Archives for posts with tag: variant 1

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)

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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)

The coda is very long | We wonder why? | The main movements were immense, ancient, unstoppable, like glaciers, but now this muted music goes on and on | with no drama, only nuance, melancholy, resignation | Small fires break out | the city endures its own ruins | people meet among the shadows, they keep their voices low | everyone is dazed, concussed by events signalling the end | of a meaningful history | ten centuries raised in the blade of a bulldozer | pulverized visions, I love you, twitch of pupils dilating, the sound | of the west wind among rainy sycamores in November | all leaves down | It’s a great party, plenty of booze, good music, at some point | I have the feeling I’m on a treadmill | even my own body is a treadmill | and I wonder | if that feeling might be called a soul? | The war is an anti-climax | the stories from the refugees | conform to well-known patterns | and in the children’s eyes | as they gaze at the capital | you can find a prophecy: These may not be called fragments now | but they will be

The soul endures after death | but death endures, too, as part of the soul | you cannot separate them | they lead to each other | immortality is no memory | Unlike us, they had no written language | although stone for carving was all around them | They were very young, the children, yet already they knew | sometimes water is for drinking | but sometimes | drowning

 


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

Fragile beast | Take off your bison head, tingling, swinging | Take off your bear’s head of glass, jaws | swagged with blood | feckless | beast | Hero of the underground | rest your panicked heart, put it | aside awhile | lay your claws beside the bed | let sleep | syphon you off into darkness and the one | true quiet | Futile | beast | forget your purposes, drop a compass | in a forest pool | set off in the direction | not of the ogre’s | fortress, but of the nightingales, wrap yourself | in the soft, green leaves of their song, ignore | the squalid tumult at its core || What does white lace | mean to the barmaid? | And the sultry cowboy | why does he care so much for those pretty guns? || Elect | a lovely murderer | Worship | a broken god | Avoid, if you can, waking | under stars seething | with furious life | Forget, as you wish to, every word she said | Watch the others | wrestle the ocean | for a while | restless | beast | Leading | voice of the avant garde | abandon the cabaret, settle down | to sell insurance or teach | literature in some | doldrums nook || Why must the mirror | lie so of you? | Where do the crowds | take your little matter? || Huge the voice that pounds inside your brain, a volcanic roar and multiple rumble | of stampeding hooves | yet no one | takes issue with a word you say! || Prophet from | an unwritten bible | haranguing pleasure- | seekers in a park | just shut the fuck up! | Add to the generous mass, the dangerous yeast | of your intangible spirit || Close this book of waves and shells | awash with plundering threat and rumour, the sea’s | reiterated whisper | and slip off into your silent life | delicate | tender | troubled | beast

Blood maps a recalcitrant journey | Desire mimes a stolen play | French William, and scalded Harald, stuff your mouth | with long-suffering words | and they | offer you the limits of your speech | leave you mired in what you call your own | tongue… | Brilliant | tangents | drive the detour on | You spend your days | fixated upon | the doings of the most famous troll | and total your beautiful car | against the wall of a hardware store || Grand the wrought | iron of your mansion’s gates | aspirational the towers | but in the bedroom’s early hours | the hours of fidget, crick and aftermath | though the dragon’s corpse has yet to start | stinking | the genius | swords of your early forays are still dwarfed | by the mounds of scales | of your slain prey | The years | with their soft | moth mouths | begin to bite | You realise | that second thoughts absorb your fate | and your saga ends in differing, in a dull stranger’s | bar-room story | Bathos awaits

 


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