21 October 2009

In-phyllocladoid Pomegranates and the Pleiades Grove Grown Wild

I am in exile, a sojourner
A citizen of some other place
All I’ve seen is just a glimmer in a shadowy mirror
But I know, one day we’ll see face to face

Yes, hell is like this.
This blank, wee corner of dis-emphasis tucked away in an axilla off common boulevards. And I drink the streets coming into me, disowning the loss that people have felt from it. I am not responsible.
I am not much of anything.
The cruelty wages war on you from a sheltered nest of tar and twigs, just laughter reigning in cranberry bloom blossoms of colour languishing in the death of tidal pool prefuncta. I can't make these things up, unfortunately. What's real is as you like it, my dear, all the clay-made catharsis I comb up from the tarmac in mackintosh mannerisms solely set aside for that purpose. These skills are unavoidable in margins. It's a thin crease of paper in which I reside, life flickering only on the occasion that brilliance overflows, but I've managed to blacken over the lines that people ride between, forming shade and shadow and tattooed glean and gleaming space that humans have forgotten or abandoned or left tittering to itself once.
It all needed a home. While I've none, while I've void and vehemence, this darkness I've comprised, this comfortably little lacuna twilled in the absence of matter or meaning, this will be the deference.
And it's nice to make little difference, don't let them fool you else-ways. They'll talk of tall hopes and dreams, deep desires and meanings they should put forward and defend [parry, thrust, riposte!]. But this is about me. Well, me and the nothing and no one and non-willing and nether-ways of nevermind. After all, there are millions of billions of infinite infinities you've disregarded or unrecalled after a first somewhat promising but unimpressionable introduction, a fatal blip and beleaguered non-entity. And there. Just there, now.
Or so they'd have you think. Inattention being utterly inextricable from doom. But this is about me. And doom. Wine stains and all. Whisky and smoke, snow and silence. A film noir without charm or chin or even a whim to explore the possibilities of one or the other. Not even both, I suppose. But I've never been stranger to the secrets and soirees, just stranger to humans and morals and rules and saturation. Just stranger. To. These cities are dormant shadows, a facing of tundra and blanched sandstone carrying harmonies of manifestos festing on flesh, delicate delineations settling to edges with the unwritten and unwitting. The authorless me. Every scribble I've meandered in, leading a quiet sort of listlessness, unsheltered against the leaning wind and whorl of bloody, god-awful phrases and infractions made fractious within me.
Yes, hell is like this, my dear. It is unnerved and unnamed. It is immeasurably blistered and burning with war.
But mostly. It is yours.

19 October 2009

Ampersandic Divots and the Fournier Arboreta

but as you see i do not have an awful lot to tell
everybody’s sick for something that they can find fascinating
everyone but you and even you aren’t feeling well

There are centuries of cameras out there, millions of tiny irises adjusting to the adjunct light shaping golden hynds from aurora just before twilight. Bone-thick bruises bleed in fluorescence, wound in laser-light and counting each adjustment of your lashes, each flutter and flail, every vibrating architecture suspended in the soft rush of nothing more than just an echo of the whisper we began to forget when first we asked 'who'. All you see is squinting in the blue-black haze, a gaudy-god-awful purple blending in the stagnant red milieu, like fingertips ribbing retinae, apposing sewn-up gowns of riddled distraction. There are only so many heartbeats left in your chest, each bliss of explosion a blossom of ichor feathered to the rhythms you thrive on, outward in filamentous flooding, a violent crimson crush suffusing violet skin.
You feel the worn words slipped into you, riding past your ribs in rough woollen gauze soaked in fear and fallen expectations, and while teetering yourself in the silver-flake, you murder the blearing sense the laughter lines had given you. You've wasted a lifetime on foundation, carving out the stitches and eroding the long strokes a finger once left across you fretting tender strings against your face. A blind melody, canticle and canon of fate.
And so careen and care alike, always waking in a state of gladly-gaited deference, meaning to enjoy the slight swollen suture and eclipsing vanishing point, meaning to exact with deftness the widening difference between forgotten and this. Out of pace.
How did it come to such lingering demarcation, cutting and scarring, scraping and tearing, wearing and weary and thin. How have you gone missing, how without winding the great springs or fleeting pendulums declining, how without measuring the errata you've managed to adjust to or from, without setting one soft lip to the other and forgiving in all this gravitas.