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The greyblack wastes feel different underfoot, than in the poem. Fractured metres jar the pace of a badly healed ankle. Beware now of darkness spoken, through a city veiled in colluding eyes. A face unknowingly recognised. Tracing itself into archives of self-evidence. In the light of failure, is the venture or the outcome more absurd? In dreams of familiar voices, we look for an echo of unfamiliar resemblance, a mirror-image to linger over.
Let blood be blood. Let it forge its own legacies by nourishing muscles into new movements, by priming lop-siped hemispheres for receptive imagination...
"Even at night,
a trace of sunlight hangs in the east.
Air creates an immobile, blue canticle."
… I still listen for a trace of Ingeborg — an apparition, disappeared into the walls long ago. I dream again and again of Emma's voice interlaced with music.
Killers were needed. And we heeded well the word of the old 'Homage': a siblinghood of equals thinking for themselves can become effective fighters just as quickly as newly-shaven heads can be broken and rebuilt into a troop of lethal boot-lickers. But it's not the time, it's the numbers. We're always too late to talk about time. The numbers subsume.
A few weeks ago I was concerned that I'd expressed my affection for one particular person too much. Now, tracking my uneven steps was the nagging certainty that I hadn't expressed it anything like enough. What cruel twist has you occasionally mistake a spectre of regret for a known presence approaching. Fate, we'd always said, was for us to imagine in the mind and make real in the world.
But again, it doesn't hold. If the only serious philosophical question really is suicide, then it's no longer solipsist — it's collective. What if the consensus is simply self-erasure? But then what is the integrity of a consensus reached under the influence of consumption. And the jagged terrain of all exploits kicks some into the hole before others. Until we all slide past the horizon, unable then to retrace our steps, to right any wrongs.
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2. |
Goodbye Black Sky
06:15
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Hell Is You, Yourself
03:24
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Carousel
02:37
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This Music Greets Death
01:30
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phase
randomize structure
amorphous
texture to withdraw
stems to grey
salvation tempting
intrinsic smell
touched by leather
wind through the skin
latency
rage
spill to capture
praise the cell
euphoria
climb higher
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Drying blood, becoming chalky like the red clay that models the human form… the conceit of tradition’s weight, the fallacy of one future sustained by it.
Sustaining until music greets the end, like that fabled light––a rhythm diminishing in tempo from seconds to minutes, days, months, years… into the indiscernible pattern of an immeasurable venture. A story-teller spoke of a second death, some short or long time after breathing stops: the last time your name is ever spoken. Maybe then, a first conception too, some long or short time before the zygote forms: the origination of whatever heritage and tradition will fuse with your worldly arrival.
Dried blood, becoming the red clay that models the son… the conceit of a man giving birth, the preposterousness of original sin.
A poet reassures us that the moment of death is not to be feared. It is the end of all sensation––it cannot itself be felt. Your mind pulls backwards rapidly.. Somebody calls out your name... greeting you. This is before you learn to speak for yourself––taking in your first breath of oxygen in air. And living itself is like your very first dream––shocking, unimaginable––before dreaming recedes, pooling in the cracks of the ground of being.
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