Archives for posts with tag: variant 1

Tumbled in, like Alice | It could be opals | from Western Australia | it could be dumplings | in a viscous gravy with skin | also there will be flies | Very highly coloured, but infinitely dissatisfying, so we are bound | to separate | there being more, always more, including up | Folded, like a paper crane, the silhouettes of trees | still in the paper | cut the full moon | with its scent of radish and soy, Tsuki-sama | Progression, apparently, definitely | And recourse | to the slopes and scars and the ragged | Orion of the freckles on your back | and in the aureole | of an illusion | some way down | to the pale hunter | the calm, obtuse, comforting — the classical | Crushed, not by the jaws | of junkyard compactors | or by the vacuous | momentum of the years | but by a thought | As light as that! — a few | vagrant atoms | and the mass | of what calls to them | what | calls to them? | And formally, just because | it was foretold by this reading | with the Hermit | the Wheel and the | King of Cups | there are more of those firefly thoughts | and a voice | from outside | making you | look up

We could plot our end by the phases of the moon | throw in our lot | with the inebriating | roll of the tides | gallons of lucid wanting | shape | falling and spreading and rising | it only makes | a difference | By the sea, because it is | traditional, because | there’s a certain charm | in establishing an attitude | to the neutral punch | and counter-punch | of waves and rock | they are not battling | there is no bout | no prize | but there is a measureless hiatus | and then the full moon | drawing in the arrayed | verticals of bamboo | quite still before the dawn | The prey — and it is prey — eludes us | so we pretend | it meant nothing | we put down our guns | pretend | we never carried them | and in any case | that was a long time ago | among the feathers and the moccasins | Safe in despair, we wait, let the days pass | they have no choice, being days | Abruptly, the current of relevance | re-acquires force | still moist | with the water | freshly expiring from the shower’s rose | you lie face | down on the bed | then the perfectly cut | block of darkness interrupts | with hints of lust, and love, and satisfaction | but when, after the dreams, our lives | turn back on | I am not thought through at last | and there is no touch | and no Orion••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, July 2016)

Losing the sun’s feet, so the day grows even lighter | leaving no trail for the trackers to follow | Episodes, stored in journals | like shadows in mirrors and wine in underground vats | Where the boat went after our glance ran out | and south was turned | As always, an edge was waiting

Surrendering the final | And even the gesture of surrender, the classical | figure of the athlete in marble | racing still under dry, yellow leaves | Kisses, dropped one by one like twigs and pebbles into an old stone well | Words waiting for words to find them | and the night | not the last | bringing new ways to love, new ways to be lost | Sunlight, on the side of a kettle | A note with a date, scrawled | on the back of an envelope | Eyes, very calm, watching | Are you seeing the past?

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, July 2014)

I am coughing, and the cough | follows me like a pet | Each evening I drink | a concoction of dust | in plain water | this will cure me | I’m sure | My sons work | in the aerospace industry | I | stay close to my church | my arteries | branch and branch… | Out of my guts | once they are sifted | they may drag | the pebbles, the sharp | fragments of quartz | little mounds of powdered calcium | the bones | among the ashes | they will give forth | pansies and worts | mosses, the fan | shaped lichens on gravestones | Reduce me | I beg of them | pull down my spine | into the horns of gazelles | the liquorice | trundle of snails | and that | option on the sky | fill it with the squeak | of petrol-blue swallows | At the top | far higher | than the fairy mines | of viruses | there are equations | sermons | parsings | of clauses and times | a spindly fuss | with measures like microns and zettaFLOPS | My sons | make good incomes | my sons | visit rarely | they are good people | I think | they lead good lives | I imagine | far off | in the valley | Up here | in the mountains | I cough | and cough | the air is clear | the water is pure | the marble | will stand | and my cough | follows me | and I | seeking the cure | drink down my dust

There was amazing progress from the team | goals achieved and fresh targets set | we were achieving achieving achieving | in the labs | polycarbonate | lift and drag | unique | identifiers | Other, 7 | Our professor | droned through the lecture | a thing | is the meaning of a thing | The point of the mountain | is in climbing the mountain | Ralph decided | he didn’t hear | what the avalanche said | Increasing production | reducing staff | more from less | we were kept busy | in our free time | there was the yacht and the cinema | At night | as if from a mine shaft | rising up | from the void | where “it all started” | sometimes at least | we couldn’t sleep | haunted | by the arid echoes | of a cough, cough, cough…


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, May 2013)

Halving one’s heart | turning it over like a stone | watching the golden insects scatter | and the worms | pitched into the blaze of the sun | search for the earth and their true | element again |     | An envelope | falls out of a notebook | and the words | wriggle to sense and a glance, then | bury the lightning with the whole storm |     | In the immense | flash of the event | you lie alone | in what is left of heaven | calm | with pieces of strangers | lifted in what, once, you called | your hands

In a fork in the moment | we paused and a shadow went over the sun |     | Rome was built in that day |     | Stragglers | from the picnic | in a 19th | century novel | fell to talking of horses, then land, and so | to love |     | It will soon rain, and we | must hurry to the next thing, hoping it will form | a shelter of some kind | flexible as an unread book | passing like a lost affair | enduring like a stone••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, May 2013)

Shaking out a blanket, the midsummer sun / rolls from our keeping | in the commune of signs, light bundled with shadows / the sun waits to shine / into someone else’s | eyes

The elongated shadows of evening in midsummer stretch | into the commune of signs, and become | what is needed or what | is let fall away…••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, June 2012)

They printed off houses | safe places for domicile | my sensations | were heading out | into 3D | War was coming | laws were being revoked | Nothing | fresher | sweeter | softer | than their lips’ | vent and slip | wit and slip | slip and flip | (and tongues) | cherry | topology | hummingbird | vibe | demons’ | roadmap… | Troops moving through the woods | had they crossed the border? | Uniforms | indistinct | The whole era | grew unsure | was the age of consent | just beginning or | was it | already over?

Bullet to the head | the finger | the trigger | the barrel | the order | the head | the | bullet | What was the rationale | for this kind of murder? | Whose rules | were we obeying? | No one had told us | the details | were these things | in our books and | in our nature? | We printed off | ideas and lived in them | for days | those who wished they were | dear leaders, and those | who had been raised by wolves | Thrown | off the cliff | of the past | some became birds, some | bodies | Either be the storm | or run for shelter, such | are these times | Assassins | of innocence | and innocent | assassins | learn and learn | quickly | and make sure | you are living | purely by the living letters | only of the latest laws••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, April 2014)

Old mine vs. new mine thing | How the | carved starlight | in your lobes | cracks with sighs | an exquisite | emptiness, the forest | daunting but primeval | gushes with potential | memories | Nights in quiet | gorillas’ eyes | pink, shot-up | vivacities of parrots | tossing into the dawn their “no, me, me, me!” squawks | while | in milder climes | the moon is late to leave and in | the untended garden | dandelions feast on the remains of lawns… || Pleasure’s | exhaustion | sets in | park the car | feed the heat | spend the day | dozing and shopping | and, when, later | crowds gather round | the accident victim | the angle of the sun | is different but, in the main, all | things are equal | we know | after each disruption or virgin | chance | there is a kind of | settlement | the establishment | of uranium or tin or gold || That’s how it is, they’ll say, just how it is || In the old mine | a hermit silence appertains | to footless tunnels, rusted machines | even the spiders grow shy | it is a question, what may | root itself in the void, if anything? | while in the new | whispers patrol your ears | talk of bars and films and hope | and what we feel | so deeply speaks | of an uncharted beauty | prepares to use us, and the divine | senses we discover | in exploitation | spill out their breaking secrets and sing••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, June 2013)

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 kisses | across the lit | clouds of our bodies…

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)
(this poem, June 2012)

Setting out, late, to a new location | what will our thoughts do to it? | Putting the past “behind us”, and “looking ahead” — the space of time | naturally | set to the arrangements of our bodies | a geography of toys | the landscape seen through a show | of magic lantern slides | or lit in the optical theatre | a scene in a diorama | Death, apparently, is utterly blank: no one | goes there | Featureless, and uninhabited — not even a desert | or an icy pole, not even | the perfect emptiness of a summer sky | We collapse the tent | of our orgasm | the orchestra | packs up its instruments | the choir | checks times for metros and buses | the angels | instead of singing | put down their lyres | switch on the TV, turn | to cheetahs or Brittany or guns | And the new location | begins to slide towards us | the pink blossoms on wet black tarmac | through brief, abrupt rain | outside the club | where they have good DJs, a great | sound system | or the caves where the hermits live | refining their spirits | unquestionable, because they have no answers | biding their raw | jewel of time | in an insurmountable privacy | and if it isn’t futile | to visit them | neither is it | non-futile | in any case as we gaze | into their indecipherable isolation | our thoughts turn | to the one | crucial, inexplicable thing: the next | moment of leaving…

One of those evenings where | the past is ahead of us, the future | punctured | has deflated, shrunk | the white apartment complex | fringed with green palms | square windows lit irregularly | is an intricate arrangement of solitudes | consumers | digging their separate burrows | through a dark, rich earth | no one, ultimately, owns | Our thoughts | shake the crowds into their echo armies | idle | split off like the fragments of a firework | We put up the tent of skyscrapers, planes passing overhead | we will live here for a little while, we think | and the thinking | arranges it | Death, apparently, is utterly blank: no one | goes there | it is always in the future | and then, as if by magic | always in the past | in either case | it is an imagined country | measured, you may think, by the loss | we feel or the loss | we expect | or believe | or desire | other people might feel when we have gone | There is a sound of gunfire | of shells bursting bricks and mortar and plaster | out of the shapes of minarets and spires | to clouds of dust and the slumped | geometric intestines of rubble | these are the signs | that tell us this location is old | it is time | we left | and abruptly | as the bombs | start to fall | the musicians, packing up their instruments | no longer belong to the orchestra••


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, June 2016)

 天安门 | Tiananmen

Social tranquility | Soon it will be time | to fit you with your wheels | Push you gently | to the summer, waiting for you | subdued sunshine tailed | on vacuous shopping malls | Hidden in the corner | of a plot of rapture | scarlet and carnelian, mushroom and purple | sculpted honey dripping towards the desired | jewel of stasis | riding on the hoods | fleeting light on lotus feet | escape, for a moment, the avid | collectors of order | Appear, illicitly, and we will | put you in a book of vanishing | Besides, effort to | resist | only rushes to rupture | unseemly | fluid | bodies broken | stoven in | to where the clouds | have loosened entirely, lastly, from our names | Look up: hawk | hovers to a hole in the sky | all tension and suspension points | to the dropping | bliss of the dive | Run as you will | as fast as you can | we’ll catch you into your new formation | you will fall to rounds | or just fall in | with your brothers and sisters | who hunt you down | to your opposition | The night | thickens and the moon thins | in an old, old illusion | Twist and buck | cry and mourn | squeal and riot | but when you come to | sense how right | the tracks fit to you | feel how smooth | the spin, spin, spin of your wheels

In lotus shoes | erotically contained | like a mist His gaze | parts and swirls for her | She feels its moisture | in her lungs | upon her nipples tingling | like tiny bells | a fairy clatter | of dispersing pearls | from a torn | rope | necklace | Wrapped | tight | her limbs constrained | to beauty | so dainty, her walk | on the bound feet, stubs | of nature | elegant, cultured hooves | Cover her | with glances | a tightened grace | you are | tautened to admire | but looking with such living | uneasily conceals | a warning, as a closed stove | conceals a fire: if you remove the shoes and bindings, the aesthetic feeling will be destroyed forever

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, September 2014)