15.9.09

Shattered cloud.
Sun breaks through.
                                                                   crustaceans swarm the beach.
man walks out the swamp.                                                                             
                                                                                                                            
voluble tree birds                                                                                                                      
in the lark park
                              in the battery acid
                                           in the green guts of the river.                                                   
where fishes swim.                                                                                                 
                 under willow
where pheasants drink.
    VEGETABLE EMPIRE.                                                                          
 home furnishing. meat pies. other planets.    
conspiracies take root in history, branch insidiously.
 January Sales! Huge Reductions! Canapés! Twiglets!                                                                                                       
actions which crystallise into ritual. back in the world again. embodied.
 eat bread.  drink wine. plough furrow in time.
The bread and the wine symbolise the willing acceptance of the deal. Embrace material conditions. green mesh. The flesh, the blood, the need to eat. The body, the Gnostic hell.
 Every time the body is left, the ritual of return must be enacted. Thank you for the flesh. For the blood which surges, the rivers of blood which transverse the body. The machine, the avatar which negotiates the material world. Only through the avatar can material conditions be altered.
Only the machine can act in this dimension.
Delicate polar flowers, quite unknown to science, bloom once every 5 centuries. Cornflower blue petals assume the shapes of snowflakes, exhibiting the same degree of beauty and variety.
 Polar bears lick them for salt.
SATANIC ENGINES!
Dexterous acts of telepathy. Virtuoso extrapolations from existing data.
Daunting canyons strewn with hulks of stone. Small village, ambushed by jungle. Dense jungle sprouts overnight. Sound of tropical birds in tangle of vines. Trees break through slate rooves.
The valley is full of statues, of unknown antiquity. They have always been here. Mighty monuments of basalt. Moss in the eye sockets, beards of lichen.
Egrets perch on the heads of monarchs, sit in the laps of gods.
                               capstan.     
eccentric aunts.      opium war.                                                                 
voluble skylark                                      
pugnacious warthog.
..In the Control Towers tall, thin men, like skeletons, parcelled in wax paper, plot the events of next year.
In the bleak and frozen tundra a monster breaks its iron shackles.
A traitors meeting in the pine forest. Where moss muffles the footfalls and  treetops blot out the moon.
A fox wriggles out into the night,              emerging from                                                
                den beneath a gravestone.                                                                                          
                                                                                                                                                     
coral.                     minarets.                                                     smog.
                                                                                                                                                 
Don’t betray the desire.                                                                                                                          vanities,                                                                                                                                          
                mandrills
                               snuffling in a corpse.
Immensities of space-
slow                         circling                            space
THE EARTH IS ALREADY IN SPACE

2.9.09

LAMENTATION
Hello.
We keep meeting like this,
                don't we.
And feeling awkward
because,
well,
we don't really know one another,
thoough our paths cross with such regularity.
I don't even have your name
and although it would be easy to find out
it feels too much like cheating.
You have, I know
some idea of me,
an image which stands in for familiarity,
a picture formed from glimpses and overheard conversation,
an idea of who I am and where I come from,
some idea perhaps, of what I represent,
as I have some such idea of you
and, doubtless,
we are both quite wrong.
I have fallen in love with my  image of you
in fact, it has come close to an obsession
and you, as a direct and inevitable consequence,
have come to loathe your image of me.
I should never have tried to speak to you, its true
should never have opened my mouth,
It was against the rules, and I knew it.
I acted wilfully, in spite of every solemn binding prohibition.
I placed myself above all such rules
and, in consequence,
I am punished
made to suffer
out of all proportion to the crime.
I see only contempt in your dark eyes
where once there was, at least, curiosity.
A sneer
curling your lip
where once I thought I detected
the traces of a smile.
It is my own fault.
No words were ever to have been spoken
nothing
only a delicate
aching silence
bridged only by the meeting of eyes
and a shared recognition
'I know you, and yet I do not know you.'
an acknowledgement not acted upon.
Forgive me
I can take nothing back
no matter how much I might want to.
In my youth, too timid to speak
I could only stare in silence and thought
that, by speaking, I could make everything right,
could win my every desire, if only I found the courage to act.
Now, old and bold enough to open my mouth,
I wish only that I had the wisdom to stay silent.
When will I learn to look, and look only
with no covetousness, with no sick desire
to sit in silence
side by side with beauty
and make no effort to take it up in my arms
to be content with just that silence, the meeting of eyes
and nothing more.
I don't reccognise myself
in the sneer
which contorts your lips
though I know what I did to provoke it
and I cannot blame you for it, no, not at all.
And if I feel wronged, I know it is all my own doing.
I grow desperate to reverse your opinion of me
to prove myself worthy of your friendship
god help me, even your admiration
dare I say love?
love then
to be worthy of your love and devotion
and the more I try
the more
your opinion of me is confirmed.
I panic, my palms sweat, I garble my words
my body language betrays me.
It is hopeless.
My own self is completely eclipsed by your image of me
I'm suffocating beneath it
I can't escape.
I want to to grab you, shake you by the shoulders
screaming
I AM A GOOD MAN!
I do not deserve your contempt
I am a gentle man, a poet even
quite gifted
a man of refinement
the posesser of ‘a certain sensibilty'
worldy
but with a heart as pure as any childs.
O! don't look at me like that, it hurts
o how it hurts!
And my soul is torn
between acting and not acting, and I end by just staring
with crazed eyes that speak of desperation,
of furtiveness and mania
the sort of man any woman would cross the street to avoid
let alone one as beuatiful as you.
My need is visceral
palpable, it surrounds me
an aurua, making women uneasy.
They spot me from a distance and make pretend calls on mobile phones
examine nail polish
hail casual aquatinces from across the street with an air of evident relief.
O, how I wish I were tall and strong and handsome.
The sort of man who could meet a girls eye and smile broadly
just because he felt like it
and know, full well
that any girl would be flattered by such a smile, broad and uncomplicated.
My own smile comes tentatively, doesn't believe in itself, is lopsided and downright shifty.
I know, I can feel it creep disreputably across my face.
Girls dont want whatever tawdry treasure I harbour in my soul,
do not want to have to hear the febrile, pruient verse my heart gives birth to
Just a man
tall
and strong
and handsome.
And I,
am none of these things.
O! to be tall and strong and handsome
to be the sort of strong jawed man
for whom smiles and frowns come naturally and unbidden
for whom nothing is premeditated.
To be without this inescapable awareness of everything the body does
of every thought and impulse which flashes through the mind
to be so blashphemously AWARE
so constrictingly conscious.
I don't want it!
I dont want it!
O let me be animal, let me be alive and desired.
God help me
I want only to be loved
and if I cannot be loved
let me at least be ignored.