Monday, July 23, 2012

Lakey Comess

This is how it was,

                                    last moment captured on film, exile pans
buckled bridge, silent sundown enfolded in cloth, torn shirt, 

how it appeared erstwhile, separated by too many miles, not enough diction,
shuttered windows of light, cancelled train, proof of time disappearing.  


We hold conclusion in frozen arms, grip tight withering decay.
It happened quickly, a long time ago.  Fern seems to weep, sharing affliction.

Seems loud, rolling off tongue, but not accurate. 
How do you translate unintentionally censored music, 
the other other's proud (but subtle) reflection. 


Don't even try to look for reason in this, nor evidence. 
Noise rushes past, using "that kind of language", counts number and nature of responses,
highlighting credentials, failure to address critical argument.


Night time crouches below the horizon. 
You could be forgiven for confusing calendar date,
feeling like winter, ice-cold, in mid-summer. 

How quickly a year passes in series of life changing misapprehensions.



One house overlooks another

            where shadows fail to keep remoteness.  Windows are too close for any comfort,
blinds, a temporary shield from violent instance.

"At your age" is an invitation to utter contempt, uttered as prelude to complete sentence,
pressing need to get out of bed and making a living. 

Here is a box full of depression, carelessly spilled over communal garden. 
There is a bag, full of justifications.  Neighbouring obsessions litter the park. 

Escape seems like the only (real) option. 

How to become stranger in your own space, how to lose countenance. 
Tell me your secret.  How do you learn to keep distance?


Jet-lagged experience

Camera focuses on pane of glass.  Glass of pain comes later. 
Watching was (and is) unsettling — as an experience. 

Now someone is rolling his sleeve, exposing weakening vein. 
Best turn away.  Simple ideas can be distressingly habit forming. 

Train of thought, hyper-confessional  description of cure,
cynics snorting, turning points, group hugging crises... 

Now you mention it, it was drink, not drugs that lead to his accident. 
Life imitates art, feeding off shrivelling attention.  Just passing it on. 

That's one part of the day's portion.  The other's the summit of grace, just overhead.
Two gulls circle, searching for  the source of luminosity, sound from a transient river.



Criticism, memoirs


We all loved that novel, every page redirected from private address. 

Criticisms, such as they are in summary, were more or less what can be expected
from a conglomerate.  Every point, transparently evidential of green-eyed delegate. 

Last time I looked definition included "of or involving both of the earth's polar regions,"
excluding bio-telemetry, stranglehold, shivering contrivance.


You have not sought to enquire how I am.  Well, I am. 
You had ways and means of asking for eight years. 

What utter lack of trustworthiness prevented your doing so?

There.  That's made you flinch, step back, call for assistance.


Well turned out for twist and bop, swinging along promotional copy,
supersonic industrial, crucially emotional cut and paste. 

Bend, fold, spindle and mutilate for excellent visuals.  
Some of the world's most significant value for money issues.


Wonderful humming sound, switched on capacity.  Aughties at their level best.


Comment and philosophy directed in clear prose for the sake of long view. 
The woodwinds alone were triple negative gutter detritus. 

You recognise that now, you with your unsolicited insights,
despicable portal,  deaf end of career analysis.


Certainly "I" am much stronger now. 

Initiate memoirs with museum-like thoroughness of categorisation, 
piloting a larger question, outlined in a library of broken glass, half-forgotten past,
dislocated alphabet, scaffolding, cling film, acknowledgements.



            would be of assistance, though delayed, it seems, by excuses.  Remembrance grows harder 
each year which passes, candles are lit while we fit puzzling pieces onto a pulsating frame. 

Estrangement shades our affinity, even stronger when we disregard holes in the cosmos. 
You are always there, but, honestly, not the same.

Reflection turns its back on brittle falsity, views asserted without benefit of forethought. Rigid elitism 
pulses, instructed by beat of prominent machine.  Riddles are wrought in genteel aphorisms — 
crassness dolled up in extracurricular common tradition. 

Hazing can kill, but, you have to admit, breaks monotony within bomb-proof walls of an institution. 
Keep to your reverie; every sojourn comes to an end.


Lost work surfaces onto real orientation 

Brother's death murmurs, thin-paned as period windows. 
Patterns of childhood lost and scattered in frail, pale rain.

            See what loss brings to fading personae?

Live in an atmosphere long enough, you cease to experience it.
            Circadian convocation was lost to false indoctrination.

What you gain is found in crocus pushing through winter soil,
            luxurious alien blossom,  month to come.


La, la, la


No response equals no recognition, didn't bother with twice weekly examination of correspondence. 
Pressures mount prior to spreading wings, sitting up and taking notice.  Prokofiev sings love for a 
triumvirate of oranges. 

La, la, la for listening delight, birthday flowers and chocolate,
hardcore surprise, sacred pages, patronizing look wiped off a truly arrogant visage. 

Are you out of credit or is there another reasonable explanation waiting for outcome?


Offer to share your large apartment, distinguishing literary comparisons with the price of eggs,
links to a major festival of gadgets and you, pal, always ready to show off best efforts to date. 

The future looks brighter elsewhere. 

If that is the case, what does your serif say? 

                        (God is in details).


Splendid day for grousing, query and follow up. 
Property description lacked candor, at best, credibility at worst.
Chocolate brown 'feature' walls are so last night, especially
those boasting no fewer than four double sockets.

As for the room with no windows, freshly painted in mint/turquoise,
we say no to prison cells, no matter what the address. 

This day was shot all to hell by updating report.


How many teeth have been lost to grinding tension? 

Supernatural showering opportunity sparkles breathless, over live wire. 
Libraries provide other-world worldliness.  Subtract a letter for other word wordiness,
enabling outside dissonance to base-coat space with juicy dimension. 

Satisfaction follows row upon row of hand-stitched spine.

You ask for procedure, you get it.



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