Archives for posts with tag: fp2

We went in to check out the show | On the pavement died saints and martyrs | It was business as usual at the Palais | we stopped by for beer and fries | And the lights on the matadors’ suits | sparkled | like the shards of coloured glass we found on the beach | held up to the sun | we couldn’t quite | fit our seeing in | On the other side | of those instants of blindness | I heard the ocean just | doing its thing | putting up its defence | making its case | for a large | share of oblivion | or a small | pinch of remembering | if you | thought you could do it | Superseded | range they said | we couldn’t get the parts | and a tech-head shrugged her shoulders | they didn’t any longer | provide support | When the first | tear-gas was fired | the crowd began running | a species of parrot went extinct | a new | intestinal fluke was discovered | the people dispersed | most of them | the army moved in | We sensed | a certain froideur at your parents’ | it seemed to me like the beginning | of a break-up

Some was lighter, the colour of a Pinot or a Grenache | some darker | more Malbec or Shiraz | Where it falls, on dirty flags or sand | on frosty cobbles | dusty tracks | there is a world | the floor | beneath the furniture | and beneath the floor | the earth | Born with slightly deformed legs | I couldn’t run or jump like other boys | I’ll choose | a different passion | and that passion | will lead me to a different end | But nothing ends


from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)

Advertisements

Where the dead so gracefully | mimic the living | with echoes in their shoes

Across the station floor | just after rush hour |     | But the emptiness inside us | in which we render solid | the objects of our departure

Upstairs | the Sandersons move |     | creak underfoot | overhead | from underground |     | passengers drawn across the city | reading of Trump and Europe

Cold air |     | the ghost’s | carcase |      | carved into provender | jewellery | even shelter

When the WiFi goes down |     | the boy in the black | blazer comes in |     | the lodger |     | stirs in his room |      | plays desultory fragments of tunes |     | on the piano

Slippers | one | turned over |     | baggy, the leather | space |     | a pouch |     | formed from the long | wear of intimacy | blind | feet |      | and the miles of steps |      | and the hours of standing

Soles | in one room | planed | to glass

Dreaming | rendering the book |     | a gas with arrival |      | a mist |     | and the ankles

connected

unkissed


from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)

Lost touch |      | The folders and the files | made of stone | water | lisping from a hero’s mouth | the space | rendered solid | the distance | frozen in blocks | like ice, but warm… |     | or warmer, in May |      | with young green |      | Cast house |      | sound on the bare stairs | the carpet lifted | paint |     | spatters on the floorboards | and the stereo |      | pigeons |      |

descending |      | the ghost with no shoes |      | the way back lost, but the way there | never-ending

couldn’t drag me | away… | Pausing |     | looking up |      | waiting for the other

Extruded silence |      | Drop |      | Coming home |      | Bumping into | the lodger

Ferns | out of the enamel |      | Across the wire | the fox-shit and dragonflies |      | and in feathers’ | tornado angel | turning |      | through the twisting snow | the echo | the wild horses


from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)

Called up the sea | from where it slept |     | And the stones were drawn slowly back and forth | foam tendrils | back and forth | and the beach grew and breathed | and sighed and | the moon crunched in its orbit and ground round | on its axis |      | the rabbits fled across the field |      | Commuters | felt the train draw on power |     | The seeds of eyes | lay dormant but were sown |      | Cold waves | smoothed the pebbles | and the pebbles’ pelts | were slicked down |      | And the story’s black | seed | was carried a long way | by gulls, by trucks, by rumours |     | yes, by lovers, because there will be romance |     | Caught | in a niche of dirt | between two gutters |      | put out its trembling ghost of roots |      | white roots, the colour of oblivion |      | And it became a real meeting | and when their skins flowed | over each other | they didn’t notice | the sea had woken

They breathed and grew | coastlines | odd shoes | found in the street |      | They were full of the most generous rubbish | mounds of it grew | over the years | collecting flowers and toxins |      | Despite the staggering assertions | of the sun | they often lied | knowingly | not great lies, but small | facile lies | to ease their days |     | who doesn’t? |     | In the morning, they rolled the moon out of their bed | and brushed its cool dust from their bodies |      | On the shore | of a distant inlet | where the waters | were the colour of de-silvering mirrors | for our purposes |      | their sighs |      | entered |      | and in the sides of smooth, rolled pebbles | eyes opened | and seeing | and blindness | began…


from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)

The music gathers in its hands | what we left out of our lives | yesterday | and the day before | and what we’ll fail to | reach tomorrow | and tears it | gently apart inside us | but not only inside us | because we aren’t | only inside us | Ecru | pullover | and the shadow of the desk lamp on the blank wall | and the thunder made us duck | and laugh | the books we would read | the warmth we would hold to | the lightning we never saw | and always | just beyond the words | we used to | speak about the music | a breathing | hyper-calm | banality | tilting slowly | into euphoria | All the passengers | first lie down | asleep on the train | are they asleep? | dead maybe? | then all the passengers | inflate again | and float into the suburbs | of the edges | of what they left out of their lives | today | and yesterday | and what they’ll fail to reach | this evening | and tomorrow | evening | and those oddly | unimaginable things | call to the passengers | somehow | we have taken our place | among them | and after our catnap | or our death | we sit up straight | reach for the Oblomov | re-start our knitting | and the music arrives | to obliterate | and to illuminate | and to seem | to irradiate | in passing | the silence of the landscape | beyond the windows | and inside | the child’s pink dice | inside the drawer | and inside the cucumbers | wrinkled like cetaceans | dreaming | pickled in the jar | on the shelf | in the kitchen | and we try to | gather the music in our hands | but it won’t cohere | so we leave it out | of our lives | and the music says | Don’t worry | There’s nothing you can do | or be | that can be left in | the strange | collection of your memories | It stays mysterious | some things | just are | because you begin them | but can’t wait around | to their end | moments though | they last | I am a firework | thing | if you | listen | If you put that | WOW! | to the bed | embers | soaked in | adolescent | cider | Just feel | a little | euphoria | if you can | and when I am over | there will be your day again | like the terrain in sunlight | after you | emerge from a tunnel | and it won’t be the same | but it won’t be different, either


from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)

Beaten up Converse | of course | So, Sanjay, why are you so skinny and lithe? Is it the yoga? | The right | length of pause | Yeah, Mick … and the prosecco | The nightly bathing | in prosecco | Right angles, of course | summer in a bowl | the windows open | the music radiating | the conversation | and some people are even talking | about the dialectic of negation | They’re standing | near the peonies | which are on the side table | near the bookshelf | the small | bookshelf | In the round vase | pretty chipped up | a little gnarly | we bought in Camden | in about | I don’t know… 1806 or something | so | you’re saying I’m | getting old? | Or | Is that your polite way | of saying | I’m getting old? | And you will say | eventually | for as long as this | link works | and these | pages turn | and the gliding | mass of clouded | neurons | is casting shadows | over the moonlit terrain | No, that’s my way of satirising my own | inability to calculate quite how old | you are, Mick | Radio silence | Because you’re | so old! | Angry that they are so | sad | the peonies are setting themselves | on fire | and they are asserting | their allegiance | to burning solar systems | and to mute people being abruptly | gifted | the power of speech | their manes | ruffle | they dilate | into the figural | then detumesce | into the literal | they tremble as people | dance | or just walk past them | brushing their hips against | the side table | So I begin | to drift away | the music | streamed from Yann’s | battered laptop | and Sanjay’s moved around the room | he’s talking to Lisa | you can feel the energy | from here | are they talking about | prosecco? | Low light | Time | in beats and clocks and memories | Pathos | of course | A little eros | of course | Logos | naturally | but not | too much logos | tonight | or less and less | the later we get | pathos and eros begin | to take over | or at least | I dream that pathos and eros | are rising | among the peonies | which tend to attract | ants to their flower buds | due to the glistening | exudation | of nectar | Now I am | moving round the room | so to me | the spine of Nihei’s BLAME! is | no longer readable | on the arm | of the sofa | (it’s going to fall | someone’s | bound to knock it off) | and I’m by the balcony | which is empty for some reason | and London is laid out for as long | as I glance at it | street grid | the back of a fridge | crossed with some | sublime element | of eternity | useless trying to talk it into | contention | just flag it up | and move on | Coral, sunset and a crowded room | hipsters | and pseudo | hipsters | surrounded by repeated | walls of heaven | that rich | orange pink | the peonies are from Luoyang | have travelled a long way | to wilt and twitch | on a side table | for some reason they | make me bashful | when I look at them | then they diffuse | away from the contemporary | referential system | and divulge themselves | as more fire | on the plain and | in the sentry towers | at the remote frontier | the guards | years into their | posting | trying to recall | the scents of home | When does your | album drop? | young people | well, younger people | say “drop” when I would say | in this case | come out | jeez | I’m letting language | gently kick me | off the stage | I must keep up! | The balcony | of course | smoking a forbidden | cigarette | then I | have a moment | and the pathos rises | and the sorrow ignites | (I’m so sorry) | so the eros | fades to zero | and for a while | I’m super-aware | that the sustained | run of good luck | of my life | can’t go on | Mick, face it, you’re so | fucking old! | I notice that there are a lot | of pretty iffy dance | moves being made | and there’s no | copy of BLAME! on the arm | of the sofa anymore | it’s not the march | of socialism | or the nature of angles | in isosceles | triangle theorem | it’s not the effect | of the Alt-right | or a consequence | of Jupiter moving | into Mars | not quite | not much | not exactly | and Sanjay is | waving his hands around | he gets more | gestural | the more | absorbed he is | in debate | But nothing can prepare for it | and when it’s over | nothing can recall you to it | and Sanjay | doesn’t know that yet | and maybe | he never will | he’s still in touch | with the scents of home | when the light of the moon | is the only source of light | in the early hours | and Sanjay has got up to pee | and | above the illegible | print of the poem | on the book open | on the kitchen table | there is only | that same | light of a different moon

•••


from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)

The forecast was dry, <5% chance of precipitation | Is it chaos? I don’t know | Later, I checked the forecast again | and it said 40% chance of precipitation | and I wondered | where had that ~35% come from | in an hour or so? | We put the dogs in the car | the parasol, the gear | placed our faith in the <5% | listened to old Stones’ songs on the CD | kept the top down | and circus kind of drifted in | the fire-eaters and jugglers and clowns | and the sign of Gemini | clouds of blow by Panama | diffused through Ecuadorian cocoa, Chilean wine | dried fish from Peru | the beach seemed so far away | suddenly | the churches toy | in the distance | liberty | the hippie dream | our frayed and washed-out jeans | our minds creeping down | from Swiss chalets and precision engineering | to stubble and lingerie | long after time | narcóticos | retrogression | crepuscule | and the deep, wide, desert AWOL days | the loss of reason and of purpose | and, towards the end, the mute | obdurate ringing | of the hollow bell | of Rimbaud’s right shoe | sounding in my ear | my ear laid to the floor | is it chaos? I don’t know | Who does?

And the fire-eaters were kind of cool | one had these strange tattoos | of writhing dragons | chrysanthemums | waterfalls | she looked sad | when she stood aside | after the act | not bored by her world | but penalised by living | but tired | but caring, but | uncaring, too | Glancing into space | where was she looking? | Into her problems, I guessed | and I imagined | she was a lot of history | not so much | present | that was what made her | seem so melancholy | and I thought | you could lose a planet in her gaze | or in the gap | between her gaze and yours | lose two | lose more | Calm and | undemonstrative | she didn’t say much | when her laugh came | it was quiet and brief | but sounded genuine | perhaps she only had | one of those sad faces | and she wasn’t sad at all | not really? | On the dresser | in her room | there was a vase | with white chrysanthemums | the chrysanthemums | tattooed on her skin | were also white | A damp evening | motorbikes parked on the grass | the turf cut up to runnels | tracks of Shinkos and Continentals | marking the field with python diamonds | embossed in gleaming mud | it was late April | cold at night | cold in the morning | below average temperature | I’d say | radiance from the trailers | made the steel and chromium gleam | This town of mine | felt like a blank date | in a diary | a sequence of blank dates, in fact | where the only thing to write | beside the phase of the moon | or note that it is Hannukah or St George’s Day | is “Nothing”

•••


from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)

Believing the day back into roses | a carafe of water | like a pinch of Degas or Sisley | but is it ours, do we deserve it? | Believing my name, Michael, comes back to me | and I go towards my name | these are Michael’s hands | Michael’s words | for a few moments, he is strung upon them | as beads strung on a wire | then there is oxygen | the dachshund barking | the phantom moraine of the remainder | the Alps, the compasses | the forgotten keys | the locked doors | the tomorrows | the yesterdays

Believing things | into the shape | we suppose | is theirs | Knowing our way around the philosophy | the software | the drainage | system | Putting our faith in the others | the ones guarding the maps | the definitions | they will keep Paris safe for us | they will explain the cirrus | the Caucasus | the circus and cicadas | we trust the others to watch | over the genial | prisoners of fact | decision | place | status | time | etcetera, etcetera | So we can start the narrative | commence it with waking | I can use my doubts | my scepticism | to fend off what you do to me | what | you want of me and I can’t give | though I pretend | I am | giving | And by many small steps of mistrust and fear | I can make my journey | into the drab | glaciers and the plains of ice | the gradual | death from cold | the cypher’s position | in the futile bureaucracy | control/alt/command | the water-cooler affairs | the back slash | undo undo undo | I heard that, later, David | wept over Goliath | years later, I mean | grieved over that great, stupid corpse | and the head dragged through the dirt | a head so bulky and heavy | it was half David’s height, and the same weight as him | David | missed that Philistine, and, perhaps | the moment of killing | and in his dreams | hauled that head by the hair | through the dirt | manhandled the head | somehow | scraped and bumping | along the ground | over and over again | and when David wakes, each day, he wakes | to the gross volume of emptiness | in his arms | the hunk of vacuum | he could hardly | move | that massive head | only a few | minutes before | flaming with pride and blasphemy | stories of mothers and weapons | dawn over the Valley of Elah | sparrows and buntings in the terebinth trees | his body worked out in the morning | the flutter and bustle | of his immortal living | the continual | fizz and mutter and hum | inside his high skull | and on his skin | as he rested, and closed his eyes | the good feel of the sun

••


from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)

Day on its side, leaking out | We’d just watched Zigeunerweisen | now the clay pots were very still | on the shelves | in autumn everything | has a certain stillness | don’t you think | you feel the poise | in living? | Branched | rapidly away | my boy, Jan, on the Shinkansen to Kyoto | bright zip and fire brought to ancient capitals | a little flash and chutzpah! | innocence breathing in a temple garden | with camellias and maples | writhing pines | snapped by Canon to a dreamy | bokeh effect | dew-points to washed-out memories of stars | diamond dreams | And Cal | painting her room blue and blue and blue | by text I tell her | “blue” is one of my favourite words | and she agrees, likes the rhymes | like “glue” and “zoo” and “hullabaloo” | I love that last one! | As the cancer advances | language dies off | in the coma stage | they lie and gradually | deteriorate | the details begin to go their own ways | back to the place they first formed | out of nothing | turn from Special Foreground Radiators | to General Background Integrators | their lion moments, their sun moments | over | And inside the vases | the shadows, the dead insects | the air | balanced on a calm Gestalt | brakes breaking | while we | delayed into vision | do our similar thing | we brake breaking | and brake breaking | and brake breaking…

A fading franchise | declining brand | Reading a book on Romanticism | super-lush roses on the cover | and I kind of feel | I’ve become so bookish, too | it’s like I’m wearing a dust jacket | more text than speech | more print than breath | more style than substance… | The web expands in graceful lines | a silver of Airstreams and modish living | archaic hipsters out in Bisbee | or for the night at XOYO in Shoreditch | sepia leaks in and a | superior morality | Stretch my legs | get away from the rush and the roar | the nominal relativity | the ego and sublimity | they say there is this other world | where you can use the word | “just” | without feeling ashamed | as in | “I was just taking my time, we’d gone | back to basics” | but I don’t know if that’s true | Assembling my team | putting together my arguments | jumping in the sack with a new | inamorata | with a deflated heart | totting up the total | keeping up the appearance | building up | to the grand | climax

••


from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)

Galleon room | hold dry to the bitter end | Numerous | striped pots, many with displays of lilies | and step ladders erected | black chairs, black tables | ceramic mugs, bowls with cereal | a bowline slung across the foreground | a cleat hitch melts into the rope | and wires, too, with pegs attached | moustaches, sombreros, wine bottles fixed | a half-eaten pear on a plate | of white bone china | Great drift and bank | of sand | and waterspouts and abrupt squalls | the delicate ticking of a beautiful watch | right in, close to your sleepy gaze | and a subtle, manifold creaking | of timbers and rigging | a jar of memories | with myrrh and oranges | tractor parts | tulips from the Netherlands | pungent | and brilliant | spices | seeds | or the machine’s unconscious of the super-deep crude | Footsteps, up on deck | and the peep, peep of a silver-tone whistle | A cheval glass, at an angle | and on the floor, a solitary shoe | and shoes | lonely shoes | tell the longest stories | Voices, shaven from a cloud | children’s voices, infants’, ma mère | a glittering near-weightless tinkle | of Christmas lights drawn against | the attic darkness | the dog’s bark lopped | from Tuesday night | the firm stride | of a distant Papa | and the terrible | heroin son | his laughter | going back into the cloud again | finding him on his bed | manacled to echoes of Messiaen | the ivory, with more wires and keys | softening the Lazuli bunting | or the Cardinal rouge de Virginie | her French accent was really | terrible… | These landlocked moments | slice the boredom and exotica | disguise the grandeur and the age | and though we do not notice (and even, if we noticed, would not care about — but | we truly | don’t notice) | still singing | its pure, wry, weary song | the solitary shoe’s no longer there | only tales of the freight’s journey | the hook that caught the loose pyjama sleeve | and tore us into | one another | and the sublime and all-consuming storm | our days become | fraught and sweet and slightly pompous | and the words | tingling in our eyes and ears | like the ethereal wreckage from a dream | and in that dream | a port

••


from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)