Archives for posts with tag: bliss point

She’s a last summer girl | walks slowly through the fountains | Small whorls | of liquorice and CK One | pulse holding | the darkness together | Imprint fading | They are setting | other agendas | and now it’s a new spring | she’s a last summer girl

Pockets of memory | Small water | hidden in green | dens | a perpetual | subdued | fricative | as the translucence | oozes | She lives there | where the moisture | collects and | drips and spills | in quiet measures | No one much | notices her | She may turn into a deer | or volcano | what will they care? | She’s a last summer girl | and they are following | different agendas | glancing across | humid carriages at | the freshest of strangers


into the sun again | for a few | quizzical instants | He turns half asleep | but half awake, too | She flits through his head | that room with Taiwan and | subdued summer light, the evening | ready to give birth, but | immensely calm | and she | is part of that calm | heroic | quite still | staring vacantly | at some app on her phone | So serene | the gods emerge from the trees | no need to hide now | He wonders | what will knock | from under the floor or | out of the lisping tap | to start the world | being wrong again?

Steam on a mirror | shaped like Africa | Extinct species | walk with her | The lithest of spectres | she still has her keys | but the doors have vanished | They | fan themselves | in parked cars | restaurants with | inadequate AC | 90° | F | He | adores this heat | his lover | centres July | The years | keep no establishment | She | is lateral to us | fragile | a cat’s | footprints | in snow

leading… | ? |

Pulse holding | the room together | Melange of stuff | Typed up | much later | inevitably | a précis | Her edition | already out of print | They | have other parties | other causes | other worries | She is a Space Age | These new dates | are not for her | She must make do with scrapings | filaments of copper | electricians have left | near the skirting | in an unoccupied house | and blebs of solder | plumbers fired | with blow torches, the flames | were kingfisher blue | and utterly real | like everything | that summer | that last | unremitting summer | when they were young and | all of them knew her…


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)



In the beginning was the snow | And the footfalls through the snow | appear soon after | Perhaps to a blue room with white skirting | duck-egg blue and | matrimonial | white, perhaps | to a happy moment or two | a distillery | of dust | moon in balance with sun | Nothing major | no revelation or | the sweet consummation of | crossed swords | no Hanged Man or Complete Physics | just heartbeats at a steady rate | sturdy | without show | all you need as you are | ready for a long ride | On these kinds of nights | the guitarists fall in love | and word soon gets around | until a crowd | great as the music | gathers | hoping | to hear them play

Who has the keys to the road? | Theorised | trees | exacted to bare January delicacy | the snow | a mush of bleaching | Seville oranges | under sodium streetlamps | Stripped down | to one set of footprints | Feel the mass | evaporate | gross | is the angel’s share | Left only with it all | hurrying to a room of | sparse | white and blue | to plot with her | tonight’s | new shape for the world | Outside | the Dynamos are playing | and the road | is closing a thousand doors | houses dim | curtains drawn | time moves on | until, at last, a hush comes in | even at the hearts of the atoms | the lights go down | ladies stop waving their fans | gloves and programmes are folded || and through the dark | I hurry home from | sword school | we lie still | in each other’s arms | quiet | fragile as unhatched eggs | as forming and as melting | ice | the way words always are | in the beginning


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)

And they are young Americans | the cold river blue of their eyes | will carry you a long way | clear of the city, although | the city is where you want to go | and close to the banks | in winter the water | flirts with the chastity of a newborn ice | plain and correct as coffin timber | or boiled cuffs | and with curlew isolation

Softly spoken | no expertise with big sticks | resting back, the pomp of their ’fros | spread fresh on plump pillows | and to the holes in the summer | street noise | their half sleep goes | flashing with half dreams | a distant claim of sirens | nearby pottering | of sparrows on balconies | a fascination with Astro | boy and the narrative | innovations of Jane Austen | knowing most of all | an ease with moments | is a natural gift | delicious | flexing of their still foal limbs | a treasure of indolence | thoughts dripping down smooth | like overturned spoons | letting slip of molasses | such bitter sweetness | the scooped steel goes light | as the dipped weight passes | the better to rise | but the further to fall | with work to be done | and the clock quick clicking | on fast road bike glides | late for Eng Lit classes | running the rule over 18 C masters | bringing to the future 20 C kings | and a day’s hope to the fire | of the days with no kings | riding

And in heist-land job crucial matter of time | bagging up the money Fats tapping with the 9 | Sammy outside in the ride motor always running | headed to the ice plant swapped out drives | powered in the Caddy deep into night country | bats in the beams and the moon not local | when we pissed in a line by fields of motionless maize | last to finish up took a moment to breathe | that agrochemical smell and hard dirt and dust | the churn of our engine a sound of liberty’s heaven | cool bass line of endless motion and oil | and the crickets singing | crept into a pocket inside me | and only fell out later | when I went down in the rain like a Lichtenstein blazer | gats sliding on the sidewalk in the big-bulbed lights | out front of that star-struck showtime theater | cops and Feds and molls and rats all around me | and the jingle of the shells from dry-cracking semis | like Sammy and Jimmy and Fats and Dimes | died into fame and rose double quick again | martyrs of the market and comic-book economics | mimic the saints on turning white walls | bodies broken on drug busts and slab racks | and Jesus of the rolled stones and the echoing tomb | death not where we left it | not where it should be | but in August, on civilian duty in a flyover state | maybe on a border | three weeks into another terrible drought | a lunar heat | drenches the wired farms and shadow-casting silos | and insects and abandoned people don’t sleep | but remain wakeful | restless | so deep into solitude they can’t even tell | if they’re really alive | and by heirloom lamps | pore over bibles: “You know the way to the place where I am going” | The Book of Michael Chap 7 Verse 5…


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)

Not interested in your | reproductions | Too tired to | argue between | angels and machines | Don’t care | for your reasons, they don’t | matter to me | Ghosts for sale || I woke to snow and moonlight | the hush in which you may hear | if you are hushed | the echoes of gods’ footfalls | The magic sets in

The magic sets in and won’t be budged | Twilight in winter and the trees very still, occasionally a hare | Longing to sleep, so as to dream | You slake a thirst I didn’t know I felt | bear me back the wax | sheen of red cherries | and a childhood question | the space between the blossom and the maturing fruit | still alive enough to | wonder? | Sometimes a memory | Or the scent of rain wrapped in box | of violet crepe | Those nights on the inside of your wrist | the moonrise was in everything | the click of earrings on a bedside table, clunk | of wristwatch with its hints | of action and jewels | tangents of the sea where the | mother of pearl first | began to trickle out | We listen to dominoes | The sound of our flesh and the sheets is the hiss of | hot horseshoes cooled in water, the | passing of energy || Leaving doors open into other rooms | Truthfully | To walk so as to | leave most places behind | To choose, so as to | narrow a life by specific paths, in this case | one haunted by | mint and elderberries | Hiding so much in a kiss, jumping | out of its shadow like children | in costume with a BOO!!! and squeals | of laughter | Soon, everyone had gone | Eventually the snow


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)

I fell a long way, and the world took my face away from me | No | life anymore

Disturbed with ripples, she | dipped her fingers into the surface of the water | the universe | shimmered || She looked at me

Days of the stowaway || I put tissue paper in my ears to keep off the cold | built a house of glances | built a house of glances

Echo | chamber

I locked my phone so the fall wouldn’t find me | I fell a long way | No | life anymore

They leave me flowers | Was | unhappy in my native country

Watched the cars slip by on Angolan oil

Days of the stowaway | in me | A toy mermaid at the floor of the bowl, and the goldfish | flashed their fins like the crimson fans | of Japanese princes | dancing

Came a long way, disturbed with ripples | My SIM | card keeps my identity || holds || all the routes of my secrets, how I | came to be no one

She looked at me | Her mouth was | red like the scales of the | goldfish she sent scattering | Water | beads | on the glistening | tips of her fingers and | I built her a car of the future | her a car of the future

Here | The fall took my face away from me | I took the sky down a long way with me ||

Days of the stowaway | passing | by me || Missing | soul

Echo | chamber

All the voices that shouted, all the voices that sang | or curled their whispers like | threads of smoke | looking back, looking back | at the fire

Will they bury me | in a place I know? | My family’s hands | upon me? || Missing |


Brought the joy to small pieces | joy to small pieces | I made my plan | Brought the shape of my | data to | flow with the data | of the rest, like the rest | Was | unhappy in my native country

Nights of the stowaway | in me | Smuggled | trees | Arguments of clouds | and cirrus | connections | Reflections of sky | in a goldfish bowl with a | toy mermaid | eyes | with tiny | reflections: a toy mermaid with golden hair || I admitted the wild | dream into me | The wild dream took me, and I | came a long way | disturbed with ripples

I locked my phone so the | thieves wouldn’t find me | Fell a long way | from any | sacred rumour

If they don’t | put me back with my body, if they don’t | bury me with my name | who will I be, then? | Just part of the sky, and | part of the ground?

Disturbed | The goldfish flashed their fins like | crimson fans, and her mouth | glistened like the scales, she said | Things could be | better

From any | sacred anchor | From any | sacred order

I go | Embers | stowaway in me | Smoke | wants to rush back down to the | burning | fire

Why did I flee | my native country? | In our culture | with no name | no | family | although I am dead | it’s like I’m still alive – a missing | soul

I go | Embers | stowaway in me

I locked my soul so the | thieves wouldn’t take me

Days of the stowaway /



from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)

He’ll go to a High School for Boys | His legend will live on there | under horse chestnut shades | oozing through copper pipes | dripping into oblong enamel basins | at the height of summer / as harsh cicadas scour the air, and in crisp uniforms | pressed by parents who want admirals of them | young men with high fine voices and moments | of angels’ temperaments | will push their squeaking bicycles between the fields | and pause | and be aware of him | their great | predecessor | a haunting presence | a translucent mountain looming over them and melting up towards | the white and soft blue-grey | mountains of the September clouds

He is the delta, feeding the springs of all the rivers and their tributaries, their small clear mouths | wait for his rain

They will puzzle over him most terribly | those young men | listening so studiously to early 90s hip hop and | painting their model soldiers while | wondering about jazz and | how all of this fits into girls, the half of a | peach, the silver | static of the fuzz: he will put them | in a quandary | but then | most things do put them in a quandary, the edge of a mysterious world is forever | encroaching into their world of | intense concentration and disturbing | the various forms of their | pure mercurial passions…

He’ll marry his childhood sweetheart, and be faithful to her | He’s just that kind of man | His home town is one of those | two-faced affairs | dull and provincial to most natives but, to outsiders (those who never actually visit) | possessing a gloomy cachet, exuding the reputation | of a place that is obdurately itself, idiosyncratic almost | to the point of the saturnine, yet too sincerely limited | to achieve the melancholy distance of irony | or the prestige and luxury of narcissism

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Dream too great for dreaming | Slipping through the | gaps in the law | in the rain | in the thoughts | Leave me under your | cushion | tuck me | into the waistband of your | knickers, and run, run, run | Vault the | clouds and the river | Oh | You spill me | backwards and forwards | I am always | falling out of your hands | The heat in your mouth | The sun in your diary || Aztec and | worth all the | winter | I’ll close the door | Lie down | curl up | in the clinical light | among the ice, the fish-fingers and the milk | of the | dilapidated | refrigerator | Oh | Life too small for living | Your throwaway words | are tidal pools | littered with the scuttling | whispers of | the Devonian and the Jurassic | Oh | Hey! Listen! | In the rain, everything is | related to the rain | Fire too bright for burning | You put the | darkness back in the | shooting stars we all | miss as they | pass us by, you | stress the line at just the | wrong place, you | are too bored for the | rapids, for the | spinning chamber, or for the | umpteenth game of | pool | in a Malaysian bar | Oh | And your King is too | exposed for taking | Days too sure for waiting | Ride too fast for | riding

Echoes of the swords of her promises | May they haunt me forever | Broken beautiful things | cut through the tedium of | curricula and stratagems | You want a place to | throw your heart? | She will | give you a | chance | She doesn’t even | mean | to be | anything to you | And you will both | be arch-deceivers | But you never listen to me! | She will throw you to your heart | like the Tartars threw | children to the wolves | Echoes of the swords of her promises | will ring your head around and around | and all you’ll ever remember | is the shape of a | meteor you half | guessed | was passing | and in your sleep, feel the shadow | almost touch your | head | as it goes | a ride too fast for riding | a dream too great for dreaming

from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)

A hermit bead of water | Lambswool winter day | Won’t you come into the shower with me? | Stillness of dissolving orgasm, mist | we wipe a name in or a child’s face | Putting down the last mirror, as if the last card in the deck: now, the game is over

Hush, and scrape of sticks on rock | Planet of silences, the mountain | knows its place, and it’s not with us | Scent of rock, sense of rock’s respiration, slow, millennial | At this altitude, very quiet, very still | The wedding rings of the deceased | placed in a drawer | just, fresh, not yet | quite | heirlooms

Solicitation of ghosts | Bare structures, walls of pale blue, sparsely pictured | a Swedish cabin, the space between our lips instants | before we kiss and after | we kiss | Are we alone? | When did she notice there was an angel in the room, the Virgin?

Change the world, and then breakfast | Victory, and peace | We drive past figures of the meek, who look uncertain, bemused at their inheritance | Now, tell me, is there a finer thing in life than to write a poem? | To bring words to their spring, and let them grow | cocksure for summer? | Poems are another love

Won’t you come into the shower with me?

from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)

Last house on Holland Island, not a doll’s house | pelicans gather on its ruined roof, the door is still there, the door is | closed | no other | houses around, and soon | so soon…

There is a wooden church in the snow, its back is broken by light, a short | tower has no bell, hoar frost | grips the trees nearby | in jeweller’s pincers | when the light | has finished crushing the church | the trees will look different, and the plain | have fewer obstructions to its emptiness

Interest in the waterfall has declined, our hotel | pillows its head in moss | when we wake | slugs are gradually skating across their trails of ice | an intricate choreography | Jets pass over with their lofting roar, young lovers with dark eyes and gazes | so serious (if only | they knew) | sensing the taut | space | between her elbow and his fingers, and the battle of the alert and | sensitive | threads of mercury | fitted to slivers in greenhouse thermometers | are caught from their dream, as we are | all of us caught | and slipped into the vast “otherwise”, home for every thing that exists and does not | exist…

Last house in the summer, the other houses | have migrated in herds | they have taken our lovers, they have taken our children, but we | have stayed here | in the last house of the summer

Columns from antiquity, white columns, in the train station in disputed Sukhumi | are greened by ivy and creeping plants | We sleep in the promenade, our necks | develop aches, the war | scares all the trains and passengers away, so we rush | to the last house in Arcadia, last | beds in the last | house on Holland Island, no other | beds around, and soon | so soon…

They have taken our childhood, taken our beautiful sisters with the limbs | of naiads and ballerinas | they have dipped the trains in poison, the churches, too | and the fluttering, suffocating forms of fairies | in bell jars | their skin turns blue and the glisten of their wings | mutes and fades | browns off, shrivels and shatters

Interest in the war has declined, interest in the victims, the soldiers, the orphans, survivors | has declined | There is no power in the last | house in the war, no heat, no running water, and the lovers have fled | to the hotel by the waterfall, the mirrors | in their ornate frames of gilt | are huge, like hung lakes, so the lovers | are happy, they may always | glance over to look at themselves | their young bodies forever on the edge of | a muscular and angelic fudge | into the necks and the beating wings of swans, interest in the war has declined and the great | “otherwise” has come over the region, otherwise | people would care and would remember, which clearly | they do not

Last house in a moment, last house in the love, before the love | cools and moves on | migrates and mutates | last | chance to glance into the mirror before | interest in the waterfall declines and the hotel closes | the gas creeps in, the seahorses | are washed up and dry out and wither, last | house on Holland Island, the door is still there, a white door, the door | is closed

And Kolmanskop in Namibia | boomed for diamonds, otherwise | it would have remained a nondescript town, of negligible | population and status, but the diamonds | were aroused, the settlers | craved them, and Kolmanskop boomed

They have taken the diamonds, the diamond fields declined, Kolmanskop | was abandoned, the desert | came for the town, and the town | was mated with the desert, swilled with it | devoured, in part | consumed

In the last | house in Kolmanskop, sand like flooding seas fills each room, the light, the powerful | light of the sun | which only hours before had been | working in the north | breaking the spines of lonely and remote | country churches | warms the sand to a delicious gold, and tilts the dream | of diamonds back | to the time of boom when our greed was close | to ecstasy, otherwise | Kolmanskop is visited | only by tourists and photographers, although soon, so soon…

Last house in the forest, last forest on the ship | interest in the future | declined, interest in the tragedy | declined, the | yacht’s svelte hulk | under the water and the Arctic ice | declined, the | widows, the wounded, the street kids, the butchered, interest | declined | and the young fled | leaving Sukhumi’s train station | stripped of dalliance and flirtation | of tender hearts beating erratically | at the taste of breath, the utter | alien moves needing to be made, the clear air | intensely lucid and entirely | lacking in stage | directions, and no | young lady or gentleman | gazed into the bridal abyss | of the last | diamond in Sukhumi | the situation was otherwise, and all | the weddings are elsewhere

Last poem in the world, last world in the words | last roll of the waves, the dice, the waves | Last house on Holland Island, a doll’s house, and in | that doll’s house there is | a doll’s house, and all the dolls | are elsewhere, otherwise | the swatch of diamonds would be desired, interest | in inedible things | has declined, in | banknotes, in | the future, interest | has declined, and all the people | are elsewhere, making their kiss | central, their child’s | education | the cat’s | Chinese slumber, their orgasm | central, interest | in the future has declined, otherwise | why are the maimed and the broken | left to their wounds and their grief?

There is no | power in the last | words in the house | the fields | are depleted | and the gaudy, grand poem itself | is abandoned | left to the pelicans and the ticks and whirs | of a quantum clockwork running down, the rooms and the memories | are vacated, even the mirrors | with their eyebrows of slugs | glow only with a tide | of ebbing lust, and of flowing void | There is no | belief in the last | worth of the word, Look, look ahead, the poem | is otherwise, is over | and all the eyes are elsewhere


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)

Did I tell you, once, that I was the Greatest? | They fell before me, and something in them | wanted it | desire to sleep | for it to be gentle | and real, at last | snowflakes falling on snow | After a true connection | all they listened to, for hours, was the prettiest | echo in the echo chamber | a few of them | never heard a voice again | Rising was best | the sweet gnaw of hunger pinned | along a thread of grease and blood | to the end | My wrath was sure, a way of travelling | ore-coated caves and fragile vessels | and my vengeance was grace | I was determined | Kin, companions, I sacrificed a few | girls sheathed in a midnight glitter | worked out | to slippery pearls | yes | I sacrificed them, too | whatever did they want of me? | To be the king, to be a thing of pinnacles | and so I ruled, and climbed, and didn’t | take them with me | They never knew | what to do with beauty | most | were too weak to see it or | to feel it | even their own beauty | but I saw | I felt | and I tasted | then I moved on | ascending | Storms and the coldest | shoulders came | cataracts and hard tarmac | in lay-bys, at mobile burger bars, queues | among the beaten | for a beating | they turned the flashlight elsewhere | Watching from a corner | I saw the latest lion parade | it all seemed unreal | no one noticed me | or knew my name | slipped away | through the holes in my shoes, and the holes in my feet | lingering a while | in the outskirts of the latest | of a long | series of anonymous towns | Shiver, now, my life | is waterfalls and dust | all that destruction | wrought so well | rendered worthwhile | rendered, at last| intangible | Broken through | my skull that charging bull | of high power | was lit and scattered | to a brilliant powder | a spell | cast by magicians with no care for us | and through a fine mist | pushing branches aside | like young birds no need for a nest | there, by chance, I opened my eyes | and suddenly | I saw the Greatest

from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)