back
but face braver
instances
more shiny
free
and wonders can't imagine
they say
head swim
thorough winding on soft shores
brutal loneliness scars through
heat of what you say
still renting
new storms
quake through me
wash feathered existence
stand alone
and strong
devastated to leave back
but face braver
instances
more shiny
free
and wonders can't imagine
they say
brutal loneliness scars through
heat of what you say
still renting
new storms
quake through me
wash feathered existence
stand alone
and strong
devastated to leave back
but face braver
instances
more shiny
free
and wonders can't imagine
they say
Thursday, 8 May 2008
Saturday, 3 May 2008
love's bitter days
Today's a day for fury as each word struggles to make it through razor wire filter of self-annhihalation that none of this could be good enough - the great dichotomy that nothing is good enough though some parts find it harder than others to bear to see through and still remain vital not put off reckoning til later but go deeper below the haze and accept accept that the sludge is love just as finger running your hip, 3 days with you in bed or other fantasies to invent to persuade myself that this is not happening the rage is nowhere near the churning, aching stabbing - could not be anything as its cause sitting here in rage the pure fear that this really is it your life that you dreamed, pretended and modelled has come to a sitting room in Leith that's not your own and there's nowhere you can go, no one you can call that can make it one ounce better, no worse! to hear patronising cried that 'you're not yourself' or 'you'll get through' well fuck you right through with your denying of your own life I see SEE what fucking futility this is all is that your manicures and suburban fantsasies make you sicker than the molesting priest who, for his sins, had the courage to do them before God, but God's no good for you, with your fig leaves in the garden pretending when it all comes down that we have each other HEY! you DON't you are so completely alone even as your husband lechers and you make sly flirtations with young men before the school run takes you again into your own sludge and you fucking ask that life not may be not good for me - jealously guarded freedom is a far rarer herb than you're likely to taste however bitter, devoid of stability and the instruments of the good life it may be - though we made it up in Cambridge enclosures our time too is passed.
love's bitter days
Today's a day for fury as each word struggles to make it through razor wire filter of self-annhihalation that none of this could be good enough - the great dichotomy that nothing is good enough though some parts find it harder than others to bear to see through and still remain vital not put off reckoning til later but go deeper below the haze and accept accept that the sludge is love just as finger running your hip, 3 days with you in bed or other fantasies to invent to persuade myself that this is not happening the rage is nowhere near the churning, aching stabbing - could not be anything as its cause sitting here in rage the pure fear that this really is it your life that you dreamed, pretended and modelled has come to a sitting room in Leith that's not your own and there's nowhere you can go, no one you can call that can make it one ounce better, no worse! to hear patronising cried that 'you're not yourself' or 'you'll get through' well fuck you right through with your denying of your own life I see SEE what fucking futility this is all is that your manicures and suburban fantsasies make you sicker than the molesting priest who, for his sins, had the courage to do them before God, but God's no good for you, with your fig leaves in the garden pretending when it all comes down that we have each other HEY! you DON't you are so completely alone even as your husband lechers and you make sly flirtations with young men before the school run takes you again into your own sludge and you fucking ask that life not may be not good for me - jealously guarded freedom is a far rarer herb than you're likely to taste however bitter, devoid of stability and the instruments of the good life it may be - though we made it up in Cambridge enclosures our time too is passed.
Thursday, 1 May 2008
Men are not Lords of their art
Heart unchanging
Beating
Remaining
Seasons change
Beginning of revolt
Collapse cash call
Kings forget
Companies' whores
Striving hands
Sleep on
Crying Earth
Power's hold?
Does it come from gold?
Or ignorance of innocent men
Who refuse
Good news
That love is nothing
That is not you
You speak of truth
Only to confuse
That there is one thing
Left to lose:
A blinkered eye
Hides surprise
That world's failure
Is a reflection
Only of You
Breath of All Things
Joy in Hell's heat
Life spreading nothing
That is not peace
Change's
Love-expression
Seeds
Beating
Remaining
Seasons change
Beginning of revolt
Collapse cash call
Kings forget
Companies' whores
Striving hands
Sleep on
Crying Earth
Power's hold?
Does it come from gold?
Or ignorance of innocent men
Who refuse
Good news
That love is nothing
That is not you
You speak of truth
Only to confuse
That there is one thing
Left to lose:
A blinkered eye
Hides surprise
That world's failure
Is a reflection
Only of You
Breath of All Things
Joy in Hell's heat
Life spreading nothing
That is not peace
Change's
Love-expression
Seeds
Men are not Lords of their art
Heart unchanging
Beating
Remaining
Seasons change
Beginning of revolt
Collapse cash call
Kings forget
Companies' whores
Striving hands
Sleep on
Crying Earth
Power's hold?
Does it come from gold?
Or ignorance of innocent men
Who refuse
Good news
That love is nothing
That is not you
You speak of truth
Only to confuse
That there is one thing
Left to lose:
A blinkered eye
Hides surprise
That world's failure
Is a reflection
Only of You
Breath of All Things
Joy in Hell's heat
Life spreading nothing
That is not peace
Change's
Love-expression
Seeds
Beating
Remaining
Seasons change
Beginning of revolt
Collapse cash call
Kings forget
Companies' whores
Striving hands
Sleep on
Crying Earth
Power's hold?
Does it come from gold?
Or ignorance of innocent men
Who refuse
Good news
That love is nothing
That is not you
You speak of truth
Only to confuse
That there is one thing
Left to lose:
A blinkered eye
Hides surprise
That world's failure
Is a reflection
Only of You
Breath of All Things
Joy in Hell's heat
Life spreading nothing
That is not peace
Change's
Love-expression
Seeds
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