this is not finished, but i wanted to post something. i don't know why. come back in a couple od days, i'll tray to complete it.
Nebulous stanchions, expansions and contractions, heart-sighs and starbeams
Heart-speared and swooning, stuck with arrows and moonspears,
Breathing the blissful air, agonies of bliss, starfields, plains and prairies of the mind.
The open spaces, the expanses, immensities and prodigies, dark, compacted infinity.
Firey nebulas, vales of terrible pleasures…
Tightrope, not treacherous, but hard, so hard…
Requiring almost superhuman efforts of concentration, of focus, of balance, of slow, deliberate movements, a strength that is supple and yielding, a courage that does not falter,
Crows circling the seminary,
Starbeams and snowflakes, a thousand tiny deaths.
Light which is white and cold. Quite pitiless. A brilliant fire that burns with a cold light.
Circuitry. Symmetry. Cemetery.
In thick, dark night
Crepuscular mountain, crabbed and sinewy, between rocks, trees, crabbed and sinewy, dwarfed, limbs tormented, twisted and deformed, forced into contortions, underwind, clinging to rockface…
Willows stroke your face
Light pours through the holes in the skull.
Lust-led, and possessed
Borne along on swollen rivers
Grandiloquent and casually dishonest.
Blank fathoms. Compressed air.
Thick and suffocating silence.
A feeling of gravity having increased, the limbs feel heavier, the body fatigued. A smaller store of energy from which to draw.
Muttered insults, coded insults
The insult, the taunt, the attitude of contempt and disgust, the dismissal, disapproval
Coded into small talk, a subtext of hidden meanings, the id of any conversation
Cruel, barbed and violent, hissing and scratching beneath the surface of small talk…
Paranoia tunnels. Doubt tunnels. Cave complexes of fears and social anxieties.
Emeraldine meadows, and streams bell-like
Woozy pastures, trysts in long yellow grass, a playful kiss beneath a tree, and run, together, to crest the green hill.
Happyville! We made it! And hand in hand,
walk through streets in early evening, when everything is peaceful, and the setting sun spreads silken veils across the sky and cats lie on the porches and draw in the last rays of the sun, and the shopekeepers are shutting their shops and the mothers call playing children from in off the street and think
maybe we could live here, you and I. Maybe we could find a home in happiness.
Time, a trickle of treacle.
Eye in the hand.
Lights in the sky
A millstream. Tombola. Old women in coloured tights.
Betwixt hell and heaven, not deserving of either.
Strange attractor, broiling sea
Grotto of expansions and contractions.
Fleshpot. Bilious vice.
A stormer of fortresses. Dark-centered explosions.
Lust led him by the nose, an accomplice, and willing too
Aiding and abetting.
Adrift on a strange ocean. Or pond in municipal park.
Swamp of illusions. Fervid hopes and fears both, casting strange figures against the sky.
Arabesques and curlicues. Minatory engines. Sound of thunder and angels.
Spinning madalas. The opening lotus. Peacock. Eagle. Owl.
Flowering turbines. Wheels turning. Aspin. Horrifying wheel.
coral. minarets. smog.
Don’t betray the desire.
Here, the great dining hall. Hall of cobwebs and dim chandeliers. Grotesque statuary. Suits of oppressive armour.
Banquets of medlars and wax fruit.
A cold wind stumbles through the room like a drunk, knocking objects from the table.
Fog rises in the dining hall. Silver candlesticks rise from the fog. The mounted head of a stag looks out over the fog.
Here, the great dining hall.
Hall of cobwebs and dim chandeliers. Grotesque statuary. A wall lined with a guard of empty armour. Suits of armour held up by metal rods. Silver which needs polishing.
Grim-faced ancestors stare down from their portraits on panelled oak walls. In judgement. In condemnation.
Banquets of medlars, snuff and wax fruit. A ghost sits silently in the corner.
A cold wind stumbles through the room like a drunk, knocking objects from the table, disturbing the bats.
Fog rises in the dining hall. Silver, moonlike in the fog.
The mounted head of a stag looks out over the fog. Two glass eyes.
Two mice, giddy with love, run and leap, parting and rejoining, hide and seek, skidding on marble, tiny paws on marble floors, scrabbling for grip.
And furniture burns in the fireplace. Things are not as they were.
Fire on Moon Beach. Orange star-embers fading on black sand sky.
Sump of illusion.
Generous bequests to provincial museums.
Portraits of honoraries and dignitaries, lumps of flint and rusted metal, candelabra and chamber pots, fishing rods, tapestries and washing-boards, snake skin shoes and crocodile teeth, tribal masks, shrunken heads, ten-galleon hats, prayer mats, Persian rugs and comic books, blown glass and cobblestones, wishbones, penny whistles, memories of telly shows, humbugs, black jacks and acid drops, yo-yos and bottle tops, skipping ropes and porno mags, Tupperware, chemistry sets, transistor radios and plastic bags, Polaroid cameras, stuffed hares, foxes, badgers, stoats, weasels and birds, juicers, ice-cream makers, asparagus steamers, butterflies pinned to chipboard, the recordings of dead pop stars, belt buckles, sovereign rings, charm bracelets and amulets, duvet covers and tea cosies, coffee tables and ironing boards, brilliantine, cut throat razors, football programmes and Ovaltine, sickles, thimbles, bridles and spurs, tinderboxes and cereal boxes, phonebooks, darts trophies and tea-chests, old coins and bits of lint. Memories in matter. Things which no longer exist.
Blind swarming terror.
Keening ice. The sound of icebergs clashing and splintering.
A descent into polar caverns. Pillars, bridges and arches of ice. Lifeless, unable to support life.
Floating, a frozen music, ice chimes and polar winds, grief of great beauty, aching, beauties which do not belong to us, music not for our ears. Beauty of eternities and the communications of stars, migrating winds, glaciers and of all those who die too young.
Trains of Bedouins.
Legal secretaries in pencil skirts.
Ice age, Venerable Icybeard.
Heart- stone entangled by ivy, like a gravestone.
Frost in his beard and eyelashes.
Twinkling streets. Dusky. Heartsore.
Walk, through the noise of traffic and drunkenness, in a tunnel of silence.
Lights twinkle. Women with kind faces. Faces which give comfort. A kindness in their bearing. Making coffee in the café perhaps, or just passing in the street.
Or intercepting a smile meant for someone else, and feeling sad, that it wasn’t meant for you, and guilty for having stolen it.
Lillys in a robe of dewy vapour.
rows of cages, rows of eyes.
posted by Luke 4:49 PM