Archives for posts with tag: bliss point

She’s my | CYCLING THROUGH THE FAIRGROUND AT NIGHT | own heart, I never | ECHO | get too far from her, lying | in the grass | FLOODLIT EMPTY RIDES | and all my veins seem to lead | round to her, though we’re not | lovers || Put the sky | down a moment | PICK UP a sound | someone else left | behind || Voices, crying or laughing | Leaving a trail of | PISTACHIOs | the stars and their | empty shells | Keeping, for a minute | GHOSTS OF THRILLS | pace with each other | And when I think of | someone I need to | talk to | it’s you and I | give you the train journey in the night, the one I found | under the trees || Isn’t that how | everything happens?

She took a train journey | In a poem, under a | SEA | she saw | the bones of dead mermen and mermaids | entwined and the long, languorous fronds of seaweed | PASSING ON INFO | floated to Florence || Copper green | and water in bronze | RINGTONES and | sometimes my blood is a haze of milky diamonds and | LEAVE A MESSAGE | In a cup her lover | sips | gold from Ghana || When we were younger, and she and I were close | RIOT POLICE AND TEAR-GAS | FACTORS | It is the | information | we pass on | We never quite | understood | FLIPPED | one pole to another | DUAL TEXTS, the present rendered / into the past, and VICE VERSA | How memories | fired and fade | FADE and fire | In a place my blood is | lincoln green and cat’s cream whispers, and I can’t quite | remember how that | RIDE | went, but | glimpse you across the room and feel | the translation by time | leaves | much | to be | desired…

 


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

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Smoke question, drifting? | Tying and untying, in the distance, the house on fire, in the foreground, a fireman lying in a meadow, half asleep

Tying up the clouds to rain? | Dusk in summer, the girls draped over sofas, beds, lying on the floor, eased with cushions | all the baby sparks | want to be fire

Undoing? | Lips pout | long hair spills down and fans around, spools and coils | migraines, periods, apricots | wax polish on the gleaming floor | gives off a mausoleum odour | mixed with the overly | formal perfume | from cut flowers | storm light | small set of | bones, a child who | died in a chimney

Smoke question, drifting? | The policemen are buying gum and pop | from the kiosk | The rapists | creep by in a crowd | their masks on, in night-gowns | at twelve, they brush their hair and croon | lullabies their mothers sang them

Drifting, undoing? | The light of the storm is unearthly, the girls | rest among velvet, sit back | against the piano | they are not | educated, they do not | know the character of Ophelia | when the rain falls and runs | down the glass of the French doors | the room is like the bed | of a disturbed river | A boy | arrives to sulk and gaze | morosely into the sodden countryside | Out there | rooks, fences, horses | all drift | to and fro | like objects moving | with the tide | undone | from the music | The summer is | stuffed with autumn | the girls | wait for a crime to be committed, the boy | wants to be a writer, but is too | intelligent

Tying up the clouds to storms? | The interiority | of the room | increases | The girls | plunged in the ravines | of their skulls | their moods | like forests | lush, and trackless | the boy | half asleep | lounges on the floor | a copy of a classic | poet of that province | open by his ageless head | a slender knife | of pure silver | on a white plate | on the dark floorboards | beside him | A girl | wants to be better | A girl | would rather be | a dog | A girl | plays languid nocturnes | on the piano | Their silk | scrunches and hushes | whistles and scrawls | as they move around | in long party dresses | one raspberry | one scarlet | one bronze | On the cusp | of all sleep | rest the rippled | pools of their fingertips | The boy’s | story ends | not where the novel ends | and vice | versa | The glaciers | retreat and the ship | goes down | The music | stops | When the crime comes, will it | be enough for them?

 


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

Midsummer shadows and a light sound of bones and hollow shells being rolled over and OVER on the white sand | SHORE || Flow tide | bringing back | DICE AND SKULLS | Across the ocean | footballs and boats drift among | porpoises and phosphorus | THE DELAY OF THE WINDS AND THE CURRENTS | lost things | TOYS OF THE STORM but I | need a friend || And, after the rain, the grass is so long and | LUSH | as if written fresh from the INK OF PARADISE | Put down your sewing, and | take off your clothes | there is a PLACE IN sleep for me | THE MOON AND THE STARS and the great spiral arms of || A single silver needle, threaded through the eye | BLOOD flushes | memories and the | tissues swell and | RETURNED BY THE OCEAN | glisten, if you | move too suddenly, now | oh, | you’ll | SNAP into | TWO | the strand of hair, the | hands of the clock, the | saltwater | necklace and the LINE | on which | all the echoes are hanging and | singing

Lie on your back on the bed | PACIFIC | lifted and drifted | One day the sea came and his house was shattered | The moments that formed him | split and spilt and | THE CAR STALLED AND WE LAUGHED || On the edge of | disconnection | If you are brought to the sea you are brought to the | whole sea | CARRIED AWAY | Her hands | gripped at a silky nothing and she found | at her bare feet | the debris of | an old life she once | called her own

 


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

Diary of a fever | Haphazard | collection of thoughts | call it a | ship | Five-pointed star with an era inside it | bar | neon | A place to put the | mountains | A place to put the | wells | Entry for January 25th: | Tied up my mule outside the saloon | No dollarz, nothing to trade | but | ah, I need whiskey | Built a thirst | A place to put the churches | A place to put wrecked | cars | Left the road, here | you see? | went over the edge | Birds nested on it | It became something else, outside of language | floated | floated a long time | maybe | it’s still out there, in the | darkness? | Still | floating?…

It’s too early to say | I tried to explain to them | but they wouldn’t listen | They always put my words | into their words | put my thoughts | into their thoughts, or their | not thinking | Fate of everything, I guess? | everything, at least, that touches | on the human… | Spent 50 years | on my philosophy | relating the place | we put the animals | to the place | we put the ghosts | Heroes in China, strangers | in Cannes | Carried a mule | across the rocks | just habit | I suppose | The driver | was drowned | the girl | beside him | sang, and sang, and sang…

 


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

The waves are raw and without compassion | and so we adore them | Plain things | without adornment | more plain than is bearable | certain things | true things | calm in their perfection | and so | we adore them | The greatest loneliness awaits us | plain boxes | plain spaces | in the earth | aisle seats | waiting rooms with no | opt-out clauses | what happens when the night | comes to rest and the bed | so full for so long | is empty | children’s footsteps | strung up in dry straw | impressions in coarse or fine | beach sand | and the dunes | collecting and fading under the pitiless | tumult of the skylarks | empty and the sound of | pattering feet on | hot concrete | the true things | the plain | things | For years, I thought I loved, but then | I loved | and it can happen, such things | can happen | Draw back the skin over the flesh | reveal the plains beneath | and shiver when we reach the shore | summer and cancer and the words | most of them | quite unsayable | or said | as other words, less | honest, less | beautiful words, but | what we could manage | and your warmth | bleeding into the cold water, drop by drop | and the time | passing on the faces of watches | on our phones’ displays | as we waste our moments, crushing | ice and salt and lustre | into the ocean | adding nothing to the raw waves | how could we? |

We make way for the waves | bow our heads though we don’t believe it | They come without fanfare | without superfluous | introductions | Elaborate upon our spines, couched in | skulls’ measure | we sacrifice words to the waves | even our speechlessness | isn’t enough | the waves’ bareness, insatiable and beyond | parsing | breaks and breaks | and is never | broken | This loneliness | doesn’t wait and has no | reasons to care for us | but comes as | lightning to conductors | giving the landscape illumination | but no record | housing the storm | and casting it out | emptying the eye | even as it fills | and leaving us gaping | in a gaga wisdom | in leaping | instants of brilliance | seeing nothing | adoring what kills | just now | in the perfect | time of its killing

 


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

Pylons and marshes | marsh flowers on slender tensile stems | NOT PULLED IN and not quite expelled | you wait for the gaze to collect you and end you

OH, YES, COMPLETE COLLECTION and the glimpse by lightning | There are camellias printed on your dress | no one will understand you, be comforted or start running

You want to die in the snow, you frighten the children, but fear is also | part of life | CHOSE HIS OWN PRISON CELL and wasted his spirit | in among rumours of bad terrain and mountainous pay-offs, in among | snatches of motorbikes and Jesus

Back once more to the old domain, the HERO AND THE SUN, the bull’s blood | flashed upon the ground where children picnicked | We took a flat-bottomed boat across the river | had no intention of killing time | with the jet-set and the in-crowd | mesmerised by their portable labyrinths

DO YOU WANT TO BE ALIVE? THEN let others choose the cell of your prison | let them bond you to your long death | The ghost leapt over the dry ploughed field, scaring the farmers and their slow-burning kin

Start running, start running | scatter the rooks with their miserable roots | of scrawny complaint, their miserly | GRASP OF CONCEPTS and comedic | insolence with the book | in the ashes of the silver automobile | partially | incinerated bodies of driver and passengers | luggage scattered from the popped trunk | litters the verge and the road and the field | of scorched sunflowers | possessions | trailed from mangled roof-rack and back seat | gramophone, stockings and gin | and you very still | staring from below the ice of the lake | up at the stars and their cool funeral | such a procession and NO MOURNERS

IN AN ACTUAL SNARE, the songbird | struggles and blood jumps | and the adjudicator comes by at last | to weigh the wings and account for the song | When he leaves the village, on foot, the wind | blows the adjudicator’s hat across | the cracked brown furrows in a circus | pall of dust | and the surgeon | has his own story about the lions, the ribs and the gall | The midwife | has no children of her own | and the full moon | is never once mentioned by the people who count | the train powers past the wreck and the day | can never be the day again

As soon as you leave, someone else takes your place, or no one

 


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

The girl goes into the tree, the car goes into the head | We’ll drink until we forget, memories are not like that, anyway

The wires vanish into the distance, and the distance | vanishes into the girl || Loving the acoustic of a seashore, what the waves | do with sound, that great | plain of moving emptiness | save maybe for a boat or gulls

The car drives off, the distance moves with it | We stay behind, watching | We have our own distance, we put it | in the house, the house puts forth | roots, the roots | are spliced with silver || We’ll make love again, build a hole in the ordinary, edge it with pleasure, line it with repletion, drop out for a while | snooze through the hollows of Sunday afternoons | We’ll try to store our hearts, dreams are a little like that

How beautiful the relation of an object to its limits, the cat’s | lick of space, the dainty | tremble of our eyelashes as we | look away, I remember | the rain in the morning before getting up, our bed | an Arabian carpet crashed, but | no one was hurt, we all | emerged alive and the wreckage | merely took on a new | formation || “Missing you always” on a postcard with horses, a postcard | with rooves

Spring drips in great drops | swells the heads of flowers, the girl | feels the ghosts on her skin all | start to shift at once, their kisses | form a crowd like rain, I remember | the rain in the morning || Clouds scudding over the beach house and the shore, words are something like that (and the sky is?)

The car goes into the mist, the mist | falls out of your screen | the girl | picks a jet up from the water | she asks | the world to open its flower for her and the world | obliges | almost entirely, she is | young and the | days haven’t yet all | packed to go | She can hear | the voices so clearly | they bring blackcurrants and daydreams the size of summer, her head | tilted and the clouds | mimic Iberia

The gulls | go into the roots and the sun | ignites the moon, of course, that pale | mirror for a hidden star, go back | towards the kindest start, seeing | by lost light | how the loss was made and how it | led to a | different evening

The train arrives at the station, the girl | lugs her cases | She brings | her heart to the streets, and the old city | finds itself sparking its statues | into blossom again, their eyes | freshen and their purpose | is renewed, as she steps into the | muggy haze at noon | the fumes from the ocean of traffic | go into her notebook, she tells the crumbling monuments | to Look sharp! | and the sound of the crowd’s footsteps and the multitude | of voices and motives | to her is the evidence | of the most tremendous fermentation

The woman | vanishes into the man | The man | vanishes into another | man | The woman | takes the man and the distance | She carries them a while | She vanishes | into the girl | who takes a | break on a | bench, sucks | orange juice through a straw | listens to hoarse old | Dylan through her earphones | sketches the blowsy | park flowers | with asteroids and jangling guitars || She knows | this night will be | crammed with epics, she just | has to choose one, but | maybe she’ll just wait | and look out over the city | from her balcony | stowing her tears | for another day | and keeping her powder dry?

Hidden in everything | the subtle connectors | lash particles together | A small fishing boat | the cold | sapphire of a gull’s eye | the phase of the moon | a brand of perfume | Put down | what you are holding | Forget | what you will | forget | Love | is a powerful memory, but | look | how the room | vanishes into the mirror, and | look, how the mirror | vanishes into you

 


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

How did you get here? | I was carrying around an egg | for days | and in the egg was a | devil

You don’t have the egg with you? | I lost the egg, now I am looking for it

Devils are also | part of the plan | The egg was so beautiful, I kept it | wrapped in a shawl and so it was | warm

Has the egg hatched? | I’m not sure | Not when I last | held the egg

This city has many places | you might lose | something beautiful | and precious | This happens all the time | Every moment | Visions collapse | It’s like rain | Now I don’t | know | where to go

This city has many signs | and many places | those signs may take you | No, none of the places feel right anymore | I have the knowledge but I don’t believe | in what I know, and | I don’t care for the river or the bridges | it has all | grown insubstantial

It sounds as if the egg has hatched | Do you think it possible?

It happens all the time | An egg hatches, out | slips a | newborn devil, this | changes the axis, brings one’s emotions | into a new alignment, you feel | pensive | ill-at-ease | adrift, the planet | depressurises | semantically | and fills, all of a sudden | with empty streets and crowded | trains | heading to uninviting | destinations | I would like to go back, and find the egg, or at least | find the shell

The remnants of the shell? | Yes, the remnants

All very sad | You are like the remnants of the shell, perhaps | you are the remnants of the shell | This is what happens | when you lose a devil’s | egg and | the city begins to | alter around you | Yes, I feel as if I am broken, that’s true

We are what we feel | We are what we think | But perhaps, after all, the egg is still there, intact, and the gestating devil inside it | is still | not quite | ready to be born? | The egg was so heavy | it felt as if I were carrying | a moon or a | sea | wrapped in that lovely | teal blue shell

And the buds on the linden trees were just beginning to open? | Yes, and the bells on the trams rang so purely and clearly in the evening light | My footsteps | were solid | I | cherished the weight | of the egg | wrapped in the shawl | It seemed to me | I was tied into things | and so the city | was right

Where will you go now? | I’m not sure | I feel as if I’ve | finished with going | finished with | arriving | None of the places | convince me anymore | all the things I loved, all the people so | dear to me | it is as if | they were all eggs | all | intact | with a purpose, but now… | Now none of the raindrops | connect together, each raindrop | has its own agenda, the shower | is without plants, and the plants | without light, without steel, without flowers… | The trams can’t | carry the trees with them | People’s mouths | move, and they make | sense, but their sense | makes no sense, it is | a gabble | it has no | life inside it, that is to say, no | real desire to be or to convince | others that | it is

All the eggs of all the things | have fallen and broken, and the creatures within the eggs | have died or | were stillborn or | have left the scene | of the accident | I need to sleep | to be unconscious | Maybe I’ll go to a bar and | drink and watch | people glance at themselves | in mirrors or in the eyes | of people they wish to seduce or | have already seduced and are growing | bored with

Yes, drug your mind, that’s a good idea | It’s always | a good idea, the mind | is the mistake, the mind | fills you with things you cannot | really bear or understand | at least | that’s my theory | Yes, there’s a bar I know, and there’s a | tram stop nearby | The bar is on that line | I’ll drink until | my footsteps don’t seem | to belong to me, and my thoughts | can’t move another | inch

Who knows, maybe you will | find that egg again? | I’ll find something, oblivion’s a start | In the end | I’ll rid myself of these bones, anyway, it’s a thought

We are what we | think we are | We are what we | feel we are | There is always the moon or the sea, if you can only | crack open the shell | holding them in | It doesn’t matter, the night | will end, the time | will have passed | some habit or | necessity will come | to save me | I will not | care for these | things anymore or | remember them or remember | why I cared for them

So it must be | So it must be

Farewell, then | Farewell

Farewell | Farewell…


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

 

In the skeleton of things between us | grass grows up through the bones | but then the grass, too…

Office buildings, railway stations, late night drives through countryside | scented with sugar beet and arable boredom | the cars with their Gothic interiors | cathedrals of moments, the burst of seedheads | torn red leather of the corpses of those journeys | back to friends’ houses, or to strangers’ houses where the parties lay | in wait like ambushers | the forests of beds dripping with oils and gums and dew | dawn entirely mislaid | mists where apes hoot and grunt | and rare birds with electric yellow feathers | squawk their part of the synopsis for your grounds | limp vines of dope smoke and vodka | The mountain skull…

The track through the jungle of our “affair” | the intestines of the river, small boats being quietly digested | caught on shoals, their bottoms ripped out on boulders | circa 1900 in a society | draped in a bridal veil, a fever | disguised as a society | Obsolete mining equipment…

Messages sent, puffs of coloured smoke | pigeons with information attached to their ankles | the intricate strings of semaphores | flashes of telescopes | quarries and pits, graves and dumps | Missile crises…

Languishing | The gigantic peach of a colony | bitten to reveal the pit | the sentinel abandoned his post | Grasshopper on the eyelid | The subject, with its vertical rivers of memory, flowing in two directions, in circles, two waters | both adverse and complex | currents both cold and lukewarm | reversing and surging | the bodies of past selves floating and hanging, turning and sinking | the gangster and the priest | the actress and the writer | tangled in the skeletons of grass | and the tears of bone that rattle as they fall | on pages of stuffy literature | Victorian triple decker | modernist masterpiece | post-modern epic of indeterminism and non sequiturs | The skull, sitting upright on the road, driving through the tunnel of the eye-socket | coming back here as to | a dreary provincial town | where one’s…

And you can say “sick at heart”

And you can say “Sunday”

The sky slopes and down it slide | tiny jigsaw pieces of stars | I wish to book passage as soon as possible | my head is cluttered with tusks | and I woke to find | my soul had become an empty warehouse

I made you an adversary because of the courage of your luxury | the pleasure in your life, the wit, the spines of skyscrapers crumbling | only where the iris floats loose from a kiss | the eyelids flutter | only there and then | just at the moment of dawn | did I escape my rigid whey-faced churches | the cemeteries compiling records of tasks | properly accomplished | all absent and correct | through the powder-cloud balls of artillery smoke | the futile grind of nations | after the symphony, always the battle | the way roses are turned to uniforms | and Sunday lies in a field like a discarded wheel | perhaps not even then | or there…

The summer steamer and the hollow pomp and bluster of a military band | parasols taught lessons by the swirling gale | a mound of broken marriages and celebrity vampires and prams | sallow love bites the colour of rotting avocados on the necks and breasts | of hovering teens | so hot even the gold is going off | like milk neglected on the burning sill | and rest, eyes bulging | having taken our jolly poison | idiots clapping at the dull magician | displaying the bleeding parts of the limbs he’s sawed | admiring the sequins on the lady’s bodice | yes, you can | go to Manhattan

I need to be stretchered | I am anxious to leave as soon as possible

Please take me on board

 


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

 

She’s a last summer girl | walks slowly through the fountains | Small whorls | of liquorice and CK One | pulse holding | the darkness together | Imprint fading | They are setting | other agendas | and now it’s a new spring | she’s a last summer girl

Pockets of memory | Small water | hidden in green | dens | a perpetual | subdued | fricative | as the translucence | oozes | She lives there | where the moisture | collects and | drips and spills | in quiet measures | No one much | notices her | She may turn into a deer | or volcano | what will they care? | She’s a last summer girl | and they are following | different agendas | glancing across | humid carriages at | the freshest of strangers

Dart

into the sun again | for a few | quizzical instants | He turns half asleep | but half awake, too | She flits through his head | that room with Taiwan and | subdued summer light, the evening | ready to give birth, but | immensely calm | and she | is part of that calm | heroic | quite still | staring vacantly | at some app on her phone | So serene | the gods emerge from the trees | no need to hide now | He wonders | what will knock | from under the floor or | out of the lisping tap | to start the world | being wrong again?

Steam on a mirror | shaped like Africa | Extinct species | walk with her | The lithest of spectres | she still has her keys | but the doors have vanished | They | fan themselves | in parked cars | restaurants with | inadequate AC | 90° | F | He | adores this heat | his lover | centres July | The years | keep no establishment | She | is lateral to us | fragile | a cat’s | footprints | in snow

leading… | ? |

Pulse holding | the room together | Melange of stuff | Typed up | much later | inevitably | a précis | Her edition | already out of print | They | have other parties | other causes | other worries | She is a Space Age | These new dates | are not for her | She must make do with scrapings | filaments of copper | electricians have left | near the skirting | in an unoccupied house | and blebs of solder | plumbers fired | with blow torches, the flames | were kingfisher blue | and utterly real | like everything | that summer | that last | unremitting summer | when they were young and | all of them knew her…

 


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