Archives for posts with tag: bliss point

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, 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)

Half awake and half dreaming | a wash of lullabies in imagined seas | a foam of pillows | water wallows and ripples in shallows | Glittering | under the wavering rings of reflected light flowing over | the shimmering surface of | a sheltered lagoon | like an antique bracelet of gold, glimpsed by | passing fairy travellers from the rails | of galleons of lime-leaves and thistledown, with white hawthorn sails and spiderweb rigging | your mother’s voice | still young with your 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 Castle of Sleep


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

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 pale | 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)

How may we return to the bedroom, to verify | our love has taken place?

Catch the light | only in my eyes

Go by way of the path dotted with fallen pine cones

A dawn so sudden, even experienced old fishermen were caught by surprise, and God | glancing in a mirror, was still adjusting his tie

Kisses like sugar sprinkled on strawberries

Riding the loneliest horse over the ridge, the land’s | back broken in four places | no room in the atoms

And then a little | sugar spilled from the bowl | surely | much later | ants will come, foraging, sensing food

In a gallery, the brilliant male | plumage of the golden frame | flirts with the dowdy brown and grey | female of a Flemish | landscape, the muted | neutrals of a winter scene | in time | devour what holds them and move on, no | room in the atoms…

You | caught the sun

Wore those shades I always | loathed, too | film star, diva | disappeared into the | salt and smoke from | whence you came

One-way ticket to the future | mash the sweetness into | more sweetness

Spun the moment to a web of threads | each thread an instant | a fragment | a word

Virgin moments of those photographs | Park the car and cut the engine | Break the seal and bring the clouds of footsteps in | geese in their gaggles | angels with the wings of swans thrown in | with the lots of peacocks and macaws | too gorgeous

Left before dawn | Each immaculate moment | shrink-wrapped in the series and the memory and the wish | tilt them back and forth, then let them | leave the bedroom, go looking for a | better Eden

Ride over the next ridge, and then | the next | A land broken in five places | and then six

Left before dawn | Riding across Turkey when I was twenty | the hospitality I met | humbling, overwhelming | Lean forward, pat my horse’s neck | What I was looking for, I looked for alone, and when I found it | I understood | I would never find it again | Then came the others, and the maze of knowing and not | knowing

Left before dawn | I was left before dawn, lay ill for some time | A rough blanket of Persian design, a mystical country | Shouldering my rifle, I was bearded like a U-boat Kapitän | the blood | took a long time to form but | not so long to spill and run

When I woke | the world had died, a fertile death, I brought it | into me to show the grave | how it would rest, how its limbs | would be like my lover’s limbs, but the hair | would only be hers

Kisses, like sugar sprinkled on strawberries | Dying and rising, dying and rising | Embers of the fires of the mountain tribesmen, a way to live that could not be knowledge, down the trail of those kisses I went, and I found myself | here, my words a form of timidity, my poems | unable to get back to themselves, thrown | to the mercy of an electric city and the waiting mouths

Cold, and ever colder | Riding alone for hundreds of miles | everyone learns the trick of living | a ball rolling down a slope | putting one footstep next to another | Freezing on those nights in the hills | wrapped in a blanket | smoking crumbling cigarettes and hashish | trying to come to terms | with how to run out of things

Cold, and ever colder | Age wears the concepts, instills in each of them | the futility of their vanished purpose

Left a note | The dresser where the cuff-links lay | angled against each other like glitzy insects | the mirror | the dealer of | used cars

Drive into the next town, drive into the next | new town, and | drive out | drive on

When I fell ill, the world was flying before me | I hallucinated in my fever | perhaps what I saw there | was the truth, and the rest | an elaborate structure of misconceptions and lies?

Left before dawn | Long days in the saddle, chasing the future, but when I found it | of course | it was the past and I could never | reach it again

Left before dusk | Took a sleeper from Firenze

You | caught the sun


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

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)

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)