Posts Tagged ‘graphics’



it seems time now
to turn back to those
terse ancient words of winter

(now the leaves flounder across lawns,
the grey lidless sky at the window,
and the hills melted in rain)

to tease out the meat
and gristle of them,
to open the heart,
see the red blood pump through
and where and how
that mysterious circulation,
vowel and consonant,
revolving as keys.

(and the cloud upon Bryn
like a dove on the brow of God.
and the trees in their lordly might
whispering from leaf to root to leaf)

each tooth and tongue
taking edge.
each passage,
a view coagulate.

(and the dusty crows thrown eastwards
on the wind of storm and shortening days)

a small breeze it is
that burns the flesh cold.
a bleak hill
a bleak hill.
harsh is the path,
and we, shelterless.

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It drifts, it slips, slivers, divides, diminishes
Slides, slides
Though the sky moves not,
Though the silence remains.

Heart’s division
An ache, a season,
A mist, a smoke of lust
Unslaked, bitter as ivy.

No reason, no recall.
A habitual residue
A dust of sorrow
A settlement too familiar,
Mica, clay, chalk, bone.

Shadow moons, blue lifted light,
Relapse, rapsody, requiem.
A heavy ransom for gold,
A skirl, spiraling chill.

But this song, abstracted,
Extended, drawn out, attenuated
A nerve or a vein tampered,
No remedy but to feel more
Not less, not, never, turning away.

Control, unfurl, unfold,
Lips and fingers unpetalled.
One moment silent
Naked eye, naked ear.
Stand upright, balanced,
Worthy on the world.

Rather abstracted and sketched. An impressionist or expressionist, or maybe symbolist….a translation from the movement of inner zephyrs…..a little of something, though I know not what….


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STRUNG OUT ( a bereft history of every sing)

In the beginning,
The worm word:
Strung thin sound.
Hesitant, looped
As much as it wanted,
Either end an anchor
Of some
or other.

Soon tangled
( darned attraction
Of molecular

A good idea
Scribbled over.
Attempts at,
Forgetful of.

Seriously playful,
Now only
Serious, panicked
Lost, mazed
Traipsing time
But unable to
Echo, mutter,
Wild laughter.

Self portait-
The void black
Dilated pupils
Staring, straining
Into space.

Midnight skitters,
Meaning pretends
Vocal chord,
Knotted, node,
A gap between
Wuh, wuh, words.


something to do with the primacy of sound, language, self-referencing mixed in with cosmogenesis, DNA as a jam session ( that slick four-piece polyrhythmic jive), a quote from Robert Musil, via N. Filbert ( jump starter of my brain). Souped up silence, those seers who strive beyond language, return from heaven stumbling and drunk, stutt, tut, tutter. I place on the tip of my tongue a consonant of fire, a vowel of air, extinguished by a sliver of spittle, mistakenly taken as a reason, a viewpoint, what is only a howl of sound, a pushchaired child hooting for echoes in cavern subways….


the images are some sketches of the seed syllable ‘hung’, one of the three primal sounds of manifesting mind that may or may not become paint or silver or more words at some point

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