Archives for posts with tag: bliss point

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

Won’t you come into the shower with me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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)

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)

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)

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)