Archives for posts with tag: bliss point

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: this poem, October 2014)

Take the water from my lips | All the rivers in my heart | which ran through country churches and the | broken cubes of cities | the quiet fields where crops grow | dusted in chemicals and the farmers | aren’t around | Take them into your eyes | Connect them | Those empty days when you rested | your head against an ache of | school bells and | rusting bicycles | and cattle trudging | across… | the dissolution of the monasteries

A flat land | and an age of space | The sky with no | rhyme or reason | Take the sun from my lips, take anything you can | from my lips | The paper land | laid | waste and | folded away | A Protestant dullness of veneers and clocks | Abandoned barges | Newspaper shops with fading disasters | Lines of exiled | angels with passports and | dust suitcases | join the queues of the unwanted

Take the petals from my lips | smeared with cerise pollen | The terrible debris | of unloving | The horizon we made by | looking | smudged hopes and | wild scarlet mushrooms with their | unwitting | concoctions of poison | All the great events | in the little rooms | Block by block building | a city to | get | lost in | Light on windows | blinds you | and the darkness | blinds you, too

Take my lips from the sun and the fields | still whispering | Gigantic afternoons just full of “why?” | speckles of “where?” and | “when?” | Ponderous | machines of | helium and gold | This could go anywhere | and frequently does || Above all | Bolkonsky’s clouds | ants | reconnoitering the pages | Starting a river | inside a train | to lead me to you | Putting aside | a rat-a-tat of comic guns | for a tête-à-tête with an aimless god | one who | lost her ticket to heaven

Giving birth to dead cities | walking by the canal | Between the sea and the rivers | I have you || That land is so flat | The sky | has no prince | All the days | heap up | their transparent mountains | that once were a future | We ran towards them | Look | Who are those | tiny figures? | Are they | us? | So tiny! | Keep looking! | Are we still | here? | Can you still | see us?


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

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)

He has no particular place he’s going | no business or mistress | no boyfriend | no dentist, no appointment, no | task to splice his time | to a trivial order, no | poem to write, no | suicide to consider, no | ethical dilemma | to scrutinise or to fret over | no especial | hunger drives him | his thirst is sated | he has seen everything | he has done everything | his dainty satanic hooves make a click-clock sound on the pavements | as he trots along | he is no greater than Nature, but no smaller, either | he doesn’t mind | serving as a little | ballast for the dumb, empty wind as it blows | but only for a while, then | he sits on a public bench in a quiet nook | beside a great park, and listens to the shadows of the lime trees swaying | gently | over him and over the summer lawns, and half sozzled on heat | light-headed | considers his situation | the ultimate luxury | life with no command but simply, for a few hours, to be | left free to watch as his ageless thoughts | parade across his mind | making him up as they come and go | and he not fussed at all over his own | imaginary status…

He is a gentle devil, far more gentle than many a young man | many a young woman | he has been around for a while | when he dropped those two bits of nothing | those two super-ethereal pieces of sub-nothing | colliding in a concept | a spark of starting | from ghost particles of semi-decayed | similes of flint | quite some time ago | and the universe, consequently, began | it was his umpteenth universe | devils are like that | they have a habit of littering the place | with new worlds | devils are far more creative than is generally | accepted | some might say he is more angel than devil, but then, all devils were angels once | he thinks | it is probably a matter of perspective | like most things | except those odd, absolute things one simply | cannot speak about | and anyway, why would you? | it seems almost tactless | sort of clever-clever | when cleverness is quite the wrong | way to approach the question of the sublime | besides | now he is late for his martini | a Gibson he traditionally | likes to drink at twilight, when the world | enters its most magical phase | magical and truthful | being neither here nor there | past nor present | clear nor clouded | fake nor real | but all a gorgeous interim | two delicate hands | drawing closed curtains | and the curtains | decorated with an elegant | print of silhouetted maple leaves, slender bamboo and long-eared grasses…

After his martini | and another martini | he wanders out, down by the river | where the good townspeople and visitors to the venerable city | assemble the August evening | like an inane orchestra | gathering in the pit | with no intention of playing a symphony | quite yet | but just tuning up, and even that | somewhat lethargically | as if they have heard a rumour | that their famous and much admired conductor | the genius from Adelaide or Salzburg or Lima | with his electrocution hair and baton quivering like an enraged seismometer | his liquid and ecstatic current | flowing with a fox-fire flicker over the whole | rapt space of the auditorium | is going to be late, having | at the age of 79 | fallen obsessively in love | with an acoustical engineering undergraduate from Paris | (it is definitely Paris) | and, quite incapable of meeting his professional obligations | recklessly pursues this lop-sided dalliance | at that very moment | holed up in his suite at the Gloriana Hotel | a full fifteen miles away from the concert hall | and so, therefore, by the usual laws of time and space | is very unlikely to appear | to guide the musicians though their practice | the devil | loves dusk in England, in summer, when the sun | haunts the air long after | it should do | on warm nights when love seems to become more possible, somehow | and winter, though notionally at a far remove | pierces the devil right through his fiery scarlet heart | with the most glistening, brilliant, unremitting | spear of ice | exquisite reminder | of why even an eternal devil | should hurry to embrace | another creature | human, preferably | and feel the taut, helpless life | pulse and jitter and swoon | bump and clutch and then | stretch out in after-the-storm peace | and quiet, individual | raindrops falling in pools | dropping from dipping | leaves of jonquils and nodding | leaves of bronze loquats and ginger lilies and rolling | down the petals of Chinese hibiscus | glittering from willows in the instants of descent | finer far than cut diamonds and more lucid

He grows melancholic | our handsome devil with the cane | an ivory head | carved to the shape of a rearing seahorse | lifted from cobalt currents | rushing from the darkest caves | He leans on the railing | looks over the river | a young man and a young woman | in a rowing boat | by the far bank | near one of the most famous | buildings in the world | It will serve | as a backdrop | to their amour | an ambiance of loft and grace and splendour | They have moored | inexpertly | shipped oars | and don’t care about anyone else | particularly | The moon | full, colossal | rises for them | and more for them, the devil knows, than for the others | even for the grieving, for the lost, the lonely, the wretched, for lovers the full moon | rises especially, although (it is part of the bargain) the lovers | show no appreciation, but take the spectacle as their due | these are their royal moments | they are their own subjects, and the world | wears their crown | if they were a fire | no one would get out of them | alive | not even passing swallows | not even rats | At this juncture of their affair | the devil deduces | she is more in love with him than he with her | maybe that will change | In the detached | rapture of his melancholy | he doesn’t envy either of them | not their youth | not the soft, brutal | cosmogony of their lust | nor the delicious stupor of their narcissism | he even feels | sad for them | knowing the mortal cycle, the skyrocket | trajectory of spermatozoa and Shakespeare and Aztecs | but he watches them closely | They have stopped talking | The boy sits, looking away, smoking, as if in a dream | and she sits, looking at him | a kind of reverse adoration | Children haunt them now | very closely | very sweetly | they have reached a point of utter tenderness | not in themselves, exactly, but in their situation | their proximity | the hush of their wishes | their turbulent, formless longing | their ignorance | their innocence | and as the distance | of prairies and alien shopping malls | of Siberian forests glimpsed from the windows of a falling plane | of space that has no colour and no effective end | enters them, even now | the devil notes | although they have gradually leaned much | closer | to each other, still, the boy | doesn’t turn, doesn’t look at her, does she wonder | why?

What are we to do with a fool and his beauty?


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

We live in cities | find every way to | deny connection | assert our glamour | skeletons in crowns of pearls | long white furs | posing with | cigars and Kalashnikovs | on ruined thrones | in burnt-out palaces

Eating jewels | creeping | with a lover’s | mantis care | over the leaf | of her skin, putting kindness | in pots and barrels | roll them down | to a basement | the size of Vietnam | or maybe of | Red Square | Listen: I am the King of | Nowhere in Lonely Planet | I’m telling you | don’t come here

Our cars are | long diamonds | ever | accelerating in darkness | on photographs | yes | it is | lying back into | you again | Make a river | make a mountain | mix them up | start running like there is no | tomorrow | floating and climbing | to the peak | a filthy | estuary | with seals and | smoky gulls | turds in the water | turds | in the high snows

Put on the music | take the top down | ride to a drive-in | summer | buy ice-creams with cherries and coconut | Call a press | conference | hold it | in a cemetery | where we buried our rivals | explain | we’re not here to make peace | let them see our death | shining out | through | the slums of motives | death has a very | particular light | Let them see it, and let them | know it

We live in cities | they don’t put | in TripAdvisor | dump our victims | on the edge of forests | near raw farms | where beat-head kids | ride quad bikes over dusty tracks | listening | to four-years-ago music

We live in cities | take | slinky | escalators upwards | to consume | our next portion of bliss a.k.a. | partial or even total | oblivion | We meet in gangs | with signs of bombs or moons | zip on scooters | through streets locked down | on bright powers | drained from invisible | slaves | on rocking | metro trains | read biographies | of Madonna or Mao Zedong | comb through the bones | of cool texts | in fashionable | loft conversions | and I love | your naked skull | I still | recognise | your teeth | I like to | kiss you | how we | chink and rattle | when our jaws bump | and glide

Turn my head upside down | Play the old | flute of my hollow spine | elicit a few | chosen echoes | Crash the party | where the zombies | of class and special | personal | individual | drives and fears | share the symbols of their private grace | sift their states | of safety and | disconnection | where Lord Yes-but-we-just-can’t-do-anything-more pours Lady Ah-I-just-adore-Matisse chilled prosecco | Show them the guns | let them look into the sockets where | our eyes used to be | pull up our sleeves | show them the bones | grin our non-plus-ultra grins | invite them back to our place | put them to work | in the fields | see who protests | see who says “yes, but” | see who really | likes it | see who comes

We live in cities | and insects in jeeps | with machine pistols and camouflage | jackets | gnaw at the foundations | of our ethereal towers | claiming a common | decay | We gas ourselves | like butterflies | addicted to collectors | battle | dragons of pabulum | and shambling trolls | We live in Paris | but there are parts of Paris | the teeth of no palace | can find roots | and in the graveyards of our poses | we work at night | digging up mouldering | gestures | gangsters in cool films | vampires in not-so-cool | films

We live in cities | overlooked | by Rough Guides and Baedeker | not so pretty | but we have our own way of doing | things | In rhinestone bulldozers | mass the corpses | with a ki-yi-yipee | in uniforms by Dior and Jean-Paul | Sartre’s | Parfum du 69 | in helicopter | gunships of mink and peaches | strafe the stores with their starving | mannequins | cart Christ | above the nonplussed | crowds of Roman | Catholics | while airships made of | mirrors | glide overhead | lit by staccato lasers | decorated with shows | of smiling children and sparkling pools | of dragonflies and white lotuses

We live in cities | sweep through | evacuated boroughs | murder our way | to the restaurant | Tuck our daughters | up in napkins | our sons | on beds of fragrant rice | The Press is forever | asking us this and that | we deny all knowledge | we don’t | have conversations | we make announcements | we don’t meet anyone, and we don’t | need to make sense | we just | need to shine so brightly | we blind ourselves | we just | hold audiences

We live in cities | always in the centre | far from the sewers | hick | highways | out into the endless country | we know | nothing of the darkness | that falls | beyond streetlights | or the dance of | messianic thugs | with a taste for god and human skins | how they do their dance | in boots like | real commandos or marines | black ops | special forces | elite units | just like them | funny dance! | not so graceful | to those like us who | live in cities | a crumbled | Paris in my dreams | crumbled | London in their dreams

I live in cities | I am Venus and Saturn, too | Mars | and Neptune | I cover | all the bases | When I walk through the hot streets | shoot me from above | I am a great star | and my followers | a stream | of small stars | a milky | phosphorus | and you can’t do me harm | even if you existed | it’s too late to reach me | I’ve already put down | an installment | on eternity | you can compete for love | but I don’t need it | and you can rush towards | your idea of posterity | but I won’t go there | the only place you can really go | is down on your knees | Bow your heads | to my gross Jupiter | who cares | what’s going on out there? | We have our own lives | and we live in cities


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

We fall, for a while, into the sumptuous ravines | our bodies make for us

What can we find here? | These | small pots of stinks | slumps | sleep at the weekend | a flowering fetor, disturbed to ripples | in ancient waters, bees, and lotus blossoms, and snakes

Other things, too, pedestrian things: paper clips | new apps | desks | a whole tangle of debris the ordered | storm of our lives | assembles in heaps of rooms, in an emergency, patiently compiles | in dunes of beds, glances

Such things | Enough? | Enough | of… what? | What could “enough” | mean in that darkness?

If we were to look, if looking | were the right thing | look deeper | look for longer | what else might we find | when we fall | into the sumptuous | ravines our bodies | make of us? | Is there anything else, at all | rolling in this languid surf? | changing channels, not caring for much?

Will we find, in these ravines, our own bodies? | Like the remains of famous climbers | Alpine mountaineers lost | decades ago? | idolised in black and white, in ski clubs, certain tweeds?

But, no, the body cannot be | found | not today | the skull isn’t | where we left it | though there are ants | crawling over the teeth | bluebells | picking through | the white bones of the hands

Or thoughts? | Will we find thoughts?

Like rare

starfish crawling on the floors of lucid pools | among the rocks, while the main | effort of the ocean is far off, hunting, high and low, for a trophy | of honey, drawn | from the very | tips of our fingers?

What can we find here? Old things, or modern things? Only | familiar things — grazed knuckles, dates | crossed out in our diaries?

A dusty | library of caresses? | Texts for fiends, aficionados?

Whatever || We let ourselves | find very little | We are not young, after all | We are full of knowledge, that | weary | error | that excuse we give | for life, that | translucent leech, so and | so | such, and | such…

Tomorrow, with its uses | Tomorrow, with its uses

Through the curtains, dead still in the night, come | the sounds of ships, their horns | from the Straits | and the sea | reaches into us, thirsting | for that dark, pointless nectar | only we | produce…


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

Washed up, in some corner of life… | Youth was also like this, there were such days / I stole the sun then, and would | give it back, quite freely, in the late evening, but now… | It is right to talk of ripeness and poise | dry leaves scratching on hot pavement | Lord | but, well, it’s wrong, too | Like everything, right and wrong | Do you gauge | the current of the poem run through | parasol and the odd | bright dings of bicycle bells, continual | sprinkle of phenomena? — all these details | incorruptible in their irrelevance | inexhaustible in their plenty | certainly, more than enough or perhaps | just precisely enough | to fill, quite perfectly | the space permitted this | Bank Holiday Monday | backwater of a life, autumn | lining summer’s jacket | pale | blue on orange | acute | melancholy for the flamboyant dandy, or is that | too much of a cliché? | Tant pis | Circus of atoms, and the horses dance | while in the hollow | tomb of a diamond | you find quite new ways | to waste your time | Frankly, I feel I have | got it backwards, or | badly sideways | partly | topsy turvy | just plain odd | My philosophy | bends the orders to a skew and rot | my art | is a massive | missing of the point | technique a shambles | a crescendo | where a muted | sadness should be | a fanfare instead of tears | or weeping bang | in the middle | of the car chase or the lustrous | shower scene | Dragging the ship after me | across land | when the voyage is over | hiding the map I need to | find my way back | or on | to happier days | building a fort in the desert | to protect a vanished | empire’s reputation | bowing to a queen who | dishonours her subjects | with her love of | facility and paradox and | clouds and | suicide… | Digression is the | true mode of life | not some | Nazi species with commands | an overlord | Conclusions should be | of necessity | aphoristic | Suffice to say | such years have passed | to render me | uncertain | avaricious for remaining | my heart a | cave for hibernation | a bloody | pudding, a putting | on of fat | even for August or the fresher spring | Is to know so much | to know, most of all, most | intimately | the triumph of | nothing? | In any case, tonight | I will keep the sun


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

Half awake and half dreaming | a wash of lullabies | in imagined seas | a foam of pillows | water wallows and ripples | in halos and shallows | pulls you lower and higher | rolling and scrolling | among caliphs and sultans | merchants and genies | and the warm | perfumed breeze, of course, only sighs… | Glittering | under wavering rings | of reflected light | flowing endlessly over | the shimmering surface | of a sheltered lagoon | like strewn antique bracelets | of supple Kushan gold | melting in coils | and whorls | and blazes | below the noses | and enchanted gazes | of relaxing passengers | leaning on the rails | of galleons of lime-leaves | and thistledown spars | with white hawthorn sails | and spiderweb rigging | your mother’s voice | still young and | pregnant with childhood | fills you with a blissful fatigue, the power | to rest against her | peacefully | secure | unconfused | The dither and drone | of plump bumble bees | those | portly courtiers | zipped among | slipped among | honeybees and wasps | with rapiers and capes | chevaliers in mumbled | jumbled stories and books | of roses and Buckingham | you masqued pageboy | illustrated in mysteries | from heroic centuries | the wine of the dew | in barrels of peonies | in a garden in Burgundy | whine in the courtyards | of your doze-filled ears | villainous mosquitoes | (Look sharp! Keep on your toes!) | draw blood from flesh wounds | Porthos and Athos | Les Trois Mousquetaires | wrens and cole tits | d’Artagnan and bandits | among tumblers’ flowers | honeysuckle and lavender | Aramis and Richelieu | with quick musine footsteps | fence and battle | duel with nettles | to test your mettle | for hours and hours | afternoon explorers | in canoes or fine carriages | in the shade of a reverie | the castle you keep | in the corner of an eye | for you are the hero | bold to swashbuckle | in galoshes, your foil | a swish of hickory or hazel | brave and resourceful | until bedtime comes | and your indomitable fortress | falls in a tear || Sometimes, even now, after all these years | you find yourself standing | before that fortress | and the plain around it is barren | worn out with all the footsteps | strangers took to get | to know you | and changed | strangers took to | get away from you

Still-dazzling realm | of rainbow palaces | conjured from summer rain | The drunken child | a bottle on its side | leaking its contents | magical words | with no utilitarian purpose | streaming out | seeking new values || Phantasmagoria || The addicts’ creed | “For as long as it lasts, it is” | You storm the castle | but when it has fallen, it is | impossible to hold | or to relinquish or | recapture | all you can remember | is how it feels | not to be | within its | comforting | walls || These are the laws of paradise | things that, as you make them, you break them — such delicate things || Having discovered this truth, the child | vomited and cried, but | tomorrow had already started its | chain reaction inside his heart and, besides, there was one castle, on a steep hill, surrounded by a deep moat the colour of swallows’ wings | he could still enter, where time | is no more, and never was, or will be: the famous | Castle of Sleep


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

Bulletins from the boat of dreams | The ocean flowers for 43 days | The engine’s devout heart beats away | so steadily beneath the decks | builds a stalwart monotony | so implied | in every circle | of our thinking | it might be paradise | The cabin boy begins his seduction | of the young girl | with the words | I will teach you things | you cannot find in the bible | and so | it transpires | The heat and light | renders every item | heroic | — the details | of superstructure | the quoits | ellipsoid | voids of the mouths | of the  ventilation | cowls | the shadow | cast by a button | or by a hand resting | on the page | of a book | in the lap | of a sleeping | passenger | Ports, they are forgotten, land | what does that feel like | underfoot, a fixed | ground? | the voyage | carries nothing with it | but the voyage | we inhabit | a portable world | a floating | stage | At 12.00 noon | my only desire | is adoration | She has a solemn face | inscrutable in repose | I take out of her | very slowly | lotus | very wet petals | so many of them | very long, slimy roots | what have they touched? | how deep | they must be | to draw from us both | such sighs | of rapture verging | on distress | So | sinuous | pale from immersion | in the warm, clouded waters | of Balinese pools | graceful and muscular | like the necks of drinking | swans | needing | shade | twirling her | parasol | she walks | out of me | along the uneven | bank of a wide river | few | travellers | sampans | in the distance | mid-stream | but she is not lonely | she finds a place | beneath palm trees | and sits | smoothing her dress down | against her slender legs | takes out a book | makes to read | a metallic | violet butterfly | lands on the cover | of plain cream, minutely | disturbing | the soft | cargoes | of Verlaine | (Je suis l’Empire à la fin de la décadence) | borne in that paper craft | to imperceptible locations | a solitary room where orphans | dance childish tangos to a phonograph | and from their sadness, dream | of suicides so lush, so cool | so | definitive | bodies arranged in classic poses | flesh poetically wan | and in those shapes of death | may rest, perfectly at their ease, until the dawn | of the 44th morning…


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

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)