Archives for posts with tag: bliss point

Exile from Eden, Pt 1 | trying to find a phone that works | Strange bathrooms | blusher, and moisturiser | body scrub, with jasmine, jojoba | Three nights | of lightning and thunder | barrels of diamonds | splitting and spilling | Sleep, at bay | never quite… | … Trying to get… | … Oh! …

Raking through bones, looking for thoughts | In airliner time, somewhere over Kazakhstan | Roll your body clock down a dark hill | let it rest on its side in long grasses, cooled | by a dew of alcohol | Cloven- | hooved officials with clipboards and uniforms | scented moustaches, blonde hair | flown in | from the Steppes | Forms to fill in | fill out | fill in | fill out… | Go | Get a cab | Leave the country, and your old lover | who smells of fresh wet peppers but | lost years | So tired of the sound of that chopping board | Dereliction has become a duty | From this, you know it must be | Exile from Eden, Pt 1 | The first of a trilogy…

Idle on the crowded shore | The ferry’s late, Charon | nowhere to be seen | sidle off, head for a quiet bar | Slip away | from the reception, Italian | ambassador | nowhere to be seen | Dig your heels | into your smiling horse, spur | on the cocaine merry-go-round | ride away | into the sunrise | Find shade | under the creak and rattle | of a fat old palm | listen to the sea’s | liquid bulldozer | number-crunch the sand | back and forth | At the theatre, look for the most | discreet box | Shorten the play | Cut even the chase | Not to be

Exile from Eden, Pt 2 | No one wants their days, anymore, especially | not this day | Sailors, looking bored with the voyage | they only signed up | for the shipwreck | will it be long | till the storm? | all their faces say | they have no taste | for fine weather | And already, you’re | hankering for Pt 1, it’s par for the course, part of the deal | a cabinet | with odd | pills and lotions | and making love, like | raking through embers, searching for flames

So many ways | to be forgotten | knapsack on your back | stout stick | to build a life | of setting off | stout boots, stout heart | bright, clear autumn air | no need for a P.S. | no place for a memo | To hell with Pt 1! | This, you think, will do | A hangover | like the roar and clang of a fire | engine in heaven | and at night Mandelstam | kirsch | Turkish cigarettes | hours and hours | letting out the sleek | line of a wish | drifting alone | down unknown streets | anonymous and free | hop | from restaurant to inn | at dusk to the river | through nondescript alleys | nothing on your mind | when, on rounding a corner | quite unexpectedly | you bump | into the Italian ambassador


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present: this poem, July 2013)

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)
(this poem, June 2013)

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)
(this poem, April 2013)

It was the fire, the fire that always wins every debate, and it was lit in a kiln | a womb | a kiln

And the womb was the paper, and the paint brush sprayed out pines and cockerels and malicious cats, and the ink was a kiln | her hand | a kiln

You wanted to go the way of the painter, to crawl into the lit kiln | the nest | the kiln || to go that way through the mountains, and winters of mist and sleet, the silver lake, long feathery grasses, not a dab of red colour, no way to reach back across your days to her hand | the fire | her hand

You wanted to go into her mouth, and to come out of her mouth again, to feel the wet lips, plump and succulent, so the winter | came to her kiss for the will | to go on | and she conveyed to the snow her wishes, the flipping and flopping glimmer of bullion | of bone | of bullion | of the goldfish slipped from the bowl, suffocating | on the tiles, and you | wanted to go the way of the paint, to crawl | into the pigment and the hair of the brush | to go all that way back to the studio | the endless talk | the studio

For love, for love and the days pinned | marked | bleeding, for the days that feeling | made real again for the love, the love | in a modest room | in spring | under the branches of monochrome pines, of cockerels twisting on paper, for the paint brush | sprayed out painters and her eyes | her words | her eyes | you wanted to go the way of the lover, to crawl into the lit fire | the kiln | the fire

You wanted her to go the way of your tongue | a womb | your tongue, you wanted her to look at you across the | crowded train | on the tiles, the flipping and flopping and the | shallow spree of silver, the water, you wanted her | to go the way of the fire | the flowers | the fire, | and you searched in your head for a kiln, for some milk, for a kiln | you wanted her

For love, for the days | lit and skewered, for the days | made out of nights and the wakeful moon you made to feel | real again, for the rush, for the red | splash of the cockerel’s | blood, for the seal, for the lush | Korean silk, you wanted to go the way of the | paper, you wanted to crawl | back through the fire | the womb | the kiln, crawl | back through the fire for the moment, for her bare | feet kicking out | under the sheet | the snow | the sheet, you wanted to go into her eyes | her ears | her nostrils, you wanted | to go the way of the young again | old man | you wanted to start the fire | in the room with the ink, with the | cat with the malign smile, for love | for the cafés and the students | talking and talking, you wanted to start the fire | the painting | the fire

And she conveyed to the spring her languour | to the sheets | to the spring, she conveyed | to the birds her desires | to the apricot flowers and the geese and the ducks, she | came on foot the way of the mountains, through the cold, when dynasties | die and coups and rebellions vie for completing chaos, she | rocked on the train and let her fingers | stroke the pink and vermilion | contours of your lips, she | dipped for shadows, and the students | were fervent and naive and stupid and talked and talked | pointlessly and brilliantly until they | seemed to turn almost translucent with fatigue and ideas for the future, and you | old man | didn’t want to end | anywhere, not | anywhere

You wanted to go back | to go the way again of the | lake in winter with the | plaintive calls of | geese and ducks | to find once more the ice that feeling | made cold for you, made you both hurry | across the tiles to the bedroom, and the fire, the fire that always wins every | debate, you | wanted to lie down there, in the kiln | the glance | the kiln, you | wanted to go on | to stay | go on, and so | old man | you came here, to the ink | the paper | the brush, you came here | here which is anywhere | and

vanished into all these things | these nothings | these things | for love, for the blood in the mire, for | the ink in the | boat on the river, for | the horses bucking and skewing, for | the glaze on the pot and the blossoms’ | cockerels’ red | petals, for | the name of the star, for | the ducks mating in purring blurs of gold and teal and pine | wheat | pine | by the side of the | freezing stream in spring, you | vanished into all these things, these nothings

for love |

for | her

for the fire

 


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

When she talks to the cherry tree, it belongs to her just a little more

And when she puts her ear to the cherry tree’s trunk, she swears she can hear the beating of a tiny heart

There is too much of the calm summer day, she lies on her back on the grass and throws little questions up at the sky | When they fall back to earth, she has gone, and the mystery around them deepens || Then the evening star | is unendurably beautiful

All things have set out on an adventure | Some of the planes | don’t return

Vortex and YouTube, building a pyramid | with sugarcubes | why do I endure | the indifference of your beauty? | this waiting around | examining | all the fashions of your ignorance?

All these days of ‘but’ and ‘perhaps’ and ‘maybe’?

By praying the cherry tree tells her in her sleep you create a god

And truly, none of the planes return, their base | is no longer there | it set out, too, for the next pattern of its incarnation | a cinema | rice paddies | a place herons stalk

The young man in the café with his love and his time | doesn’t even know the cherry blossoms are the roads | he will take out of here | he only sees | the sky in its most insatiable mood of blue | most fatal | most acute | and too entire

Why can’t I bow my spirit to the spirit of the matsuri, run and chase the procession? | clap, and stamp, and dance | and sing?

Why do I want to drag down that sky | and give it even a moment’s rest in pointless words?

You won’t look at me anymore | and erase me with each breath, but I | stupidly faithful | each night | give you a handful of gods | for you | to toss casually away | onto your heap of useless things

And after all the things have set out on their adventure | why am I so stubborn | refusing the careless matsuri inside me | and loving you | my style of treachery?

 


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

The air is eating the soft fruit of my lungs | and the stock market is falling

Slowly all the cities are connecting up by means of infinitesimal threads of quicksilver, and | I am in a mood

Autumn rests against my skin | the fine hairs on my arm rise a little against the cooler air || It will be vellum

She bites her lover and he spills tiny seeds | Small frills of his flesh tighten and loosen, he will run to the temple, where there are pictures of beautiful trees

Stars are forming all over the surface of her skin and her darkness is expanding, the small points of luminosity | drifting further and further apart

The books ache not to be books, and the words | chafe on their pages || they feel autumn coming, too | the damp, the fogs, the mildew

The long winter night of her kiss frightens him | the beautiful trees are letting fall | oranges | persimmons | pomegranates | lemons

Exquisite as a Persian miniature | his sorrow | is not really enough to make up grit sufficient for even | a single pearl

She doesn’t love him | although they are called “lovers” | There will be no more summers | Only the empty bourgeois walks in walloping galoshes across wet fields and woods where purpose runs out and will fails and his body grows as frail and as pointless as a child’s balloon | slipped from moist little fingers | given to the air’s indifference | blown and floating

When she cries, the tears are tiny wriggling caterpillars | They glisten and glitter | She never sees them take wing, and perhaps they never do?

The chemistry of grief is well known and the famous “next words” are written and read | and another of her kisses fills him with snow and delayed trains and she can’t leave her phone alone, in it is stored | all the devices of his irrelevance

She dines on her own heart, it no longer satisfies her | Why are happy people so contemptible?

They will never hear the clink of goat-bells again, the high pass in the dust and the rapture | They will never establish the basis of their relations | with other people

The crowd yearns for celebrity | The wedding dresses of her cells | unwind their long trains and the silk snaps and whistles | Always, the groom is changing!

Entire cities fall prey to storms of amnesia | When we find them again, they are ruins, their citizens | mummified in ash, their bus passes | no longer valid and their homes | hold no interest at all for anyone, surely?

The jewelled cannibal of her wristwatch nibbles away at her, the piranhas of instants school and glimmer | And light pours down through the trees scented with milk and nostalgia, weighted with the memories of November evenings when the light itself | has gone

I won’t come to this place again | I think | It is hateful and | the silence that follows it is always so very, very long…

 


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

We did not ask for this form, why do my arms, my neck, my wrists | not answer to the air or to my call, hounds | no | hunting

Why does the breeze fall at this moment | introducing a hush into my blood, and why do my wrists | turn uneasily in their beds like young princes

And the skull on the neck, the ache in the shoulders, I did not | ask for this thought | why should it come with its dew and white camellias | coal, ash | Japan?

With no tower, and with no murderers

The neck lying next to the skull, then next | to the pomegranate tree | then next | to your mouth, and your mouth | has been building up towards a kiss | for hours, doesn’t the storm | want a city? | the prettier | to look…

Such a ruckus! Delivery of a leaden beer | in mighty barrels | The ballerinas all bears | such a thud and racket | such bruit | of bad-tempered giants | trying to pick up a thimble | their fingers like canoes | their thumbs like sofas | and how | rhetoric is altered by lightning | enriched a moment, then | abandoned for eternity, so much | for my skull | and its glabrous contents | the shrill mew of its mice | the sweet tune | the impoverished seamstress sings | sewing tiny orange | fleurs-de-lis on a bodice | so much | for so little | so much, so much…

With no time, and the murderers | With no day | but a sun

The hounds of my senses | do not come when I call | They choose their own prey | Sometimes, I am the prey

The bowmen of my eyes | do not fire when I call | They choose their own target | the luscious bull | of what life has to offer | We did not ask for this form | It doesn’t want | the clothes we use | to dress it up | But none of the foregoing | matters, anyway, because now | is the moment | the sea enters | and all must acknowledge | the power of the sea

Will I ever | know this | modesty again | this simple | “being involved”?

A night, I mean, truly | opened on one side | by your touch | and another side opened | by your letting go

For iotas, for crumbs

The sea patrolling outside our room, looking for the way in | the sea demanding its toll of honey

We

must make it | through to the place | bees go in autumn

That’s it

 


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem: September, 2013)

Everything is made of loneliness.

The return to the screen and the keyboard | postcards of the Taj Mahal | Tahitian maidens with cape jasmine flowers in their hair | degraded stock footage of a road in Nebraska | sleek airline termini in Asia | prescriptions for gastroenteritis | phone calls we halt | your mouth moving around the words “lace” and “pink” | the Atlas Mountains

Others have their opinions | atoms and the void, mental phenomena, perception | and so forth | but they don’t understand a skinhead’s motives | his love of his Swiss army knife, they can’t realise how their opinions | lie down in the early hours and don’t sleep | and the room | floats left, floats right | drifts aimlessly into the darkness | they don’t see the children grow old | they don’t listen, they don’t hear | the silence under the sea

Everything is made of atoms and the void | they tell me | it is like | throwing a handful of pebbles | into the Atlantic | antique photographs | of beggars and peddlers and street magicians | or travelling | inarguably the world’s most beautiful and thrilling sightseeing route | along the Amalfi coastline | No, no, no | Andrew says | Everything is made of words | but he doesn’t understand when I ask him | You mean words like “pink” and “hunt” and “stone”?

The crowds are made of loneliness | departure in every face | reading On Being Misled in a late tube train | the hustle and rattle of the carriage | comforting in some ways | the sound of distance being ground up and fed | into the past | perception | mental phenomena

Reality is made of work | Reality is made of economic relations | Sex, instinct, dreams | There are many different versions | the triumph at the top of Annapurna | the accord between warring politicians | Debbie’s lace | Why can’t they understand anything? | Are they just too busy, too hurried, too intent | on getting to the next moment, not this moment | where things are empty and the road leads out from Eureka | and there are no towns or services | no lights of towns or services | at night as you drive, settling over you | there are some of the darkest skies in the country | and the mountains are more lunar then earthly | with a scrape of a wheel on an axle | This is not a place you want to break down

Gangsters in their lonely cars | performing their grisly tasks | guns, spades and banknotes | kudos, respect, champagne | the loneliness waits at the bottom of the well | of each of these things | rolls in the barrel of the pistol | like a dry pea | in a tin can | flutters in the lira and the yen | coughs out the soil | and the bits of roots at the dumping grounds | and the desperate parties gangsters hold | are some of the most | desolate places on Earth | and always the good ones | want to get out | but they never do

The cinemas are made of loneliness | with their titanic images | of cities with rivers and many bridges | statues, fountains | strip joints | galleries and back streets | As all things in a film are made of film | all things in my life | are made of dog teams | pulling sledges north | further and further | supplies forever running low | the shape of your shadow on the wall | just before we leave | and the sun | must rouse itself to rise again | on a world so bare | in the evening | people drain away to their rooms | and the silence | from under the sea | slips back in and fills all parts | of every nook and crevice and corner | of every atom of noise | so the piano | sounds useless | and Simon | is wrong about everything | especially the truth | especially my smile

And loneliness waits | at the book’s finale | in cramped kitchens | under the pillow | where the caresses | become untethered and go | floating downstream | past pleasure boats dotted with studious, vacuous tourists | bobbing and sidling | in invisible currents | past water dispensers, staff canteens, rooms with servers | Loneliness waits | at the core of the poem | where people are shouting and, possibly, fighting | Under the pillow the most | under the head | and under the hand | caressing the head | in the past the distance | we fed | ground up and cast | into the slipstream | the loneliness waits | Five Stars, “life enhancing” | a struggle worth winning | a just cause | “Superb. Life affirming”

My heart’s in the Highlands | wherever I go | No, no, no said Andrew | Reality is the sum | of all possible and actual and impossible | interpretations of reality | that | is what everything is made of | there’s nothing else

Not wanting | On Being Misled to reach | its final page | Pulling the light cord | looking up | into the nothing | this is ranching country, filled with enormous ranches tens of thousands of acres in size | and travelling at this speed | it will take a long time to reach Venus

 


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem: September, 2014)

I woke up in a boy | pale | watercolour | colours | Over the ridge to the Yangtze River | huddled in a box as the vehicles moved | spread dust ghosts like | arid meteors | from the bumpy road | into the humid air | prettied with dragonflies | a translucent | shopfront | jewelled with flying | darts | arrows with no archer | arrows from a rotted bow | Walked in the footsteps | of bodhisattvas | I liked the brash jollity | of patriotic songs | No loneliness | pure enough | for me | Stayed up late | very late | long past | my bedtime | A room with crates | they had packed up home | fold an equation | octopus in a bottle | flatten a manner | of living | dispose | of a neighbourhood | don’t build | your soul from maps | that was | Gancy’s advice | Gancy | who drank ink | and was born out of mumps and | firewood | A spirit | that’s portable | In Paris, Paris the dazzling | the collaborated | I woke up in a girl | was always | curious | as I grew | rushed through | vicarious plots | shed selves at bus-stops and family | gatherings | Camouflaged | my being | with day-glo and sparklers | rubber and bullies | a penchant | for Proust | for 1980s | French poetry | Was thrown, like anyone, to the wolves of later | the mournful | segue | to mortgages and sallow skin | paunch and baggy boobs | slipped the tip | of a tentacle | out in a wisp | of cloud | was | mistaken for stillborn | dumped in the canal | ate a train | burned a city, then another | city | Could not | if I wanted to | stay | in the confines | of bones and veins | In Sydney | lay down | in the disc of shade | beneath a jacaranda tree | floating in the fragments | of propositions | I’ll take | thoughts to go | Alive is | reaching the next | person | and Death is | a game of musical | chairs | and dying is | caught between people | Across | the barrier to no

 


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem: August, 2014)

I will sit upon my fat arse all day | and drink wheat beer, smoke stinking cigarillos | and toss the empty bottles and the stubs | around the room | because I like living in my own waste | it makes me feel | closer to history

And when I wake | sometimes from my stupor | the first thing I’ll hear | is the glassy burble of a Weissbeir bottle | inadvertently | kicked from under a chair | rolling across the bare floorboards | to clunk and sing | against the rotten skirting | or the iron | leg of the bed | or softly thump | into the fleshy breast or belly | of one of my lovers | reclining on the Persian rug | passed out after a particularly | heavy session | hair not quite | how it looked when they first came in | maybe a little frizzled and burnt | where a flicked cigarillo caught | on the product and lit up | for one of those Witchfinder General moments | or with ash or bits of | orange peel | or jam or stiff | with semen | or margarine | or paint or ink or matted | by shit or mucous or dried wheat beer or | dried blood | mascara | blusher | lard | dope or tangled with snapped strands | of rubber band or scraps of torn | silver paper…

Petronius, my monkey with the golden fur | the furrowed brow of burping babies | or of intellectuals too | literal-minded to quite understand | the workings of wit or irony | sashays stroke flits along the hallway | an anxious buccaneer stroke explorer | searching for a settled | place in evolution | snarls and shows his disdain for me | and for Black Sabbath | early period | He looks good in gloom | as a proper capuchin | in the coffees and tans | of a minor Zubaran | little background creature | with his peanuts and raisins and grapes | is just right for the big mirror | draped in mildewed burgundy velvet | fiddles with Clancy’s mobile phone | as if looking for numbers on speed-dial

Jennifer is a dragon girl | her withered tits and obvious | signs of major surgery | like a tattered national flag | sliced and peppered and flayed and ripped | and besmirched and burnt | by battle | but she can lie quiet in a pool | of clear water | fed by the consistent whisper | of an icy stream | look up at the moon | from among blue carp and wrinkled knives | patched together from all she has gathered | over the eventful years | and find herself at a complete loss | and be happy | Is she right | to feel that way? | Isn’t it

too early to say?

Whatever, we can spend hours | comparing tattoos | arguing handguns | orchestrating our funeral music | I like her choices | but yearn for a little more | Sabbath | and surely | junk the Sigur Ros?

I will sit on my fat arse all day | thinking of crimes I’d like to commit | great scams and heists | hacks and whacks | consider the poisons I’d prefer to use | the prisons I’d construct | systems of abuse I’d gradually perfect | how slowly to torture my enemies | before finally offing them | dream of the pump in the trunk | 50 in my hand | powder blue suit in metallic bronze sedan | different sets of wheels | roadsters, black trucks, convertibles | and bless the incontrovertible fact | my fat arse is so comfortable | to sit on all day | and the nun is so young and pale and pure | I just wish | she’d allowed | the sunlight to reach her skin | a little more…

Paranoid is the perfect track | and Vertigo its perfect label | even Jennifer | admits that | though by the way he bares his teeth | and coughs and spits | it seems Petronius | does not agree | He’s pretty tasteless

Still, there’s room on my fat arse for many | different opinions | dogmas | errors | points of view | My fat arse is lush and rolling | like the English countryside in May | say the Sussex Downs or Yorkshire wolds | you could lie down in my fat arse as in a meadow | on the first really warm | spring day | and look up at the gas | giants of clouds | formulating nothing across the sky | not GRIND nightclub | or the Vatican or some | dusty tome | in a government library | or a corner of bits on a secret server | or an omphalos or logos or piece of geometrical | confectionery | a dot or point | notion or cast | iron truth | but the centre of everything | is my fat arse | and I | happen to own it | and with possession being nine tenths of the law | I regret to announce | access is limited | Show your tickets

at the door

And so, I will sit here | frankly for the foreseeable | future | and write elegies and odes | and make grand statements and indulge | in childish horseplay | and pen grave laments | so we can all be sad and worry | about our status or mortality | legacy or supremacy | primacy or sexuality | psyche, mortgages and work | the fate of our class, our race, our values, our entire | civilisation | I like a good lament | before Jennifer and I | and Karl and Bent | possibly | and probably | Rae if she | wakes up in time | and even | Petronius if he | can be enticed | will get slick into the asterisks and chiocciolas and exclamation marks | hashes and kanellbule | and dollars and other | raw and liquid matter | for censors and voyeurs | hypocrites and lecteurs | imagining ourselves back into the signs | that have no signs | to get back to | the lonely widows and orphans | on poorly set pages | for a bad romance or dated pulp | with narks and coppers and ponces | or grisly saw-blade blood-gout | penny dreadful | or unread, the elusive 50s masterpiece | by Roland Bardot | presciently titled | Le Grand Silence

 


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem: August, 2015)