half dome

early morning upheavals – the earthquakes of barking dogs and ringing telephones. in the empty mind lurks the devil. but when the days all look contrived it seems like the most honest thing to do is to wait. and in so doing, what type of stories does the world expect us to tell? how much more can we dig out from our pockets? reading is almost cannibalistic at times. and these arbitrary lights, they fall upon me as they wish, bemusing me and damning my already monocular eyesight. it’s not so much the confusion that bothers me, but the distraction caused by these little creatures of momentary blindness.

there where the night grows old

The fire in the middle of the square burned as the little children made little balloons of paper that shot up into the sky. I threw my clothes into the heat and wandered around naked, anxiously waiting for you to find me. You came to ask me about poetry, I knew not what to say. I just grabbed your hand and pointed out the floating flames against the penumbra. That was my answer, don’t you see? And then, in a daze, I fainted – your blond hair blurred in the background, in some dream-like state. I woke up against a jagged tree. In the daylight I could see burnt pieces of your skirt scattered around alongside bits of my own cloth. Worrying about how much of yourself you had given in, I stood up. As I balanced my weight on the wood, I saw you coming my way. You sat beside me with a book and read page twenty-three out loud. A sea of white, the beauty of skin, your voice as breezy as the ocean.

Tarnished

I found myself in your bed once again, it looked like home. The same white linen, the same freckles. A room of the last days of our childhood, of all the beautiful things before I had to leave. And now everything pretty much looks the same, your slippery smile, my deep eyes. The way we laugh, the words you don’t speak. If it weren’t for that ring and that passafire, I’d swear we were a few years back in time, before the car arrived, before the airplane took off on the horizon. Before. This limbo you call present, this home you call yours. I’m no husband, no father and yet this room in white feels like home.

The Wretched Affair of Forgetting

People go through such lengths to forget. So much hassle, just to scribble a name off a paper. I wonder if it works. This conscious effort to forget. I find we can feed our memory, but we can’t stop it from triggering upon a song, or an entertaining piece of news. In any case, oblivion is not what I intended for in the first place, at least on my behalf. In my eyes, forgetting is a despicable ordeal. And only a few horrible people are worthy of it. The ones who were once loved deserve a fond remembrance – daily, weekly or monthly, who’s to say? –, a smile and a far off gaze.

Grain Upon Grain

Such an appalling creature, this tiny old man. His beastly body can barely contain itself in his black shirt. The contents of his pockets show through the jeans as he stands up, bewildered. He has the face of a mask and the eyebrows of  the mad. Shrewd little man, conjuring his words, pretending to be the Messiahs. He talks about the truth as if it were his. His bald head is connected to his shoulders, the neck being composed of two or three wide wrinkles and he lusts for destruction – you can see it too, just look at his eyes flickering – and bangs on the table with his fists. “I cannot change you”, he says, “but death and disease are already working their way inside you.” He laughs, pounds on his chest, sits, tilts his head slightly and looks at the floor, gravely. The devil may care.

Midnight’s cove.

Longing doesn’t make for very good writing. A life on hold, a luke warm existence…there is so little to be told. Our clock handles are going at a different pace: I lay here so small and wonder how long ’till midnight.

Spring is not far

I came back from the war wide-eyed, longing for those open curtains and bringing you an umbrella. [always an m before a b]. The umbrella is for the sun, since it seldom rains; I’ve seen girls using them – none as pretty as you. Whether your freckles have waited or not is beyond me, so few were the letters you wrote. I’ve decided then…if you deny me entry, I’ll turn the umbrella upside down and make it into a big nest.

You walk with your feet so lightly

Two warm faces in the middle of the void. The floor above me jitters in unknown lust. Apartment buildings helping voyeur men. A moth on the screen and an empty side of the bed. Boredom has become me. And the nostalgia of skin. But before I turn to ancillary feelings, I must let you know. You are to come back with your love whole.

Little Candy Pants

I can’t quite put my finger on it. I never saw it coming; the cotton shoes, the little shirts and those squeaky noises. I picture you alone in your house, your hands re-discovering your body and your mind not being allowed to wander off into darker places. Your head drops down between your knees while you breath gently, taking large gulps of air, so that time wears down faster. You, that never crouched before expecations, are now expecting. That is enough to make me go off for a long walk. If I could be there with you to believe that you’re sure, to know that you won’t regret leaving this world behind… maybe I wouldn’t be here lying aimlessly into the night, looking for someone to leap on, to crumble on. I am desperate for you. Pictures flash through my head and I can’t make the connection. It’s no logical connection to make. But then I imagine you on a hammock by the beach, your hair held up with a multi-coloured scarf, eating away at a banana pancake with a little smile next to you, producing little snores. I wish I could be a part of it. I would sit nearby, reading a book – having just arrived home from work – and I would stroke your hair, grab the guitar and put you in my tongue-ties. All the pretty things, they are so hard to say.

How The West Was Won

We break and we break in an incessant flow of thoughts. Crumble by day, crawl back by night and fight the plight of invisible men. We’re often inclined to borrow somebody’s dream till tomorrow and wear looking glass ties. We strike a blow for freedom every now and then. I hate it but I love it. I hate it but I love it. I hate it but I love it. I’m loving it. Now get on your knees and bark like a dog. ABSOLUT NOTHINGNESS. Hello, HAL do you read me, HAL? My instructor was Mr. Langley, and he taught me to sing a song. A point to ponder? Make individuality history! At home we’re all tourists. Concerned but powerless. We don’t cry in public (although occasionally in good movies) but still kiss with saliva. Choose life. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Be excited, be, be excited! We got a winner! Juice by Sara! Juice by Sara! No point mentioning the bats. We are all wired into a survival trip now. Girlfriend in a coma, I know, it’s serious. It brings out idleness. And the importance of being idle. We never understood the essential old-mystic fallacy of the Acid Culture: the desperate assumption that somebody… or at least some force is tending the light at the end of the tunnel. But we’re sick enough to be totally confident. The deflated life style is our couch. And it’s only three bucks a hit. Or it used to be anyway. Don’t drink all the coke! And don’t leave home without it! Gillette Razor Blades prevent the perpetuation of the species. I cut. You cut. He cuts. In a thousand years, there will be no men and women, just wankers, and that’s fine by me. Because I’m worth it. And because my blood can sing. Soothing music. Tomato soup, ten tins of. Mushroom soup, eight tins of, for consumption cold. Ice cream, vanilla, one large tub of. Magnesia, milk of, one bottle. Paracetamol, mouthwash, vitamins. Mineral water, Lucozade, pornography. One mattress. One bucket for urine, one for faeces and one for vomit. One television and one bottle of Valium. Living like this is a full time business. See how they smile like pigs in sty? I hate it but I love it. I hate it but I love it. What if a dawn of doom of a dream bites the universe in two? Doesn’t matter. People with handguns are fun. Almost worth a grin. Keep walking. All the phoneys are doing it. Just do it. Ignorance is strength. Fitter happier. O Grave New World! Orgy-porgy, Ford and fun, Kiss the girls and make them One. Boys at one with girls at peace; Orgy-porgy gives release. Not everything is puddle-wonderful and it’s all a matter of cause and effect. The antidote for civilization still lurks around, watching for pigs on the wing. Apocalypse Now! And trust me, when the moment comes, it will be a Kodak moment.