Archives for posts with tag: superstyler

What are we to do with | all these unnecessary words? | Do we really | make any more | sense with them? | Marked as junk | bounced | Theseus, the | Apollo programme || Long, brooding walks through | Romantic poetry | standing by the shore | looking out to sea | Hum and chatter of a metro train | lost in Gogol or Paul Auster | the strange | bat-winged project of Modernity | ladies and gentlemen in personal planes || Those carriages | in goods yards | that never seem to move | weeds | growing up around the bogies | daisies and fine-eared grasses | So many sounds | flesh | wilts under their light | weight || Shadows | of kisses | convulsive | nebulae of climax | the horsepower and the | mist | muscles shift into | when you | come || Oceans of | type and pixels | this | fragile spray | Nowhere to | park the oceans || Shelf life | Ovid and Naruto | the drifting galleons | of discarded | Victorian tomes | tons of | bizarre cargo || Space | inside a comma || Heaven | an erratum || The body | sends out its mules for | unspeakable supplies | and we | talk about pores or instinct || In Nevada | and here | a graveyard | of signs || Silence | comes for the voice and did you say | you loved the snow?


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

I kept a person in a bag | I took them out, then put them back | when I was finished with them | then put the bag | in the hall or in the wardrobe near my bed, or sometimes | the garage | Holes | in my memory | now | more regularly appear | and often I do not know how | I went from A to Z | whole clumps of letters seem to drop away | sometimes I find myself at Y, but am not | sure where | that is | Busy, busy, such a busy life I lead | it was nice to keep the person in the bag, to have them | there when I needed them | and zipped up tight when the need was past | And years passed | I no longer took out the person quite so often | and sometimes left the bag | in a locker at the gym or | even at the boathouse, or the basement room | but I was always very careful | to put the person back | in the bag before the zip was closed | Around me, tremendous changes came | hurricanes and entire neighbourhoods | cleared and re-developed | my nerves | treed off into silver or to brown veins | or inhuman green | reaches of the Amazon | What was the person’s name? | And their voice? | There was bracken and heather and a sound of pipes | I had in mind | Donegal or Zummerzet | perhaps mist-wet fleece of the Shetland Isles? | There was no | help for it | I needed to ask the person, but when | I opened the bag, they had gone | Surely, surely, the Shetland Isles? | I was called back to life at once | I used the bag for something else


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

A golden bug fell out of his head.

Then a post office. Then a sunset.

She’d had a hard day, servicing the needs of a negligent elite.

He had been lucky. He turned the writer into a fetish, and then the fetish into a career. Just lucky! Or so it had appeared to him. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure whether the luck of his life was good or bad?

Her heart was like that white-washed church abandoned in the middle of a sloping field of bronzed wheat.

Her heart was like a hut belonging to the beachcomber who had been caught by a freak wave, carried out to sea, her body never recovered.

She was stuffing her ex-boyfriend’s business cards into shells along the shore.

He was engaged on a great masterpiece, and had been for years. He was a Robinson Crusoe of the word-processor. Over a decade into his labour, and still there was no sign that he was near the end. Incompletion haunted him. What if the lightning struck before he had finished? No one would care for his work, his tremendous effort. He had lost friends, his family faded away, he was alone. He had crawled into the great shell of his work, and now it seemed quite possible that he’d never emerge. His fingers were growing nacreous, with a sheen like mother-of-pearl. He couldn’t move his jaws so easily. He was cramping up, becoming shell. If he didn’t get out now, he’d end up an ornate emptiness, filled with the illusion of the sound of the ocean.

Her heart was like a downed plane, lost during the war, the remains – pilot still at the controls – deep in a forest, creepers wrapping the wings, the shattered cockpit gemmed with moss.

She was obsessed with the idea that all her thoughts were leaking away into nothing, that she couldn’t capture or record them. There were no photographs of her dreams, no video of all those feelings she experienced. Why don’t you just live? one of her friends asked her. And not worry about trying to keep the life alive?

Because how can I be sure I’m alive, she answered, unless there’s some evidence for it?

Now, a dusty grove of pines, near the children’s playground. Now a train, with a face on it.

Now heavy traffic seen from the bridge over the orbital.

Now, a sunset.

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