So of course I was hoping there would be a minor acceleration through time and she would bear a hybrid zombie child just loaded with antibodies and everyone would be saved all over again by the child doomed to suffer and die. And my hope was sterile and regurgitated. Christ.
Showing posts with label Blast. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Blast. Show all posts
Plash
Without joy, mild merriment sure but no joy no redemption. I hate those kinds of weekends where newspapers keep time and coffee making keeps time and the socks just stay wherever you put them and people come and go and open their pipes and pour words out. I might watch them make puddles on the ground and walk around wishing for some other course of action or maybe I'll pour a puddle of my own half-hoping somebody steps in it and feels a cold rush in one foot, maybe looks up or around or behind or down or asks "What is this doing here?".
Wenceslas
I felt like Mrs Dalloway, or Clarissa Vaughn echoing fictionally around on her way to a dying poet with fistfuls of flowers. I went to steal them from gardens but street after street bore nothing but concrete and the bare bulb-ended green things that play flowers in the hot parts of the year. I think its OK to pay for flowers when the poet isn't dying faster than anyone else so I counted out ten gold coins while the cashier held out half an impatient hand.
Five days ago my father bellowed out words like, strident, abusive, arrogant and smirked while my aged aunt thrust both arms back into memory for the right word. 'Bohemian', she said. They called me bohemian, all those relatives in formal dress. I told Spencer and we scoffed over coffee. I'm the least bohemian person I know, here, in the new town, where I have burrowed out a cave room and set a fire in the corner. There are proper curtains and thread counts and cupboard complete with cups.
Some of the others here still drink whiskey out of jars and play the same crackling old records Joe Lynch might have listened to, if he had the money. Now of course there are crates of them on corners every Saturday morning.
I didn't come here to study them, to take down hasty notes in dark corners while they rollick across perfectly stationary floors. I came here unwillingly, rudder locked eastward, anchor gone screaming into the night. I came here in cardboard boxes and settled heavily into daily clockwork risings, for money, only for the money. The notes started small and scrawling, mystifying untranslated rubbings across self-erected tombs of the wildly living. But they have grown.
Walking across a whole morning with the single purpose of flowers information came to me. Neighbours appeared at my gate on the telephone to Marianne Faithfull, lay down chapters of books for my magazine, the radio spoke with the voice of real friends, in song and story. Two people left for Spain with guitars and tour dates, Spencer and I spoke about which shirt he should wear in Paris. I said purple, he said he'd wear whatever he liked but the point was he's leaving for another overseas tour. The point is I'm sitting in my window looking out where the snow would fall if the world ever flipped and we had a chance at crisp and even.
Five days ago my father bellowed out words like, strident, abusive, arrogant and smirked while my aged aunt thrust both arms back into memory for the right word. 'Bohemian', she said. They called me bohemian, all those relatives in formal dress. I told Spencer and we scoffed over coffee. I'm the least bohemian person I know, here, in the new town, where I have burrowed out a cave room and set a fire in the corner. There are proper curtains and thread counts and cupboard complete with cups.
Some of the others here still drink whiskey out of jars and play the same crackling old records Joe Lynch might have listened to, if he had the money. Now of course there are crates of them on corners every Saturday morning.
I didn't come here to study them, to take down hasty notes in dark corners while they rollick across perfectly stationary floors. I came here unwillingly, rudder locked eastward, anchor gone screaming into the night. I came here in cardboard boxes and settled heavily into daily clockwork risings, for money, only for the money. The notes started small and scrawling, mystifying untranslated rubbings across self-erected tombs of the wildly living. But they have grown.
Walking across a whole morning with the single purpose of flowers information came to me. Neighbours appeared at my gate on the telephone to Marianne Faithfull, lay down chapters of books for my magazine, the radio spoke with the voice of real friends, in song and story. Two people left for Spain with guitars and tour dates, Spencer and I spoke about which shirt he should wear in Paris. I said purple, he said he'd wear whatever he liked but the point was he's leaving for another overseas tour. The point is I'm sitting in my window looking out where the snow would fall if the world ever flipped and we had a chance at crisp and even.
Now I'm fucked
Somebody put a mountain range inside my head. I should have fallen over when the geography moved underneath me but as usual I sat on the edge of the bed and pondered.
Storage solutions will solve only the problem of storage
I have become confused by furniture. All of these years I have simply pushed around cupboards and drawers with all-day Tetris intent. It has never failed, not until three days after my most recent attempt. This time I have bruised all of my fingers and quite a high proportion of my toes, my record player described a perfect arc before landing upside down and in pieces. The very end of my bed has demonstrated why knots in wood become vulnerable points for anything and my typewriter will not come out of its case. There is one thing I have not moved but only because other people wear pajamas, this will make more sense in less than a minute.
It is quite difficult, I think, to enter into a whiskey-fueled state of rage and typing when I live somewhere called The Peach and when The Peach is populated by people who come home from working, cook food in the kitchen and wear pajamas in the most normal of ways. This is why the bottle of whiskey has not moved from where I placed it three weeks ago. I suspect most people would not like to enter into a whiskey-fueled state of rage and typing but by my calculations I make up only one 6,830,586,985th of most people, this is a startling figure, I should commence cloning operations at once. Statistics have never been my strong point but I feel certain if there was more than one of me it would be easier to throw pajamas to the wind and rage with whiskey and typewriters all through the night.
It is quite difficult, I think, to enter into a whiskey-fueled state of rage and typing when I live somewhere called The Peach and when The Peach is populated by people who come home from working, cook food in the kitchen and wear pajamas in the most normal of ways. This is why the bottle of whiskey has not moved from where I placed it three weeks ago. I suspect most people would not like to enter into a whiskey-fueled state of rage and typing but by my calculations I make up only one 6,830,586,985th of most people, this is a startling figure, I should commence cloning operations at once. Statistics have never been my strong point but I feel certain if there was more than one of me it would be easier to throw pajamas to the wind and rage with whiskey and typewriters all through the night.
No call no show or dawn raising revolution without the need for a change of clothes
I'm taking this day prisoner, without consent. So much bound in the idea of asking, lunging only after a tipping downwards of the chin before raising it up again. I have grown weary with always waiting, harvesting courage with stupid intent for the asking. I will sit here in these pants and do as I will without wonder at the turning of courage into invasion. In the same way I'll take all the new kinds of acquired wisdom about toothpaste and the stupid kind of love being nonetheless a kind of love and run with them and three of my best pairs of scissors.
The dramatic failure of my newspaper remedy came as something of a shock
He is a tall problem with teeth and hands but he conducts himself with grace.
Turn your snare off
If it's a clay shape then I don't want it, not even if you pushed it into being with aching fingers. Hold out your hands for the cold and moist lump, fold your fingers around the heavy weight and walk silently away.
Better run through the jungle
Today the idea of him has the hit and stick of napalm but tomorrow I plan on wearing a fireproof suit.
And her coat's a second hand one
I like the open hole of possibility, the gap tooth in a terrace row showing horizon where yesterday stood only billboards. She said make a ritual, knock thrice upon something to tell yourself that you're going to bed. I told her I wasn't having any trouble sleeping. I am fond of the unexpected. She advised sleep hygiene nonetheless, leaning forwards and offering templates of ritual, blueprints of oblivion. Her chair swivels smoothly to the right but creaks and offers sudden variations in height when turned to the left. She asked what I did in the final moments of light and movement before the voluntary defeat against darkness. I answered with the destruction of architecture and the raising of eyes through places where buildings should be.
Travelogue II
The demons have changed their wigs and somebody changed the camera angle but if you look closely you can see that it's the same old village.
Sometimes I'll shoot like the farmers do
A little bird told me that you love me. I told that little bird that I don't really care.
Travelogue
I've been hauling this phrase around Australia. It describes everything. Flat, wide and blue.
Ms
I have lost all faith but this. It will hold blind corridors, scratches and evidence of fumbling and stumbles into beasts become tall and obvious, when someone turns the lights back on. It will be a small weight hauling down that folded obfuscation. In a corner to the left of my eye I will see something other than that sucking whirligig nothing. When I finish it three bricks will fall and my right arm will push through into something else. When I finish it bones and shattered things will need to be swept away.
When it is done I will pile its pages on the floor and step from them to the next thing, the weight of my step compressing it into sighing perspective. I will nail it to my wall next to the other diminishing monumental things drying like flowers upside down and curious. The second one will rise with the yeast of the first.
When it is done I will pile its pages on the floor and step from them to the next thing, the weight of my step compressing it into sighing perspective. I will nail it to my wall next to the other diminishing monumental things drying like flowers upside down and curious. The second one will rise with the yeast of the first.
Phoenixing
It should come on wings. Or should it have wings? This is what happens when the edit switch turns off. It should fly in welcome as chocolate cake or hail but I want it to come unbidden and wild as a horse. I want the edges cut off and nothing but meaning to remain. This is why I eat wedding cake icing. The same old problem tempts one to keep a zombie in the garden shed. It can't remember but my face remains the same.
Scurf
A woman carving fat meat out of the moon with her knife until it was nothing but moon rind. I had forgotten that idea until a distinct lack of adequate lighting caused in me something like a squint. I had wanted a bath but I'm stuck in the memory house where there was none. It used to be the palest green and on from there its all black letters and backlit screens. I find I have been waiting for that random descent but it is work like everything with elbows and my left shoulder blade.
Bring the outdoors in
It really looked a lot like Jesus laying flat on its back with arms spread out in a cruciform. I didn't notice its missing hind legs or the bloodless absence of tail until my eyes slid over its shining belly and I had bent in supplication to collect it in my gloved hands.
It may as well have died for me, this small thing shining and wracked on the floor. You could throw yourself from heights in an attempt to save me, record it in books and I'll file it alphabetically at the end of each day, the a's and b's together on the highest shelf.
Eight hours a day have been stolen, five days a week I wait for the evening or weekend. This nine to five numbness remains despite the freedom to do as I please. I find nothing works in these ghost hours except the cat on her new found path of destruction dragging the outside in. I'm not yet lost but turn constantly to look for the ballast and find nothing. Cacoethes hangs in corners. I will cover it with cloth.
It may as well have died for me, this small thing shining and wracked on the floor. You could throw yourself from heights in an attempt to save me, record it in books and I'll file it alphabetically at the end of each day, the a's and b's together on the highest shelf.
Eight hours a day have been stolen, five days a week I wait for the evening or weekend. This nine to five numbness remains despite the freedom to do as I please. I find nothing works in these ghost hours except the cat on her new found path of destruction dragging the outside in. I'm not yet lost but turn constantly to look for the ballast and find nothing. Cacoethes hangs in corners. I will cover it with cloth.
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