Archives for posts with tag: bliss point

She has that | DEER WANDERING THROUGH THE OUTSKIRTS OF THE CITY IN THE EARLY | quality of | MORNING LIGHT || The way she moves | a kind of | melancholy as if | she doesn’t belong | She’s | bare | and her nakedness is | very simple, the last port of call for | anyone true || Can’t fit her | into the evening | PUZZLE | she’s shy but not self-conscious, she just | finds it hard to trust things in a world made of | cars and ego | MONEY BUILDS ALL THE TIME AROUND HER AND EVERYONE KNOWS – nearly everyone – she needs to get away before the | sun rises | and the day | PRETENDS ALL THE LIES ARE TRUE, INCLUDING SHINING || Trains | leaving | everywhere

Music in my earbuds | fills my brain with | lotus blossoms and moments | whisked to a pale | froth | of subsiding and glistening… Jets scroll down parts of skies and | GEOMETRY LESSONS | all those people are | heading | away… | SO ANYWAY | Why can’t the world be more like records and songs? | The sun, shining so I can’t | think of | EQUILATERAL things | CHALK TURNS TO VAPOUR | And in any case, it’s | just different ways for things to end || and all the time | there’s more and | more | blue space | between us…


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

It was just knowledge, anyone | could have learned these things | They weren’t important

Followed the stream for a while | Under the trees, I think they were alders | they led to my death | like the other things | Not one of their lichens | was accessible | their strange-fangled | blotches | colours like new | pussy willow in spring | purpose | impossible to say

It was just ratios and Aristotle | metaphysics and drag, anyone | could have understood those things | and the sun and the moon of last July had | lost their fuses | They just led to the same places?

They just led to the same places, no | secret side to show, no | keel to them, no | shell lipped out by the slow share into | plough earth and the brooding sun

You noticed his upper lip by the violet and lilac | flare of the moment, you held his hand | It led to my death, like the other things | all of them | tilted up on the board and sliding | the trains, the girls, the words | objects and expressions | fireworks and expressions | the stuffed-in | puffball of grief with its | smoke of spores | how the sea’s hands are not like | human hands at all | their grip | with a stench of Jurassic and shark | and cold and teeming | life

You remember the bridges of your childhood? | Conkers and blood and pen-knifes | Orion and Samedi, such an immense | clutter and critter, creep and crack | of stuff (and shift, and crawl) | sharp | upheaval of splinters where the millipede | unwinds her piece of clock and makes it | run / all of these things of my life, each with their swerve, each with their obdurate, cantankerous | mood | and the beautiful | written stillness under the trees | maybe alders, maybe | ash?…

It was just Cameron, just Mao Zedong, they were just | leaders, anyone | could have followed them | They weren’t important

Down the red | throat of the funnel | poured the ticks and the tacks | the lost and the found sensations, lost | sensations, the memories | of the kisses dripped and spattered, the memories | lost | dried up their kernels | stiff and crooked | it wasn’t just | Argentina or scuba, not anyone | could have known these things

Indeed

No one | could have known these things

It was a fine ship, built for sinking | it leaned and rolled, and the sailors | cried for the shore, they were just | passengers, after all, they didn’t | matter

Down the black | funnel of an eye | of a nerve | of a sentence, too | you poured | the ferocious waves | and their | thrust and hanging | foam | glittering as it falls into | the well, their hands | hold hard but | when they let go, oh!, that is the | thing | their torque and wrench, the flipping | to and fro | their drench and sputter, gulch and plunge and | flicker | such cool and teeming | death | lit with granules of salt and shattered | fragments of crates once used | to package peaches

They were just poems, anyone | could have read them, they weren’t | important

Not by the lamplight, not by the moonlight, not by the morning | light of a Parisian sun | Lay beside you for a while | no longer expecting | results or deals | your slender fingers | reached across Verlaine, stroked the paths of | Machado | the wheat fields too | rich for reaping, the | sailors | waving from the side, and their ships | so smooth upon the water, and, after all | there are days when it is | too foolish to set out | on the superfluous | gesture of a journey, there are | days when | to complete by moving is | a kind of sin…

By the lamplight, by the moonlight, by the morning | light of a sun of Madrid | Carried our bags on board | found our seats on the train | Around us the world was swirling | What choice did we have? | We couldn’t have | followed the others | This was our way | and the fruit | severed into new segments | fell and was filtered, even | lying still, we drifted | and the pips | spat out arced a juice and | gleam of detail | hinting at the | haunting of kisses | each one | dipped in the | purse with | black lining, each one | the motion of a separate story


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

Camped out on the edge of the city | Waiting for a meteor

Rebels making inroads in the government’s positions | Post-graduate studies | I ran from the tear gas to my car

The wilderness was full of voices? | Yes, it was rammed with prophets, a huge crowd, like something out of Swift

Did the meteor fall? | It was something like a war of prophets, a great contestation, as if from Federico García Lorca

The rebels used child soldiers to spread terror through the provinces | They prophesied and prophesied, and it was a battle, to see whose prophecy would prevail | I thought the wilderness would be empty! Such a racket of frankincense and angels, truth and bliss | gods and names | It was like | something out of Evelyn Waugh, I could find no | peace…

Did you like your car? | Yes, it was a big sedan, the engine had been monstered up | it made this gurgling noise like | gangsters from the sixties or early | seventies | idling by the curb | waiting to make a hit

What did the meteor mean? | It is still | open to debate, or | its significance | is no longer worthy of | thought, it has gone | It depends

So you cut the anchors holding the boats of your moments in place, and watched the fragile craft… | drift off on the current, I was very tired | by now, you understand, and the latent | silence inside my words | had grown so onerous to me | I was frightened, it was a pressure

Did the meteor fall? | This is the meteor falling…

There was battle, an existence in which | people suffered, and the weak were punished, raped, murdered, there were abuses of power, there were pressing issues, you spoke of ochre and vermilion walls, quiet backwaters in tropical cities, the green of palm trees, the ripped canvas of the wind in a storm? | Yes, I became a prophet | Shall I tell you what will happen to the world? How our children will die? And if I did, what would you do? You don’t really believe anything…

Packing for a last journey | I took a last look round the department, the canteen, library | People think graves are solemn places, but they’re wrong, there’s plenty of laughter in a cemetery

Packing for a last journey | Yes, right inside the reader’s eyes | that would be the road I’d take | Quite secret, you realise, by night, no one would really notice | and even if they really noticed | the link to their heart was gone, the beautiful alarms | wouldn’t really go off | the messenger | would be shot from her horse | the bandits | would wear particularly | striking clothes | and their sabres, oh, how they would shine | in the cold moonlight, and when the snow fell again | curled flakes of it | like shavings from the plane of a crystal carpenter | would catch in the black fleeces of their Astrakahn collars

Inside the reader’s eyes, the road through the poplars? | Yes, in northern France, earlier in time, you follow?

How can this sadness be computed? What weight does it have? What others involve? | It is hard to calculate | a substance that connects | everything

Will you really become a prophet? | Isn’t everyone a prophet, only | some don’t recognise their own prophecy?

Buckling up the straps | zipping the bags with the razors and aftershave | Taking a copy of Turgenev | some poems by Mandelstam and Apollinaire | I have seen people die right before me, I thought what an amazing | privacy that event holds | like a collapsing mine, burying everything, but | right up until the very last | moment | the tunnels still hold open the web | to every point in a life, the record | of every mineral and ore, of each | return to the surface to witness once more | the banal miracle of breathable air

Holds open the mine of connection, in other words? | Late at night, trying to come to terms | with the strange tropical insects | the heat, the humidity | I was writing: We have become hermits | monks in our cells, nuns in our cloisters | the purity of our isolation, the interiority of our prayer | in every moment of exhibition | of status update | of photographs posted | in the glare of virtual suns | we cannot value our own lives | have no sense | of their reach | we cannot speak | we cannot know | I would like to die, alone, in the mountains | and my body never be found…


from the series bliss point (open-ended, 2012–present)

There is rain inside the building | this is | not how the building was meant | to work

Take off my feet | Take off my head | Rest yourself | Trains full of nothing, coming in and out

Strangers, milling around on the platform | What are they making, all of them? | A silk of sutra

Rain inside the building and no end to the city | Take off your lips, let the kisses | roll to one side

You are engaged in an unnecessary activity | Put my ear to the egg, listen, what do I hear? | Is that breathing? | Is it the sound of rain in the hold | of a beached ship | stairwells twisted into spirals like shells and | dowsing for darkness?

This activity floats free of any genuine belief in change, it is pleasure, the interim or the end | Put my ear to the eggshell, who are you inside?

You read as the boat drifts down the stream, should someone put a gun to your head, it would be the same | You’re devoted to an order | Put my ear to the shell

This order is devoted to itself, it has no leaders, it has no order | It is an order with no order, it merely proposes itself endlessly | It has no leaders, merely exponents and apologists | zealots and zombies | and to revolt against it, we have irony | Put my ear to the shell, is that the sound of rain I hear, on the other side?

This is not how the forest was meant to work | Is that the sound of nascent wings I hear working? | The trembling | of the unused | lid of an eye?

Stepping on to a train, stepping out of a forest, stepping into a factory, stepping into a blue grotto, with mermaids and freedom fighters and pompous orators, the forest | has stopped raining out monkeys and parrots, it has become a refuge for dreamers and suicides, each season we will | sweep the forest for bodies | hanging and poisoned | cut and bagged | Who are you, inside your fragile | castle of shell? How big is your world? | A sound so subtle, vibrations | so subtle | movements | so subtle, they are like | ripples in a dream

Those who are about to vanish have no say in this process, it is a different order, but the order of our indifference is not like that, or | is it? | How sweet the sound of slow rain is, rain falling straight down, persistent, the incarnation of process | Inside there, I’m sure | I hear the sound of gentle rain | falling over the fields and the town | at night, and | in a beached ship | there are rows of glass vessels with slender necks and | rain is seeping into them | and you are suspended in the | sleep of birth

It is the arrangement we have with vanishing, a sort of | question of supply and demand | It is the nature of vanishing that | we cannot call back | what has left us | we cannot | make any further adjudications | we cannot explain | why the vanishing was | appropriate or | inappropriate, the vanishing cannot be | recalled | Trains full of people, floating downstream | each has a book in their hands, they are reading | The city exceeds the book, the city exceeds | the people, the city | is also on a boat | floating along, and the rain | takes off its lips and lets all the kisses | roll to one side

You are reading, it is like putting a tiny | stone under the wheel of a cart | or adding | a third wing to a bird | Hold the shell tight, treasure it, the egg is so beautiful, I | hardly want it broken into birth

You are reading, it is like | expounding a philosophy you don’t understand, it is like submitting | to an order you cannot enter | You are reading and vanishing, and I am vanishing with my | nostalgia for the forest and the gleam of the beaks | of toucans and macaws, and | the iridescent crescents of feathers | of imperial purple and petrol green, and vanishing | enters it all | with one of the | only true silences | Put my ear to the shell, listen, what do I hear? | Is that the | tremble of new muscles, the | glitch of fresh nerves | firing and fading and | firing harder?

When the gates of the shell open | out will come | the whole parade of existence again | trumpets | drums | xylophones | chimes | And when the gates of shell close | the old life will vanish, exactly as this | vanishes | before | your | very | eyes

 

 


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder (2012–present, ongoing)