Archives for posts with tag: hypergrammar

Abandoned | cities of the heart

The empty rooms, decorated with photographs of the dead, the wallpaper | dated to a sunken decade | all | flooded | by the waters of silence and passed time

Places lovers tried to keep themselves | in reach | with lovers | sought to | keep pace with each other | though one was forever | running ahead, losing | touch

All the gestures are archaic

Immersed in nostalgia, in a green summer, traffic lights turning from amber to red | the ghost cars and | aphids | queue for the translucent | door to the past and, under the smoggy, humid stars of dusk all | eventually | go through

These streets have petrified, their map | outdated | sits in an atlas in an obscure | second-hand bookshop which, itself, has turned to stone

Through all instants, the sublime | glacier of the ages | seeps, carrying and freezing | each delicate and each | monumental thing, even | our | dreams

Here, at the centre, where the statues of | broken-nosed | soldiers and | laurel-crowned | poets and | late-coming | angels | convene an atmosphere of | stoic endurance, the | mayfly atoms of | forgotten moments | tremble and float

Of course, here the traffic is at a | standstill | and as you wander, searching | for a way out through those | same | translucent doors, you start to | lose track of time and | cease to recognise this | shore by the | interior ocean where | all your drifting life has fetched up | in pavement cafés and on | dusty ledges behind | the broken blinds of the windows of | obscure museums

Your friends and your lovers have fled | the punishing | heat | and even the strangers, too, are leaving, but you | drawn to a detail | linger as | the night and the day | melt into one | silent | modern | event

Abandoned | cities of the heart


from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)

Floating in cyberspace

not you, not me, not exactly

Flotsam | Thinking the wreck back into place, over and over | studying the geometry of smoke | mumbling about hieroglyphs | and shooting stars | when THE GREAT SOMETIMES | intervenes

Melting down those gold connectors

Being a gravity | So we… | drifted into | each other

so much | that

we never left | it doesn’t have to be | Saturn or Jupiter

A big summer

on the Intact label

The rocks meant no harm | and it was only a fall from | a certain perspective | the masts and sails | laments of doomed crewmen | a lullaby | for tetchy young | electric eels and schools | of passing seahorses

Floating in cyberspace

not here, not there, exactly

carried

on kelp and current hearses

Melting down those gold connectors

Parsing shells on a dusk seashore

And they said, “Hey, Michael

how come”

Leave it a while, go back, all the reasons | are in the power of rhymes

And they said, “Hey, Michael

are we really here?”

And I said, “Sure, well

sometimes”


from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)

Old connections | that have the fray of | unuse and worn time in them | crackle back into | the labour of their circuits once again…

Moth minds | fluttering /

Tired lamps with a brittle light | memories so frail, we must ask | are these our memories? | are these | eyes | these | lips and fingers | real?

Frayed wings, and the patterns of | embroidered gold | faded and torn / but the afternoon | charges to lushness | fattens its clouds and the sift of vapour, our | plumes of thought from | long ago or from | a | moment ago

Recalled the chimneys and the letters burnt

Ghosts in stout climbing boots | with walking sticks fashioned from | diamond willow or honey locust | with peaked caps and tweed jackets | hail the mountain and | when they fall still | hear the rustle of chrysalis | in the wind | ferns | stones…

Hear the rustle of chrysalis…

Fan of wings in the Sunday traffic, fan of wings in the concrete, fan of wings…

Pollen clots the eyes | Kisses clot | the hours, bedsprings | creak from shifting bodies, our weight | thrown out in pinches of | Plato and musk | semen and | elm…

Moth minds | fluttering /

Old tracks | brittle where the neurons | failed | died back | where the hippocampus or the amygdala | fell down to | groves of | ash or | maple or | bamboo || feel the footsteps flushing them with | direction again | with curiosity and with | hope again

As they usually do, kisses | ripping through the shrouds | and the succulence of the berries | in the centre that we | seek and | squeeze out and | into…

Arrive!

As the wet wings unfold | flights fan into the morning | By nightfall | all this will be far away…


from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)

No going back, and yet | no going forward, either, nor | dwelling here in the present, it is | a strange state of affairs

Each touch was a bud, and it flowered | later than he could grasp

Medium fireworks | an aperture | of grass and blood | a ghost | coming through | in a crown | of sparks

And then | large | fireworks

Weighing the clouds | After the detonation | dazed | angels in tracksuits | wandering

My fingers | float loose | from my hands | Boats | cut loose | from their moorings

45 rpm | on the | gramophone | Chi-Lites / or maybe | Zepp | when the tanks | roll in

Medium fireworks | an aperture | of soil and grass | leaf litter | a ghost | grasps the lips | parts them | bone | head | heavy like a | thinker | pushes | up | peeps | through | baby | buffalo

Dazed | angels in swimsuits | wandering | confused | one | bleeds from the mouth

When the tanks | roll in | cereal packet | blown open | cornflakes | scattered on the | linoleum

Boats | cut loose | the river’s | broad | slow | back | carries the children | downstream | Hazy | crusade

After the detonation | devils in | a daze | stagger | across the field | deaf and | disorientated

Waits | by the side of the river

Flowers come | slowly | floating | downstream

Slopped | in blood | heavier | than she | expected | through the aperture | of bone and pearl | of salt and grease | her ghost | coming through

Medium

fireworks


from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)

Building a fortress | around our enemies || (time and my heart, May | 2012)

Crack open a heart, that symbolic | container | An egg of journeys, wishes and ideals

that | monument, built of motion / gulls in a North Sea squall <Saltburn/Redcar | 1970s>

a beating compendium of effects, of thrown shadows | an animal, still | leaping

almanac of guesses

a toy | theatre | with a fine stage, forever | awaiting the star | The spotlight / flickering on and off / a Barrymore, or a Bernhardt / forever / about to deliver / an imagined soliloquy

The wind blew the sand along at our feet, and it was like walking through smoke | out at sea, the ships queued for port. I don’t remember the season…

That bloody vector, a sign | of vanishing memories

The heart, that act


from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)

 

Crossed paths faces on contra-bound trains | lovers lost 40 years ago, how tenuous / their touch / becomes

Dipped in the void of forgotten years | that place of | no place / The silhouettes of autumn trees looming through silver drizzle, and the background mist

Rotate the kaleidoscope of those humid kisses, a teenage tropics, bruised raspberry and torn strawberry | and dip the forgotten years in their spots of passion, bring / an oasis of fire to fading autumns

From that place of | no place / like a stray cobweb strand caressing your face, her touch | rotates around | the cool axis of all the strangers


from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)

Under his old hand the diamonds fizz and coruscate, infinite riches touched by passing skin.

The hand is mayflies and daddy longlegs, the diamonds retain their cool and pointless integrity forever | Sometimes, though, a stranger may pour a few sensations over them, so they | leap to a scent of seawater, are flushed with the nostalgia of childhood beaches, the taste / of hot sand.

How lovely, the migration of his touch across these calm and lucid stones, the snow | pocked with steaming balls of dung, reindeer in their urgent herds, or / glimpsed from a nondescript sidestreet / the unheard wingbeats of geese travelling at altitude across a city near dusk.

An immortal silence grounds the diamonds, but the movement of his hand | brings the crackle of flames and a woodfire snap to their edges, tempting them to warm themselves and even to sing.

Inert and radiant, the diamonds await our darkness and our pelting heat | our sparkling storms of instants / our fuzz and scrape of pentagrams and Keats and curled pieces of dried orange peel | our confusion, a true story.

In a flat in Battersea, the diamonds stay | His hands are long gone, but once they let the diamonds hear – if only for a moment – the whorling lisp of far-off waves, and feel | how his heart pounded as he ran along the shore / his eyes half closed and the sea / a shaking firmament of dazzle: how he was | chasing stillness.


from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)

Connecting things already connected | Taking apart things which can’t be taken | apart | Rearranging the furniture in a nirvana room | Ink, written into the stars / and the stars | written in young lovers’ kisses…

Tracking ghosts across | a city of forests | Hazy figures | gathering your life for you | Leaving signs in your dreams | In a half sleep, you open a door, and | here | let the brightest one | in


from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)

Resolving into space | raw and mineral outback light | with my beautiful friend | colours to be mined or | overwhelmed by

<Sturt Stony Desert | Cameron Corner | 1991>

When the desert turns to a sea of flowers | gates of rock and ocean open

The red dirt road leading us into the new | exhilarating | so we tried to fit our hearts to this expansive landscape | our hearts | grew greater

Wisps of memory now | photos in a jade green album | mementos of a burnt paradise | where heaven falls in fossil rain

Existential | blue | powdery desert pinks and reds, the dunes | softly aggregated and pinned out | for moments under those exposing skies | baked lapis lazuli and lizard skitter | throats of ochre | hoarse cries of | pigments being born and | twisting or | basking | seeking to | survive

Give up the struggle to be different or | to be the same | to be yourself or | someone other | the stones say

Give up those lilac shimmering thoughts, the effects of | sunshine dabbling in water

England was a corbel town, fan | vaulting | stone worked like lace | style and culture and artifice, but | the gates of our hearts were parted, we | were pushed through | found ourselves | in thrown space

Giving, with | no thought of return

Building fragile networks of | breath and | glittering black bridges of | words | out into the nothing of the next step, the | place we call home, made of secrets

Don’t disturb us | the stones say | Let us sleep inside you, the real | ballast of your frivolous spirit, the | imponderable torpor, the | sheer weight to drag you back to | the long mule trains of molecules under routine burdens

Our mouths full of stones, and stones in our eyes, our caresses | making stones | part their lips like | young babies | eyelids | tremble and shift

Looking for a new venture | new forms of association to | figure out those days of wonder

All the day a | brink | each moment an | embarkation

Our union | to recall or fabricate | a common purpose, the logical | analogue of kisses

To be at the heart of the desert | a human heart

By belonging to others, not to die

At any time, and particularly at the present, the self-respect of all collaborators, from star to prop-man, is sustained, or diminished, by the theme and purpose of the film they are working on.
– Point 5 of “The Archers Manifesto” (Emeric Pressburger, letter to Wendy Hiller, 1942)


from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)

The eyes are tied to the snow | Later there is no snow, and there are no eyes

Snow comes again, a different snow | Snakes | sip at the cows’ milk, it must be | spring

Eyes, tied to the daisies, to your lover’s skin, the weight | of your lover’s shadow | Like tiny insects | lashed on threads | the instants are bound to her, and the snow | comes again / the same snow, but a different | memory

Open the graves, take out the dead, they are not needed | in this form any longer | they have ripened and faded, and so have their | children, their surviving | friends now | the earth is needed for other purposes | Later there are more dead, but there are no graves

Into the spaces we cram our lives, this | is our life, we say, this | is our world, it is | the world, it | is not

Peeling the stars, star rind | falls | so very slowly in these | especial moments, the lovers | are like | everyone | consumers, but | the pitch | of their consumption is | high and | pure, they can hear | the spiders in their webs | moving

Later there are webs, but there are no | spiders | Later there is snow | the spiders’ webs are clumped and strung | with frost, the graves | are emptied, where are | their inhabitants, what is this | war’s name?

Lilac sleeves and | sleeves of lavender | cuffs of velvet | woolens | buttons of | jade or pearl | a scent of camphor, a | blaze of spring | it must be | winter now | and our blood | lies quiet in our veins | like snakes in sleep, the darkness | gathered around them and the tiny | fingernails | the long blonde | hair on the | cashmere jacket, the | wiry black hair on the | lemon collar | Is this war | ours? we ask | is this our dream | is this | our lot?, the empty | sleeves and the | baby’s | pink | mittens…

Into the spaces we fold our lives, inside the spaces there are | further voids, hands | delicate | fingers never | reach or touch, never mind |
grasp or | hold | this is our time, we say, this is | our moment, it is |
this moment, it

is not


from the sequence hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)