typewritten and nonsensical

Sun is a figment now, the colour of horizon muted. 

You contemplate only that which you can tolerate, which is, to say,

barely a handful less than refusal. 

Dust migrates across every backward glance. 

Skin getting sticky from fossilisation. 

Kites are suspended mid-air.

Don't try to chase yourself back in echoes

in search of sweet nothings and guitar chords.

You'll only find old promises, emptied,

in Volvos and lecture halls and hospital wards. 

Doing electronic poetry with my own words.

Imagery on the brain

- a well-made metaphor balancing precariously on the rooftop above a cortex
- asymmetry; namely, a piece of abstract art in a rectangular gilded frame, depicting three oranges in a disarray on a crumpled hectic tablecloth
- angry black stars twinkling ferociously in the periphery
- faces, sleeping or watching quietly from every direction, eyes following from the bookcase, the desk, even the blank walls
- the one clam that was not as happy as a clam is supposed to be
- a philosophy problem demanding to know if anyone saw you fall, with its broad chest, and nobody hears

It's never unwise to rhapsodise. You'll be fine with William Nein.

WilliamNein.com: Friday, 20th June 2014

Memory tanks filled up ban...:





We made up the final of his stanzas together. My version, if I remember correctly, goes along the lines of (and if I don't remember correctly then I make up as I go along)-



A war's on, a war zone,

In awe of wars.

Wars with oars.

In awe of oars

and our wars.

Walls with oars.

Orson Wells.

Our son's well.

In awe of Orson

and oars and wells.

We are swell.

Our swell wars.

Alls well that ends

well? All wars end.

We send oars

in awe. Swell.

War's on, well off.



Swell poem.

in awe. Click publish

and send.

Edie and Andy

Exhaust, repeat.
If time could tell,
it would tell you that it can heal
but it can't mend distance
and that only your own anchors will put you in the moment
or thinking back when or waiting until then.

A succinct epilogue, a certain afterthought that ends
as he plucks a rusty chord on his guitar and
lets the song beat at the shore of memory again and again
until he forgets

her hands, waltzing with conversation and shaken
by day, light illuminating an avalanche of dust
in the glass attic where she keeps her thoughts, a word ocean,
tidal waves, little earthquakes,
erupting into laughter
and the tabletop trembles with her hands

over into a future he has thought out so fully
that every autumn will feel familiar with its creases,
all the pages will be dog-eared, and no one will have to see
his face when he cannot hide it being fearful,
fear being full of surprises,
for when he is surprised he is only frightened

of another mistake made
sandcastles that crumble every now and then
but tumbling walls mean momentarily everywhere-view
and chances to build turrets up from the ground
and see it again as if new

walls of sand, which becomes glass, which becomes windows,
and walls are windows, and through the ways we construct ourselves
we can see inside to all the corridors and chambers
that open and close like our eyes and mouths and heart valves
and willingness to
the uncertain epilogues we can't predict
and choose not to exhaust.

Exhaust, repeat.
It comes in waves, whether it be
to mend destroy. Emotion,
a cracked smile, a bruised knee.

heart // window
& you looked inside to see the trees of glass
& stretching
& blooming
& breaking, splinters inside, where blood
& light move around, all vibrant hums, shaking fragile walls
& fracturing beams from the sun into thousands of small rainbows
& the rain clouds crowded around the window
& you saw yourself past the blossom
& heartbeats right beside me
& maybe you are really far away
& maybe clouds are so close together the sky looks gray
& you come in from the greenhouse, say goodnight,
& take my pulse, always my kindest bedfellow
& there are better ways to leave than through the skylight
or the heart / window.

Words I try to live by:
give second-third-fourth chances, something good will come of all things yet,
forgive others for your own sins and forgive but don't forget.

Past the sleeping rooftops and rattled railway stations and 

simmering summer wind that lies low over the grasses, 

throwing gold seeds to the bees, 

an elderly man sits on the deck of his barge,

cleaning calligraphy brushes

and watching ducks on the canal,

circling. 

Poems for my friend

He is a cup of tea, half a spoon’s worth of sugar, no milk
He is blue eyes, green eyes, brown eyes, gold eyes (he changes with the light)
He is Newton’s law and all the questions to doubt all laws
He is faith in you when you left yours somewhere behind
He is the slice of pie that you saved for later
He is the friendly stranger
who suddenly was there before the afterthought
who suddenly was a year long travel pass
who suddenly was a permanent host to your neuroses
who suddenly was a confidante above all others
and suddenly you can’t remember whether it’s because he forgot to say goodbye or you forgot to leave.
He is the last reason to stay.

James and Daisy, contrasted

He is the whisper of feet against varnish,
the polished floor, so clean you can see yourself mirrored in it,
clear and familiar.
i am the sound that is stuck in your head like a brain itch-
you can’t figure out what it is, it could be incomprehensible
but really it’s only the noise fabric makes as it falls apart,
gently, thread by thread.

i am the second stumble
that comes after the first fall,
just when you think you’ve righted yourself, you topple again.
He is the hand that extends
to grab yours and keep you
from going face first, and will steady you until you fall another time.

I am the innumerable trips you take when you are finding your feet.
He is the pair of shoes taken off and placed beside the front door.

I am lost somewhere between check-out and the departure lounge.
He is at the arrivals gate.

He is numbers and equations and semantics and answers.
I am words and punctuation and pedantics and questions.

He is doubt and wariness and surety.
I am always wavering, between faith and nothingness.
We are both confused.

Logopoetics

In fields, sounds of gospel preached by Barnabas 

and coins swapping hands,

sadly all ending in stoning, 

and I notice how afraid my tongue has become 

that I will turn into a prevaricator. 

It is around 23 degrees and mostly sunny 

and while 500,000 people escape an Iraqi city

the plates and forks are stacking up outside the kitchen, 

adding clutter.

Nevermind the fact that I know who I was when

I got up this morning, but I think I must have

been changed several times since then.

We can rest absolutely assured that the moon 

ate its own smile last night in spite of itself.

In Washington DC, circulation of traffic 

mirrors the American citizen bloodflow.

I ought not to be drinking this icy mixture, 

but rum and berry juice at dawn blends well with sleepless.

As time goes on, we'll look back on this and smile

as the coins in our bags, 

chiming and falling to the ground,

are spinning on

new 

stepping 

stones. 

Found scribbles I

I found this scribbled in the little book James gave me for Christmas. 

Straightened spines, unraveling un-straightened lines
that string-us-along-so-
just stop and break
                              it
                                 down-
                    fold it neatly
(just like mother taught me)
it's life's dirty laundry
(that was an aside)
      the rest is left for you to hide in memory
          or for the housekeeper,
so easy to forget mess you make
         (or the hiding places you give it)-
we never did clean it
and if I said I tried, I didn't mean it
and if you did, you too lied
          until the dirt just got in deeper
inside, invisible mess,
un-straight and too late
       now nobody but you and me
                               have ever seen it.

gingerly

hyperbole, disorderly

personally

scribbly

knobbly, wobbly

terribly

trembly

grumbly

meekly, weakly

atypically, empathetically

madly, badly

fiddly, fixedly, concernedly, repeatedly, confusedly, unadvisedly

unreservedly

cowardly, inwardly

friendly

kindly, blindly

giggly, 

wholly, solely,

extremly,

untimely,

ungainly,

uncleanly,

keenly,

only, lonely,

potentiality,

punctuality, individality,

impracticality

abnormality

personality, 

irrationality

mentality, sentimentality

fragility, febrility, futility, infantility

probability, fallibility, gullibility, possibility, impossibility, irresponsisibility, suggestibility, unsuitability

liability, unreliability

frivolity, equality,

calamity, insanity,

peculiarity

irregularity

sincrrity, 

insecurity,  immaturity

verbosity, nebulosity

curiosity

bellicosity

generosity

densit, propensity

identity, 

proclivity, sensitivity, 

hyperactivity, reactivity 

flaky, shaky

erky, quirky,

tricky, panicky,

lucky

sciamachy

dinky

wonky

junkie

risky,

tardy,,

unsteady,

wordy,

needy, speedy, weedy

remedy, tragicomedy,

untidy

anybody

trusty, rusty

breathy, mothy

empathy,

unhealthy,

trustworthy, blameworthy

topsy-turvy,

uneasy, 

busy, dizzy

frowsy

whimsy

frenzy

crazy, hazy

  upsy-daisy  

Makin' T-shirts, makin' makin' t-shirts

(I have the bacon pancakes remix song stuck in my head, which has lent me a certain repetitive rhythm that is evident in my writing, in my, in my, in my writing).

I am back into making T-shirts again after a dry spell. My friend put this awesome thing together for me- it looks like an advert for Kerouacian t-shirts) 

Back to youtube/remixes, I have acquired another pointless skill aside from making t-shirts and that's being able to quite meticulously edit the audio from footage I take and put it together with other audio bits and pieces, basically like a big sound/voice/music jigsaw. Whether or not it has video accompaniment doesn't matter much but it's only really something that can be shared with a little movie to go with it if it's only silly. So, in praise of the clip I have of J and M talking vehemently about steaks, with such passion,, I decided to make a mix of music to show just how passionate they are about the tenderness of their meats). 

Don't wait.

The only warning I have to give is not to wait
until it's too late
to acknowledge what you have-
every fortune, every friend,
every summer afternoon-
because you never know
what is to come your way,
it's all transient and it will all end,
but not right now. You have today.
Just don't wait because too late has a habit
of coming too soon.

bitter sweet

There's a bittersweet taste to imagination when I think
about a conversation we might have
months ahead of now, when we've both had climbs and falls
(I'll probably have more the latter, overall)
and it will go along the lines that go like this-
I think about it sometimes / yeah, me too / I still have that book /
which book? / the one I borrowed / oh, yeah 
and I didn't throw away your toothbrush / me neither -
then maybe one of us will even say something along this line-
I won't forget the good times  
and the other of us will say the same and it won't be a lie -
I've met someone / me too / it was great seeing you /
definitely, we'll do something / yes, for sure -
but that might be a lie
and eventually the promise not to forget will break
as we grow up and grow different
and become people we never had any intention of becoming
but there will, maybe, be the rare nights,
the drunk nights or emotional nights or just nostalgic
we will remember with just the right amount
of bitter and sweet,
sadness and joy,
that we lit a spark, the kind that is rare
for a moment a while ago.

Two new little films- very different

To avoid boredom with the same old clips, put this new one together with an especially favourite long time-lapse shot of mine that lasted a lunchtime and goes in fast forward. And who doesn't love the Smiths? The second is the Poetry Project I've been working on now for over a year and has been going at snail's pace. Haven't been able to find many other willing readers (or those I have found have turned out to not be the most reliable- but I don't blame anyone but myself for the lethargy of this project. It's a hard thing to do, and not particularly inspiring as it sits, but will improve). 

Some new poems coming up later. Turns out there are some remedies to writer's block I hadn't considered. 

I was plucking at my eyelashes like they were petals

and snapping bones into uneven halves,

sharpened at the points where my fingers were crossed

only to look up 

and see a sky emptied of all stars.

All that wishful thinking (nothing but wishful, 

more superstition than cognition) 

grounded on 

absolutely

nothing. 

A video of a few great months at and around Union Wharf, a second home, cut up and pieced into a few minutes. Can't even begin to capture how much all this time has meant to me.