Category Archives: thought wanders

by

sweet nothings

1
On deck the man is cradling a large fish for the camera; its silver skin flows lightly over heavy hands. He talks about the fish, admires form and muscled ocean-art. The fish is calm, moves like it’s breathing. He extends one curving gill, careful with the structure raised now like a wing about to catch the wind. Arced like a wave about to fall. The fish is breathing, drowning gracefully.

2
There is no space for me in yours. Not really, not even in imagination’s optimistic scanning of the broken clutter. Headless gothic lamps support two dolls and pictures of your love, lost in suicide. Your morphine tablets lie, scattered seed at her goddess feet. Her dainty feet, bare and fading, behind dusty glass. She stands alone for the camera. Her gaze is always to the right of you, no matter where you stand. No matter where I stand. No contact with the past,  just the constant thought of it. You talk about her carefully. Admire her nature, note how her essence shone when you took away the colours that she loved to wear. She never needed them to be beautiful, you crow. I am flowing from your hands, trying to remember why I will not meet your eye, why I hold my breath when it seems that you might speak.

by

so-me-thing-k

rejecting thought when it gets to ego’s dissipation
you’re all for the swallowing of mine instead
(no-one gets to own that flow … )

and wail, ” but I won’t be Me …”
in the hook and sinker of imprinted water
what would you have me say about that wave?

by

sound offer

omg – i just recorded two poems for you to listen to, if you’d like to hear my wonky voice *grin .. no rehearsals, just as is … i’m using sound upload for now as i’m still in shock that i did this.

it’s a bit of a clonky process and you’ll need to click back to here after listening or do that “open in new tab” thing …

if you have comments would you put them here?

i don’t intend to use sound upload as a place to talk though there is a comment box there … it’s just a temporary place!

sooo, i’ve tried light entertainment & unnameable

by

nothings #7

On the wall a shimmer hints of motion, teases still. Scarlet woman then but sanguine now, i splice acquiescent moon – to hang your shadow, maybe, in the empty space. All those missing moments, shades that clouded night, they are suspended now – aimless and immobile. In epicentric heave a lightning snap delivers life from death. Motion soothes an ache of time so my back is still against the wall.

by

beached

I’d never seen lightning in the clouds quite like that. It spoke of me. Maybe even came from me. Don’t ask me how I knew. It just was. I felt it rise in veins already bursting on the beach of someone not yet met. You were already drowned in sand. An abyss of my contempt. Your ignorance of nature and my essence was appalling. Lightning held my time in trust until I claimed it back. You thought that it was ours. You were wrong.

by

glimpse

 

Palm-tied to earth I love wings, cruising low so easily to accept golden seed from my fault-lines. Is my heart devoid of altitude, cauterized too often to feel anything but the blasted past of pain? No. Sky-seed’s in all veins. We’re rising beyond monochrome. The birds and I. You?

by

nothings #2

 

They think you’re dead. Dust on the ocean. Fish food now.

Dead has four letters, one repeat so three. And dea isn’t a word in English so it’s incomplete or something else. A prelude maybe.

Always has six letters, one repeat so five. Not counting decades of linguistic change – they change numbers and geometry. All wayes. Not even just one word, hey?

Then there’s the big bad book. Now that nails mind and perspective to a fishing rod destined to stay empty. Some bait, huh? Do fish count the days to their next meal?

Forget the words and numbers.
Everything is lost if translation lacks a heart.

You don’t have to try that hard to see a full moon all the time no matter what the quadrant says.

By the way, life has four letters. No repeats. Soul food for the gods?

by

muse-in

Muse is painful rapture. She or he or them. In you. Such depths of being lost in freefall are beyond lustful word cages which lean towards authority. It may or may be not your soul, a higher self or something Jung connected. Hot achilles’ heel of Freud’s womb-fetish. It’s fully, truly immaterial. It really is.

When the air is heaving, breathing right back at you, when it seems that something’s going to happen and you’ve no clue what it is, only that it’s way beyond even wishing to control, then Muse is present. So you give, no, surrender all – and expect nothing.

Can you expect nothing?

It’s like watching a gorgeous map illuminate onscreen at an alarming rate. Or that media player, describing tone in motioned colour. You’re a stunned witness and suddenly you know that you are a dark screen for creation.

On your perfect empty space energies connect, split open, multiply.

This is pre-word still in thought. It’s a different language here and words slow you down. So you tinker with a keyboard or a pen just so you don’t get in the way. Sometimes words fall, accidentally it seems, from the wake of neuron fire. You rush to gather them. These are the ones you treasure, nurture later, but not now because you might miss something on the screen and it’s compulsive viewing.

If you can, remember everything. Accept that you won’t. Know that you’ll mourn each loss, forever feel the trace of where each fire snaked through nerve and then left.

Muse journeys are so-willed yet always unprepared for. It’s not like you anticipate stepping out naked on a multi-laned highway in midnight’s rushing hour – but here you are. Hoping that you’ll never be the same again. Wishing you could stay forever because here is real. With its feet up on your ego while its cigarette is burning through your nightgown. And you don’t care about that. Even if it hurts. Even when it hurts. Only that it’s so.

And the voices say “this way” all at once. You can’t ask them to slow down, though you try. They don’t like that much. You can’t ask what they mean, you’ve only got a hair’s breadth of their language, a series of unfolding lightwaves not a structure. Don’t even think about it in those terms because here’s a vastness strong enough to dissolve rather than dilute essence. Give it yours.

Later, when you’re picking up the pieces of your self, it’s a comfort that the muse’s claw stuck purposefully in your heart cannot be dislodged.

Beloved token. Mystery. In You. Again.

by

unsaying …

Did I lose you in the silence after shouting? That other night. When I drank too much. Assumed too much. Deluded self importance.

If I wasn’t quite so hopeful that you might be my last, it would be hilarious. How I push you for a sign that I am. Deeply precious. More than a distant and intriguing brainwavespark in this messed-up ether. How I could ever have seen myself as some kind of guiding light for Love when I screw up so much. Time and again. How I am so dazzled and in dream. In you.

Can I unsend the email?

winespill3.jpg