unbelivable period..

le fil

there is a thread everywhere.
it runs symmetrically with everything beautiful, everything sad, everything obscure, everything! between you and me, between the tree and your blouse.
if i have a thread, it runs sub/unconsciously, i interpret this thread as the senselessness of my existence. in which i tangle. in which i came to live with and in which i can begin cherishing it's presence.
and in this linear, i tangle it up, i try different knots and different outlets/accesses. because this linear gives form to enable contents.
it runs like a melody over a base-tune, this thread of mine.



Camille performing Assise live.

is it a dream?

and the cruel realities,
i desire the stage-up
flocking unrealities
on your kissing lips

love song (switching off) from cast of thousands.

Last of the men in hats hops off the coil
And a final scene unfolds inside
Deep in the rain of sparks behind his brow
Is a part replayed from a perfect day
Teaching her how to whistle like a boy
Love’s first blush


Is this making sense?
What am I trying to say?
Early evening June
This room and a radio play
This I need to save
I choose my final thoughts today
Switching off with you

All the clocks give in
And the traffic fades
And the insects like a neon choir
The instant fizz
Connection made
And the curtains sigh
In time
With you


You, the only sense the world has ever made
Early evening June
This room and radio play
This I need to save
I choose my final scene today
Switching off

Ran to ground for a while there
But I came off pretty well


You, the only sense the world has ever made
This I need to save
A simple trinket locked away
I choose my final scene today
Switching off with you

how subtility fuses with genuineness
bravo Elbow!

american nature poetry

expressions of the underlying cultural concern?

snippets:

RIPRAP

Lay down these words
Before your mind like rocks.
placed solid, by hands
In choice of place, set
Before the body of the mind
in space and time:
Solidity of bark, leaf, or wall
riprap of things:
Cobble of milky way,
straying planets,
These poems, people,
lost ponies with
Dragging saddles

(...)

Gary Snyder (*1930)

or,

Rock and Hawk

Here is a symbol in which
Many high tragic thoughts
Watch their own eyes.

(...)

Life with calm death; the falcon's
Realist eyes and act
Married to the massive

Mysticism of stone,
Which failure cannot cast down
Nor success make proud.

Robinson Jeffers (1887-1962)

i have a new coat!

look at my new coat,
it looks chic, it looks elegant, nice cut, nice length
and my plan is to walk stylishly down the arcade feeling warm on a january weekend.
but the coat is too heavy for the weather?
does that mean anything?
yes it means something doesnt it?
why is it so warm? aren't we in january?
what is wrong?
something stirs inside me, something about to burst under me?
look at what we have done, i was being told in a dream
we should really, i mean it, really change something.
maybe its too late to save the future, but its not too late to change, or is it?

i regret not being able to express myself more intelligently to this matter. but there is already enough information lying around.

art-life or the portrait of art as alive

tentatively titled. but it's not going to be even an attempt. because i suspect somehow that the muses opted for silence against those deafening roars of prophets, which prophets?
is it time? and are we dry? i ask myself. are we all that we used to be? every breath a new reaction, every consumption a new reaction, every thought a new breathless comsumption.
figurative speech of a distortive reality. this is.
if the sky cleared, would our eyesight improve, or something else? would you take my magenta for purpur red? which is red? your pulse beating behind the tissues of unspoken desires.
i like speeches. every word uttered a metaphor of us, think about it again, of US. of the perhaps desirable pure intentions, emotions, distorted. listen to me 'laughs'.

written before the turn of the century, green me, olive fresh. again another intention. stopped abruptly.

not much of a secret that james joyce, especially ulysses never ceases to amaze me. the equation nonetheless is of one of perplexity. a meandering plot with no goal, inutterable puzzling sentences which no library holds, grandiose layering of onions.
the poet, the utterer of questions, provider of alternatives, deep waters of the catacomb a sanctuary against the waves for albatross, noble wild. if he raises his hand to cover his halo, let me sigh in envy.
tell me more please. because this is about learning, about those things.

we have fallen into the manhole