pit of sound

i fell into a pit of sound and hovered on vibration
the demons there they swooped around and shrieked their indignation
yet reckless i persuaded violently my integration
now heart and soul chew vibrant death and mull manipulation

In Hunger of Words

i have been at war with myself. something in me wants to quit; or else having now summited the pinnacle, scans the ganzfield horizon only to find an echo in the soul that whispers, "Is this it?" i am in want of meaning. i am in hunger of words. i crave a quiet cabin in a nook somewhere with paperbacks and pens and parchment and the effortless quiet that seeps in between the floorboards on frosty mornings while waiting for the kettle to boil.

we went walking to watch the roos go bounding at twilight. a man came stomping down the road toward us dressed all in black with a walking stick that seemed wrought, not found. a large hound, sleek and muscular and at ease with its own presence in the world trotted ahead to snuffle about in someone's yard. the man wore tight pants with a hooded jacket that looked suitable to the weather, which was growing cold in that way that the early days of autumn have. his hair had once been dark; was not yet grey. there was something Mediterranean about his features. olive skinned. weathered. angular. a long beard that was not unkempt, and grey-white-black, reflecting his hair. his eyes were dark; they did not shy away from us. there was recognition; travellers on the path. he greeted us, then whistled for the dog to come, which it did, in its own time. they slipped away into the crepuscular haze. i wanted to be him; hermit of the tarot. i craved what he had secured.

everyone finds their own way through, i suppose. what will be will be. how much longer am i to persist at this mirage? sometimes i feel as though the universe is poised upon me. egocentricism, probably. and yet...

will we, won't we. will we, won't we. will we... 

...it doesn't matter. it doesn't matter at all.

temper, temper, tempest

 Temper, temper, hold yourself

 

    Your heart

    It quivers

 

The soft, downy fur 

of a calf, bare

against the wet 

& hidden damp 

of late night

Spring,

Storm receding

        or rolling in

 

Caught between 

one thing 

with two names

Cryptic Calisthenics

Every morning during the mid-morning coffee rush I watch from behind the espresso machine as the elderly Asian woman glides out laps of University Square.

Wiry hair pinned beneath translucent green visor saluting the sky, tan foundation all thickened and cracked - past serious students and prosaic professors she hustles, tongue-pink jumpsuit whistling like sneakers sliding through piles of dry leaves, arms and wrists tossed and flicked lazily up and out in some vague gesture of a cryptic calisthenics obscure in origin.

Around she goes. And around again. Every morning.

Each time she passes she turns her head to the cafe. We make eye contact, me from behind my coffee machine, her from beneath her visor. We study one another.

She always matches my gaze, eyes as bright as sunrise. Over the heads of scholars thronging, frowning, nodding, pondering. I grin. And she grins back.

This is how I come to suspect we have both lost touch with reality. Clearly, we are happy.

Open sesame

I lived inside a box in my mind
And somehow I found a door

When I opened it up, I realised
There was never a box at all

The Dying Dream

Last night I dreamed I died and watched on as my soul trickled out from my body as a caravan of effervescent orange symbols into a void of pressing black.

The symbols comprised many languages; alive and dead, ancient and modern, verbal, mathematical, syntactical, gibberish -- they were memories of my soul, echoes of its various incarnations, and they quivered with excitement to be returning to their home.

In the void, an object became apparent. Spherical, enormous, a tightly wound star throbbing with densely packed syntax, countless strands of symbols weaving in and out from across the void, all snaking back to this place to be re-woven, re-merged, and re-made.

There was no fear. Why would there be? There was no dualism. To consider terror was to confuse where you were. This coming back was as effortless as breathing. 

As I drew nearer, a shape arose from the sea of symbols - a dragon, clumsy and oafish, splashing about happily in the ocean of words like dolphins leaping before the bow of a boat.

The sphere itself was vibrantly alive with a consciousness beyond any label I might give it. This dragon was like a sock-puppet made purely for its own amusement.

As it splashed about, bits of orange stuff broke off and floated out into the void.

Ah, I thought. That's how life is formed.

How clumsy! How frivolous! How blithely unaware of the consequences.

All love, all pain, all suffering, all grief, just the idle splish-splashes of a God in a bathtub keeping itself amused.

don't tell me let me figure it out

the kids hock and spit and raise their shirts to slap their bellies and
one has tats up his neck and a half-shaved head with hair gelled back and
they cackle laughter like rifle fire
they squawk and jostle and swagger and prowl through the city

he has flowers in a blue bouquet that look fancy-expensive

(lucky thing)

oh they're dressed nice, real fine - armani, or something - i wouldn't know

but they're hungry, that's for certain

(what do you want for when you get home? what do you imagine in wait?)

the heat feels like some sci-fi film i might yet write where the sun strips your skin from your flesh in forty seconds

it would make a good ticking-clock in the parlance of that stuff
i imagine a fictional world where a civilisation might actually pay attention to the omens

the kids spit on the street again and laugh like morons as i follow them through chinatown

i think - i just want to get around you
becomes - i just want you to not exist