Filthy and Sip

October 10, 2013 at 4:32 pm (Uncategorized) (, , , , , , )

Rib rattle plastic box.

skellyton

 And over bones

a calloused thumb is pressed wrongwaywards on a pin, pain kept comfortable on translucent epidermis.  Starting every time with the want to –

every time –

to stop before that time that was the start the first. 

 

A dawny buttery ritual  with its tea or coffee (neatlyplease)

on hardboiled ceramic white

skipped –

or stoic. As though in accordance with the darker longer hour before.

A private protest logged only

in same-old drooping eyes and intestinal moan.

 

A life strewn across cabinet in tablets bandages creams powders drips pills pipettes

and duh duh

duh damnable biology. Orange pill crowning microgestin tinfoil,

there the sweetness.

 

Nogra Arikha, historian of ideas, worries about the prospect of collective amnesia. It is said. And broken out of ohso appealing loop of malignant time paradoxes (some days self pity is speculative fiction), a sulking one lifts its skulking brow. The way it thinks,

it thinks,

is far too persistent and ugly. The way it thinks, it thinks,

might be better left be.

 

Just one implicit tear would be enough. Token thoughtless sorrow ringing from thoughtful mind;

 

an effigy.

 

It (cruel)

became an island; and cruelly  forgot – such thoughts are bitter (pump adrenaline) on a guilty tongue.

 It draws its skulking scowl. An involuntary sight

of sand

by night, riddled with wet coils from worms, of worms.

A hagstone skimmed then sunk with bubbling weight on its brine.

 

The water claws about everything and sometimes makes a hole.

All poetry eventually leads to the sea. As does breakfast.

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Staring at the Sea, Staring at the Sand.

October 20, 2009 at 12:46 pm (Rooms, Sea) (, , , )

The point when you realise where you are. Sand covered, shivering, soaked to the knees and blue lipped. Your feet are cut, and you dread the next step. How far have you walked? The sudden blank sickness that makes you walk purpousfully away. Fearlessly walk towards nothing. But before you always stopped. Awoke from the trance, realised you were stupid. Possetions held you back before. Why do they suddenly not matter? And why now is your journy to “away” leading you straight into the freezing midnight sea? Why did its first cold bite mean nothing?
You were not content when you started that bee-line wander, but nor were you unhappy.

Why did you suddenly have to walk?

The sea slows before your eyes, freezes into crinkled paper. There is no choice. Just a thousand unvoiced, unformed alternatives. Your lips flake salt and the grit burns your thighs as you sink to the ground. Your clothes feel unclean, but can you bear to part with this last cold, heavy embrace? Someone must see you before you become an idea. You realise, bit by bit, that you are the absence, defined only in relation to others lusts and fears. Their forgotton thoughts become death sentences.
A sudden stillness. The sea laps, the wind burns in whips. But you are still. You feel yourself hot, a furious blush burns your cheeks. The bones are dead still. Stagger up, the waves cling and tug . Step by sodden step, how could you run? Run back to a void with four walls, a cornered life sentence to gaze eye to black eye with a stranger. To vainly numb your hunger for fire with a candle. Grinning, lungs shake to sickness with laughter. Your skin and hair rain sand onto the sheets and you shake yourself onto this second sea bed.

Awake in the gathering sun, stiff from salted hair to blue nailed feet.

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