Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘book of voices’

2016/05/img_2041.jpg

NIGHT THE SECOND (A LANDSCAPE POPULATED)

All the clues are there in the symptomatic madnesses. Here they come willingly.
Lurching dressed in the horrors of those Germanic artists driven mad by the scent of the rot of death and the acid blue veins of ergot. Give us this day our daily dead. My very bonnet badge: clan mother belladonna and mad dancing.
The restless limbs rippling,
A hot wind, a sirocco over the waterless sands
Of dried, flaking skin, a glowing leprosy,
A holy transformation back to earth.
Tropanes needle and embolden. The Golden Mean, the Fibonacci, eroded by endless rains so the weighty cliffs of selfhood grow sodden and at last liquify collapsing, stone to mud and root and revealed bones, the sunken bells already deep in salt silt haunted – the unblinking cynic eye of dragons counting the too few millenia of tall brains swaggering top heavy and profligate as if all were truly made for them alone.
Chiselled are the precise gargoyles vomiting rain,
Pissing spouts of life.
The clues are all there, my dears,
They are so close so as to
Raise tiny neck hairs with their breath.
So moist are their lips, my dears,
So darting their electric tongues,
Their opaque eyes staring still,
An inward crouch, a search for vowels
In a sea of consonants.
Only evil comes of elucidation. Eat it all up. Revealed are the shadows in light to be answers.
Clear-cut the butterfly-winged angels come straight from sucking the nectar of God, will drive the penitential into burning buildings and the queues of forbidden passions will be kebabbed and skewered for each chimereal constructed thing. Stare long enough. Turn not away. Given signs and clues and testings. For how many millennia have the lists been corrupted? Turn away upstream or downstream. The same song.
Even angels wither there, becoming demons.
Self-mutilated, gnawing on bones of certainty.
Marking aeons in long, shallow scratches, muttered lists,
Reasons why and why not.
The shelved, locked-out passions, the dirty shameful things. Power piled up, an unused compost that can never rot lest fed, forgiven or owned once more.
It ferments, ignis fatuus, Hand of Glory.
Abhorrence and disgust,
To look elsewhere and forget,
To disinherit, to deny.
Not an easy thing to remain sane and honest. Not a habit that is cultured or condoned. A dangerous device is this difficult conjuration. Likely to consume as consummate. There may or may not be maps, may or may not be instruction. No consensus from a millennium of points of view whispered into the rhythm of the blood.
Be wary of the insistent ones.
The ones offering sense.
White noise as their echoes build up.
White noise becoming stillness.
A perfect inaction,
suspended, turning slow,
turning slow,
cocooned and waiting.

2016/05/img_2048.jpg

Read Full Post »

A PARTICULAR DEVICE

When we look so close at life inside us,
it simply becomes a tree of madness
where ghosts host and catcall,
swapping bodies and their nightmare mysteries
( from which we have never, ever, recovered).
Such strange animals. So many hands.
So many dances. So many attributes.
A collective deity ( or a pan Demonium).
There is a clue in it all somewhere,
a clue, a clew, a thread, a maze,
a spider, a monster, an eater of the charming ones,
a hungry axis, a deliverer,
a coin on his eyes and on his tongue.
The rite of the Opening of the Mouth,
escaping gravity through the small angled shaft,
homing on the singular, most singular star.
Dust to dust. An assay of hearts
before the animal-headed ones.
We are Jongleur, kindly admit us.
Remove our head. Give us the bliss of love and asses.
Return us whole to the world without end.
And let us cease to burn.
Let our mouths be filled with the cool waters.
Seven rivers from the Garden.
A lascivious sprouting of leaves, a splayed, secret hand of fig.

2016/02/img_1834.jpg

Read Full Post »

MERDDIN WYLLT BY THE FIRESIDE ( from Book of Voices)

I wear my clothes counterclockwise.
My shoes on backwards.
I know the squint.
The footprints, sprait and scent
Of demons and angels,
Know the words for weed and herb.
I tread with care, can recite
The tree of ancestors, the cries of beasts,
The line unbroken back
To warrior gods and giants.
And yet I cannot cast from me
The dream of endless cities,
The cantankerous clamour
Of the multitude, dull and deceitful.
I am good and bad with art and skill
Yet cannot unpeel from eyes this
Pall of paltry appeasements,
The children of lack walking
Endless square desolation
Who know too much,
But in the wrong ordering;
Whose priests draw paper gold
And silver dust
From bellies disbelieving and gnawed;
Whose bones grate chalk and sleepless;
Whose days neat piled and numbered,
A clarity of vast apathy, bright coloured
In flicker cold fires.
Stumbling through floods,
Warring ever the wrong foes,
Unbelieved, unbelieving,
A roaring tumble to consensual void.
We shall slam, it seems, to senselessness,
Yard by yard, ungrow, untend, untread,
Grow slim and thin and lustreless;
Leafless in Spring, sapless in dawn,
Know neither sun nor moon;
Shun light, fear dark, ignore warnings.
The stories new and feckless
Repeated endlessly, a lullaby
Of excuse.
Eaten up, burnt, gagged on smoke,
A scum of oil, a bitter silence,
A wormwood of tears.

2015/06/img_1381.jpg

( The Book of Voices will be a work of pieces arrived at by chance, words floated insistently at random times, other voices, mine or from elsewhere, who can say…)

Read Full Post »

Book of Voices ( This Sky: part 2)

Each cell voicing its own obituary,
Each mitochondrial Neanderthal fire-watching,
Knapped sound, flint words, held, tapped,
A feel for languid, mushroomed word
( so much glory hidden tangled beneath a milk stream
Of holiness, food, fingered, fluvial through substrate,
A healthy holy rot).
All with voice, all with dawning chorus of song.
An evacuation, a cacophany profane, blessed,
A golden urgent urination ( just so),
A mineral-rich, arcing satisfaction, an urge,
Urgent, unguent, a chrism (even), an eventide
And morning of the first day.
Smudged, succumbed, scumbled, it solidifies
And whispers itself out.
Such clarity cannot hold, a boiled ferment bakes dry,
Returns to sleep, mist rises in the valley,
Stars become acceptibly few, named, blink in and out.
The voices turn to their own dreams involuted,
A cochleal murmur suspended,
Slow revolving wrapped sleeping in spider-webbed tranquillity.
Sleep whilst you can, sleep in unity, in slow breathing
Revolved planetary orbits. Sleep pretty and woven.
Eyes lidded now, eyes lidded.
(Words, fragile as insects, scurry iridescent
Into darkness.)

2015/04/img_1481.jpg

Read Full Post »

Book of Voices (This Sky: part 1)

Let us say: this sky, as pink certainly as warmed skin.
This, an indefinite and infinite blue, as those eyes.
And as close,and as distant, as God.
Let us say: there will be again,as ever,one voice that begins,
A clarion clear and moon-bright,
One stirring uttered echoing on the valley flank
Or deep on the sacred golden wood,
Cloutie-hung with shredded prayers,
(Shellac shined black ink careful lines on white silk,
Vehement, scratched curses on lead, tight folded,
Hidden in crack and crevice, utterance to vengeful ones
To do it, do it for me).
A shower of seasons tattered reasons,
Shattered, smattered, sculpted, howled to mothers
( hungry and cold in the dark, glint of light
And voice whispered behind the holy door).
Like this, almost exactly: one clear star
Glinted, marked out, a definite oneness,
A line, a shaft, a rope to upness and downness,
Dimensional isness, a road to stick to.
But as eye accustoms to deeper delved
And shrinking edge of silence:
One more there, and another, and so another
Until the sky is dark with inescapable stars
Vying for eye and patterning the mind with yes
And yes, a plan, a map, a purpose, a chorus
Of foamed ejaculate, a tide ripped and roaring in
Upturning pebble feather flotsam bone and tattered weed
( a flap of iodine, a wriggle).
Let us say, this close to madness
Is this close to revelation.

2015/04/img_1407.jpg

Read Full Post »

NIGHT RAIN (Book of Voices)

White noise, a rain of words
(All drops reflecting whole worlds),
But free from explanation, no discourse, no argument.

Indistinguishable millions falling through darkness
Only heard as they disintegrate, pool
And continue a life moving downwards.
A silent freefall ’til disillusioned by the solid,
Exulting, shattered, they shout.

Thought precedes language,
Orchestral is the soul.
A dance of demons and angels
Cross-dressing and interbreeding.

An heretical creation,
An unexpected evolution of many sorts,
Comes down as night rain.
Sound in darkness dancing.

2015/04/img_1415.jpg

Read Full Post »

A Specious Species ( fragment from ‘Book of Voices’)

Nothing sacred now but our innane, profane cataloging of elements.
Delighting amongst minute, defined aberrations of despair.
Tearing wings off angels, pinning demons, peeled, perused and wriggling.
A reduction to the economic, to the social pressure, to the self-deceived confection
Of low-fat, sugared reason.
Too smart to see the mirror’s edge,
Too self-congratulatory with resonant parsimony, (our rounded, generic, philistine voice),
To notice the hysteric, farting ghosts gesturing in the shadows,
(Who hold all the prompts, pimp and pump the lines).
All the angry poets implode with bluster, become politicians of meagre degree,
Smutty with oiled conviviality, lugubrious with reasonable desecrations.
This world, too sharp, too uncoloured, subtle and muddied,
Requiring battened-down, serial numbered, thirteen-digit barcoded, sixteenth- level encryption, a designed decorum, ready-mealed, chill-packeted
For whenever the sudden, certain hungers disturb the entertainments
Of the bland and chained perceptions.
Blake and his roaring spirits plummet burning from a pest-controlled heaven,
Nicely neurotoxined, polypropylened, thin smiled and NVQ’d.
History scrubbed and redactable, requisitioned, gilded, sold off.
Each empire and squalid colony vacuum-packed,
Date-stamped, forgotten in elusive, intellectual deep freeze…..

Read Full Post »

%d bloggers like this: