Blog Archive

Saturday 28 December 2013

The Pursuit and The Prize

Across these
Formerly fertile fields, 
Snow shielded, 
I trace a delicate
Track. 
Steps twisted and
Tortuous I trail, a
Pattern of promise, a
Gait enticing, a 
Lure, livid enchantment
To trap my hunter's 
Heart, onward drawn
'Till one rosy dawn
Illumes my elusive prey. 
That morn I use my
Hunter's horn in
Hurried passion's howl. 
Distract, entrap and catch
My wily witch, a prize
I find to hold a heart
As black as all the 
Naked nights of
My fool's pursuit. 

Sunday 22 December 2013

Home


I have made of my home a Hell. A cocoon, causal comfort, patterned in flames and red fire, anticipating Apocalypse…

Wednesday 18 December 2013

These Holy Days

O, cold, callous caucus,
Intensively inattentive,
The plight of no-rights 
Fills not a sidebar, not a 
Column-inch 'tween
Tri-coloured impressions of
This season's must-have glee;
Wanting hearts bleed in vain.

Possessing possessions;  
Commercial passion usurps
The ancient mythic tale.
Gone all those beyond the pale, 
No plate, no sup, no joyous cup,
No relief of unremitting pain 
This year or next
Even from the way-too blest.

Every year the wall is built
Between the lucky and the bilked
Whose life our world has milked;
The denial of need which feeds
The fount of plenty for
Those whose bounty o'er flows 
The tallest ewers made of gold,
To leave the ghosts their fare of mould.

Thursday 7 November 2013

The Path Of Promise


Walk the wild ways, 
Let roots entangle shoes, 
Seek no freedom from
Nature's pressure. 
And so with love. 
Thoughts do wake the
Sleeping heart to race
Through feeling's forest,
There to open once-locked
Doors for twining vines, for
All the complications which
Spin the lines that bind 
Minds and souls, a-sundered
Spirits born alone but for 
This beauteous calamity
That forges wholes from
Holes.

Wednesday 6 November 2013

Black This Rainbow’s Arc


...Then we met.
Who could've foreseen
Such subtle symmetry?
Abreast we ran life's
Steeplechase, each the
Other from pitfalls kept...
 
Yet Time 'twas the gauntlet
We could not outrun.
Safety tossed, caring lost, 
Solo goals for belly-crawls
In the place of saving
Each the other from all falls

Now years and distance
Separate, our races we run isolate.
Same old dangers we still face
Each in our lonely chosen place.
Perhaps less friction in our days
But what a price that we have paid. 

Thursday 3 October 2013

A Dare, Dear...


It's dark in the park, but
Hark!
Just for a lark, let's 
Go park in the dark...

Monday 30 September 2013

Love: The Need


Had I me a woman as
Could miss me as the
Living do the dead 
I'd be lucky tho
She'd be kinda
Fucked in the
Head

Pigs Still Reign

Pigs & cops do
Love their slops, 
All that truth that we do spew.
So give 'em Pablum 
They can't eat and all 
That hunger wanes 
And stops

Friday 27 September 2013

The Wisest Win? By Default...

You walk; 
                new room, with

    expectations nil,

                     eyes still in their

Scabbards live 

                         silent, un-
drawn, until 
                   with

No warning, 
                    the clash 
                                    erupts and 
Glances flash, fence, 
                                 effect
To flay
           'till simple will
                                 inter-

rupts the fray to let
      
             conflict morph from

Clash to lips 
                     which mashing
Mark the start 
                       of a battle order
         older
 
 Still which 
                        will has lost
long
        before
                     you and your

                                  erstwhile
 "foe" had ever 
                         even
Dreamtime-
                  Danced....

One brief listen give:
 
Your soul, it knows 
                               that 

              Victory's shortest
      
                       route has always
        been

                    Surrender
                      

Thursday 12 September 2013

Re: The Really Fat Guy


Friar Fatso 
The Sheriff of SureWould! 
    (as in, "'Anyone care for this last slice of pie?'   'I sure would!'") 
The Lord of Lard 
His Imperial Immensity 
The Suzerain of Size 
Girth the Great 
Kitchen Khan 
The Duke of Digestion/Puke 
Helping the Fifth 
Baron Banquet 
Earl Hurl 

Danger? Might fall on the little tyke. You'd need to squeegee the kid into the body bag. No coroner needed. Got the event on seismograph. 

Tuesday 10 September 2013

Dolby vs The Stereo


[the title of this bit is misleading. Dolby originally referring to a tape-noise reduction technology, it was initially mainly concerned with 2-channel stereo sound; evolving in later years into surround-sound, initially in the film industry including movie theatres. the implied contest in the title never happened but makes for a pithy title; undoubtedly more accurately conveyed by stereo vs surround-sound, however it is not being altered for the sake of accuracy, which would make this wonderful little introductory blurb sadly redundant.]

           ••••••••••••••••••••••

Oh, you go have fun with your 5.1, your 7.1, but plain ol' two-channels do me fine. By the time I've run the signal from the chosen source device, through the mixer, the equaliser, the imager, through to the pre-amp and, then finally, the power amp, I could blow the walls out of this high rise as neatly as 15 kilos of Semtex. 

Saturday 7 September 2013

I want a Dream


Come, my dear, and
Give me a dream…

A Dream so strange and
Fine, a Dream so uniquely
Mine that my mind's fire
It will feed for all of
Time that still be mine. 

Tuesday 3 September 2013

Blades of Glass


I live in this house of iron 
Cradling this heart of steel
How can you know how
It does feel to look
At a lawn of blades of glass
While pale strangers
Wander past?

Friday 30 August 2013

Silly Erotic

I ramble, I rumble

I'll diddle your dingle

Put your fractures to pasture

And dial in your rapture


Social Media Analysis (A Phase)

As I have stated elsewhere, the raison d'être of all current electronic social media is advertising/marketing. Any social communication benefits that accrue to the particular media's users (henceforth referred to as market) are carefully tailored side effects. If one should desire to use a so-called social media site for mercantile purposes, what better way to divert attention from your motives than to allow your market to do as you do, albeit that that market rarely has any commercial intent of it's own.

One of the mainstays of successful marketing has always been to allow the members of your target market to overvalue their own individual importance in the overall scheme of things. This is most easily accomplished by massaging their collective ego and by constructing the functional aspects of the chosen medium (and today's particular functional examples shall be drawn from Twitter, it being a rather blatant commercial venue, fortunate to have a market that, for the most part, eschews introspection) in such a way that the very use of it is conducive to the market's massaging of it's own mass of collective egos. 

Let it then be a given that individuals and organisations who wish to disseminate any given product or service for profit, can use any social site to heighten their public profile and so their cash flow. What benefits, then, are bestowed on the private individuals who constitute the bulk audience of any social medium? Let us examine some specifics. 

Twitter, our chosen subject for today (all that follows applies just as well to Facebook, Tumblr, YouTube or any other take-your-pick; we are not "picking on" any particular venue here), gives it's user a number of activity options, every one of which exists for "feel good" reasons. First and foremost, people have an innate need to believe that their opinions, achievements, in fact their very lives, are of some value to their society at large. Andy Warhol's prediction of fame for the Great Unwashed is now a reality. People can now put their thoughts, observations, life events and opinions out on the Electric Everywhere, theoretically for consumption by the entire world. People just love to be heard and, now, they can be. 
Secondly, humans are by nature social animals. Facilitating communication between both neighbours and far-flung individuals has an interesting effect. The more personal the information exchanged, the greater the chance that an actual emotional bond will develop between the communicators. The personal nature of the exchange nicely mimics the development of a friendship between real-world individuals. For the sake of clarity, I have dubbed the individuals with which you develop some level of emotional connection via the Internet (same being confined to those that you will never meet in the "real"/physical world), "Electric Friends" (the term being derived from the title of an early Gary Numan hit song, "Are Friends Electric?"). So, now Twitter has given the masses of the market a venue for self-expression and a novel new way to create and develop social relationships (this latter ability having it's roots in a past generation's "pen pals;" remember that those pen & paper relationships did on occasion lead to marriage (how much less surprising now, when you can add sight and sound to your long-distance wooing?)). 

Well, what have we next? Having satisfied two needs of the human ego, we shall offer power. Oh, not power absolute but a sense of power over other people. Or what else would you call the ability to choose who to follow? This is not following like cattle, which have no choice of herdsman, but more akin to people choosing which political party to join (a topic worth delving into but, for now, we need not consider the fact that any political party engendered by any given political system will always form a government typical of that system; ie, that "choice" of party is completely illusory). The individual is also given the ability to unilaterally reverse any following-related choice. In fact, this ability extends to being able to block any other user from one's own virtual world without having to justify the act in any way whatsoever! Now, this is a power the vast majority do not enjoy in their real world lives! Blocking, because it is the ultimate power available on any social site, naturally becomes part of the mythology of that social site and appears in all manner of contexts: conversation, threats and speculation, through to jokes and casual humorous asides. As capital punishment does in society at large, blocking on a social medium carries shades of philosophy, spirituality and penalogical theory. 

However, control over the various facets of virtual society is not confined to decisions as conveniently clear as a black/white choice. Harking back to aspects of self-expression, any individual in the social cyberverse has control over his/her appearance (the choice of "avi") and those who decide against using this opportunity for self-expression (those who remain "egg" avatars; the whole of Twitter being a bird metaphor carried out ad nauseum) are pitilessly mocked. If you don't join the crowd and be an individual just like everybody else you had better beware! 
When faced with a social artefact such as an organisation, bureaucracy or any other attempt to simultaneously unite & rank individuals, and if said artefact represented both a considerable initial investment to construct it and a substantial ongoing cash flow to keep it standing, it would be reasonable to conclude that any intrinsic "problems" or persistent negative aspects, are still in existence because some individual or group wants them to be. Social media operators arrange for their market of users to have good looking and positive reinforcement-producing (yet illusory, having no effect on the world outside your phone or PC) versions of the very real powers they themselves possess. With that in mind, this mini-monograph shall end with a look at one last aspect of control over others which Twitter grants. This is the ability to behave like any corporation or government and classify people. As much as people love to rail against and protest being pigeon-holed, given the power to put into practice this hateful tendency, they do so with relish. Monitoring one's interactions will reinforce the previously-made decision to divide people coarsely into the two camps of worthy-of-following and the not-worthy (apologies, Wayne). Press the "Me" button (and how much more ego-friendly could THAT button be?) and your choices are reinforced again! As well, you have the discrete joy of perusing the products of your own creativity, patting your own back all the while. As if all the foregoing was not positive ego reinforcement above and beyond the call of duty, there be one more power pearl for you to pick: Lists. With a list (or lists) you can take some or all of the people whom you have interacted with thusfar, and organise them into sets, using whatever criteria you might invent, and then proceed to name these sets (or even number them, should you be so inclined) to suit your fancy. Of course, what you actually end up with is a greater or smaller reflection of much of the same material as you'd see in your interactions column. Still, the whole list activity is about as fun as playing at being the manager of some sports team, or the general of an army. Pick your players, organise them, put them in their places and then eventually retire them when they either benefit you no longer or have simply become tiresome. 

And so, our modern virtual societies are simultaneously becoming a bottomless well of profit for some, and an ideal training ground for the masses that provide that profit. 

Now, aren't you glad to be an active participant?

Monday 15 July 2013

Anniversary

Then, 
Together a year, brim
Full of laughter and 
Of tears. 
Soul-knowledge is
Made not born. 
Vows can be intended
Or spoken out loud. 
Lives twine like vines and,
Like vines, they sprout
And they grow. 

Saturday 13 July 2013

McTuffany


"It's catastrophic! Unbelievable!," is reportedly how the Vatican first responded to the news of the Supreme Court's ruling in the McTuffany case. Widely accepted as the most controversial decision in the recorded history of jurisprudence, the Supreme Court today declared Jesus Christ to be legally dead, after not being seen and no reliable evidence being produced to suggest that He was still alive, for the past seven years, as prescribed by law. 

Monday 8 July 2013

S


"S" is not a hard
Consonant

It bleeds
Out it's
Meaning
Over time

Sailor


Poor sailor in
An open boat
These siren seas do
Deign to float

In Preparation


I left my heart 'neath
The aegis of the
Homestead's hearth,
It's radiant glow to
Shield and shrive, while
I the moors did wander

Mind as minefield.

Speaking of memory, while reworking some older poems some displaced fragment from the past threatened to upset my equilibrium. It was something about writing, of having laid down personal descriptive detail on a cast of characters. Whether a movie, book, story or play, I did not try to remember. The memory had a decidedly unpleasant aura so that I turned my mind from it and proceeded to ram it back down to wherever it had come from. I think that I was at least partially successful, as the discomfort receded. 

Sunday 19 May 2013

Soldata/Soldatum (16/11/1983)

We are preparing for
Armageddon-

Only weeks left
before
Orwell's hour
strikes
the time away. 

Get in your
practice while you
can. 

Too Late By Half

Went one day to
See an old flame. 
At her home I was
Told she'd burnt her
Brain out
Long ago. Been
Sent to another
Kind
Of home. 

Sent to be with
Others of her kind
Whose bodies live
Without their minds,
Cared for well in
Their living hell. 

I wish I'd known you
When you could've told
Me. What happened
Happened. Yes, I wish
I'd known you then. 

Your body aged but
Your mind you froze. 
You stare at me now with
Eyes so cold, eyes that
Will never grow old. 
I have to leave, I have
To go. This waste, this
Waste, it scares me so. 

Still, I saw some sparkle
In your icicle eye
That speaks of something
Long denied. 
Some dream of love you
Never had, a life lost
And never led, of which
Your soul was daily bled. 

So, you burned your brain
Out long ago, never to
See the sun arise, never
To return. You spurned
The world and now can't
Kiss away these
Flowing tears, a fear
That screams, Oh Holy Christ!
All I'm left with? A useless
Wish; if only... Had I
Really known you then
Would we have augured
This empty when?

Coming Over (lyrics w/o music)



Coming over
Across the sea
You're the epitome
Of hypocrisy

You want my gold
And you want my stuff
You will never
Have enough

If all I own
Becomes your's
You just wait
We'll even the score

'CAUSE YOU ARE GREEDY
YOU ARE NOT NEEDY
YOU JUST CAPTURE
WHAT YOU'RE AFTER
YOU DO NOT BUILD
YOU DO NOT GROW
YOU DO NOT WEEP
YOU DO NOT KNOW
THAT
YOU ARE GREEDY
FOR ALL THAT OWNING
YOUR SOUL YOU'RE LOANING
TO THE DEMONS
TO THE DEMONS
TO THE DEMANDS
BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS
NEVER WASH OFF
I WILL SEE TO IT
AND YOU WILL...

NOT LIVE THROUGH IT!

GREEDY
GREEDY
GREEEE-DY!!

Thursday 16 May 2013

A Social Killing

I launched an 
      aside broadside; 

reamed her square
in the brains

      let loose
   a flood

of lizards and lice
and slime and tripe
      hidden amidst her
temporal lobes. 

The rest at the reception
      never even noticed. 

Typical. 

Desensitisation: the modern pandemic.

Days Spent in the First World

Definite advantages

Are to be had

In

Inertia--

The hold of the
Armchair Man, 

Mainstay of
Us, now that
We've

Modernised. 

Slow Death

Life. 
It all starts with life. 
Let me tell you this: Birth. 
You were born. 
You, me, that guy in the
Corner in his designer $uit &
The cheap whore with him. 
For this you can blame your
Fecund folks. The moment
You were born, Death entered
With your first hue and cry. 
Claws in place. 
Patient. 
Lurking. 

You may be taught to believe
That you walk in sunshine, chin
Up, back straight, and anything's
Possible if you try. 
Lies. 
All lies. 
The whole world
Lies and chiefly to itself, 
Attempting to maintain
This illusion called
Life. 
Death's dread umbra covers you
Always, that invisible darkness is
The only truly living entity
Around. 
Just wait. 
And see. 

Meanwhile, Dad, idiot grin in
Place; Mom holds precious babe
Up to display their happy
Congress' product, not
Seeing that her arms uphold a
Casing of fetid flesh, worms, 
A cloud of bones and dust. 
Precious. 
Doomed. 
And the zombie parade dances on, 
Dancing and fucking, desperate
To beat off the hungry shadow by
Sheer force of numbers, 
Abetted by religion and 
Self-delusion. 

Yeah, right...

ObjectActivity

Waking. 
A room. 
I see things around me. 
Furniture seeming to wait,
Wondering if I understand the
Deeper meaning hiding
Under the wood, veneer or vinyl. 
Is purpose implicit or 
Explicit?
Is form really a clue
To function, or is that
A myth of our time?

Nothing is moving
Except my eyes. 
However, there is no
Denying the sense of
Imminence, expectation...

No surprise if I'm 
Consumed by my
Possessions, 
Disappear in spontaneous 
Combustion. 
No surprise at all. 

Ownership is a door
Which swings both ways. 

The Reign of Pigs

Here the pigs
Have no wings but
Being blessèd
Walk upright like the
Men they oppress

They watch with their
Piggy eyes, 
Gather in their piggy styes,
Stalk the bowed, cowedcrowd 
Which tries in vain to disappear

Every dirty whisper
Heard is filed away for future use
As bait for some failing soul 
Or as the knot upon the noose. 
Yes, the pigs have power now. 

Yet the day shall come
When men unite as one to fight, 
Throw the piggies into flight
And once hewn down, fry
Their bacon crisp and brown. 

Aura

Criticism cheapens
it's aim to defend.
Abstract eyes glimpse
limp patterns, grim
grey expanse of brain
rolled thin, 
draped; 
a cloudy shroud
fallen as a strange
new weather over
familiar
landscapes.

Satan’s Cheerleaders

The line is drawn in sand
Bridging insult, 
Eye-beams. 

Profound distemper
Is offered. 
A display to
Entertain
Me
And my divinely
Dark
Intent. 

Unpoem

Sadists understand clowns the best.
Think about it. 
Who knows more about laughing at pain?

A battered woman in a hospital bed. 
You visit with flowers. 
What made you choose Black-eyed Susans?

Morticians practice last aid. 

Which brings to mind: how long must doctors practice before they are declared competent?

Perhaps we should ask a mortician. 

Remember, "Hail to the Chief" is not a request for a change in the weather. 

Why is there no demand for
Chicken-leather boots? 
Lord knows, there are enough
Chicken skins in
The world to tan. 

Sweet Blackout

Oh, Dark Lady,
To kiss once more
Your gentle hand, hold tight and
Follow your lead to peace. 
One problem. 
The darkness of my night
Has not seen you of late. 
Any tiny shadow could
Hide you, any dim corner. 
Is it your scent I've lost or
My senses? You seem
Gone and no code I know
Will bring you back. 
Now, retreat or attack?
Fight or flight?
The primal urges;
I desire them not but 
To clasp you close one
Last time and
Breathe a final exhalation
Within your soothing grasp. 
Is that too much to ask?
To die by a loving hand?

Wednesday 15 May 2013

Visionary Missionary

If only my cock were as long as
My desire is strong
No ocean's breadth would prove
A hindrance to intimacy
Treasured memories mix now
With dreams in psychotic symbiosis
In a possibly mythic past my
Lover crucified me to our bed
A modern Odin, my passion arose
And rose to cross o'er
Bifrost in frenzied descent to
The root of Yggdrasil 
Nine days and nights passed 'till
With triumphant cry I
Tore myself loose leaving blood
And flesh behind as I fell to
Seize the knowledge of love eternal

Sacrificed, myself to myself, purified
In orgasmic flames of pain
Naked I stood, howling
Thanks to the heavens
Naked, I danced in the freedom
Of selfless joy
My lover, my Norn, did bind
My wounds and as
Eye met eye
Silent understanding passed thereby
That, where there had been
Two sundered souls, one united
Being, indivisible, now championed
It's existence across the
Dimensions of Time and Space;
No more would solitude intrude
On our communion of spirits, this
Perfected amalgam which only
A benign multiverse can bestow
On those who risk the dare

That hard-won knowledge, those
Runes of the power of love, compel
Me to exhort to the faint of heart,
Those afraid to trust, to speak
Out, to shout about the dreams
Held within! Who is meant to
Hear will arrive, hearing their name
Whispered by messenger winds
Then together leap into the
Abyss, holding hands and hearts in
Trust, as the fall transforms into a
Soaring flight upwards to a
Consummation often rumoured and
Preached but seldom
Believed in
Lovers, I title thee Divine,
Transcending Time and despair to
Waltz among the stars between
Infinite holy incarnations

Monday 13 May 2013

That Last Step’s A Killer

It seems I've plumbed a
true crevasse. 

Always one for caves, 
never avoiding the
iris below, seeing myself
growing 
             down 
                      by
                           degrees. 

By degrees the perspective veers,
climbing the zodiac, turning
Gemini to Cancer. 

So this latest striving fails. 

Having reached the
measured depth
I scramble unwilling
over
       the sudden
                         nether
       lip. 

Journeying Toward Zion

In the drought
you fade away

A torn transparency
projects a failed
mirage of green.
Looking opens the
last eyes
to blinding dust. 

With seven spare oxen
the not-dead few take up
the pilgrimage but, 
memory's a poor guide and
the despairing wind calls
their bones out. 

The mind knows no
outside and even extreme
measures are restricted by
the many fooling mirrors the
will cannot disbelieve
away. 

For lack of insight, 
not blinding light, 
all turns to
slow decay. 

In Quotation Form

"Many are the tangled
Moments when
Ice-hued physics
Trot off with
Our women
And frown."

Lumpy Throat Confession

My lord, how I love you!

      but, 
            ill-posed stars! 
            'tis but the love of
            the garden-variety
            Romantic: 

Deep & fathomless
Forever & eternal
Unrequited & doomed 
             in every way imaginable... 

Still, my heart beats for two. 
I dream for two, all the while
knowing
              that
                     it
                        is 
                           for
                                naught. 

So I celebrate the equation
of love and pain with
a shower of
                   unsalted tears. 

Expected, worshipped and 
quite 
         inevitable. 

Ghost, Ship, Siren

Tell me, tell me, tell me
True:
Do you hear me calling you?
Do I echo in your head?
Does my voice still
thrill with dread? 

Was married once, no, twice
to clouds, those mem'ries now
but fog, a shroud to
trail my shredded soul
that walks 'cross streets, by trees
insensate, no aim, no goal. 

Now, tell me, tell me, tell me
True: 
Did I once sense love from you?
Was love my water and my bread?
Was that I who held you
close and dear, or are
Those the mem'ries of one dead?

Am bidden by a nameless force
to wander aimless, without a course.
Was it ever like this,
or were you my anchor, harbour,
shelt'ring tree?
Is there a way back home again?
Does your love still wait
to tether me? 

If I held you close please tell. 
For if I did, in losing you I've
lost myself for good as well. 

Manifesto

The curved, insecure
surface cannot truly
distort. 
This weakness breaks it's
power to impose
falsehoods. 

I refuse to listen; 
the edge of will is
enough. 

No curiosity merits
reluctant truth. 
The meaning of lies is
buried in the fragments. 

It is enough to hear
and not obey. 

Advice For an Unborn Son

Rock the boat
Buck the tide
Give up on hope
Enjoy the ride

Keep your cool
Play the fool 
Stay in the shadows
Be no-one's footstool

Hate those who hate
Love what you can
Assume all's illusion
Be your own man

Don't look for a map
Conform to no rule
Chart your own course
Be nobody's tool

For in the end
You're your own best friend
Trust no-one else
For your heart they'll rend

On Becoming Soulless

Awake, in the
Midnight of the morning,
Chilled and shaking, conscious
Only of reflecting black,
Receding walls. 
Never before have I
Felt so small. 

If there was one of
Whom to ask, I'd set
Before them but one task:
To listen and
Internalise
This analogy: 
     "Before I woke I must've given
      birth, so explaining 'way my
      inner hollow. Yet of even more
      import: was that I bore truly
      mine own stillborn soul?"

Vampyr-like, I embrace the dark,
Mirror for an inhuman state but,
Mirrors I have learned to hate, that
Lie with images of a carapace. 
No hint there of cracks or gaps
Or the true state of being a
Dead
Man
Walking. 

My Elderly Guest

     He said, out of bed arising, "I feel like I just spent the night in a clothes drier with a dead dog," in a soft, slow, gravelly voice. All of his oral emissions ended with an "aargh," perhaps in an attempt to sound piratical or, maybe, simply to express how he felt in a very succinct manner. Verbal shorthand, if you will. Handy, actually, because you always knew whether he was in a good mood, or not. 

A note in credit.

"The Sperm & Eggs of Texture" is but one of several pieces which followed upon the creation of it's title by the incomparable Steve Morton-Toth (just plain old Toth, back in, oh, about 1979 which is from whence this poem dates). Much of what has become, not so much a style, but a method of composition was first worked out in lengthy, compulsive experiments with form. "Speed poetry," as it might be termed, was the result of attempting to harness inspiration in such a way that the finished product was as much of a surprise as was possible, to the author as it was to the first reader. It is in this surprise that I find the measure of the success of any given piece, if any. Collateral interest in consonance, assonance and imagery, over questions of rhyme or even substance, is the remainder of the equation that prompted this work. As a "formula," it has not changed in any substantial way over the intervening decades. I still deny any sense of "craft," preferring to be only a conduit for the content of my subconscious mind. Which allows me to conclude that I seriously doubt whether anyone reading my work could possibly enjoy it more than I did in the writing of it. 

I humbly thank you. 

Lawrence A. Ravenstock, esq.

The Sperm and Eggs of Texture

Before      the release

         some form 
         arduously maintained 
                               composed
                       this 
                               motion
                         of 
                                    cycles
          in straight lines. 

Manipulation, 

      token homage to true
      creation, kept outside the
      pale. 

And so, these rocks

      we've accepted & laid
      to both serve & harm
      join in mute congress 
      with willing flesh. 

And so, the birth of accidents

      Having marked the spot, I
      go to seek medications
      to stopper & salve
      my indentations. 

Mantra

Faith
A word so often heard
Faith
An empty sound that reverberates
Through caverns of thought
Faith
A concept so loud
A notion so proud it defies all
Attempts at comprehension more
Complex than mere definition
Faith
As I understand it is
Belief without knowledge, without
Evidence or foundation except
Faith
Have faith
Keep the faith, baby
Faith to move mountains...
A word so often heard
A word to calm the herd
Loud, loud, louder still
Until I won't think at all
I'll just "moo" and keep the
Faith
I believe in nothing but I'll
Keep the faith
Baby
Baby,
Yeah. 
That's me. 
Full circle. 
Faith. 

Phrases Heard in Passing

"Nah, it's not that. It's sugar. I don't believe in sugar; it's bad stuff, man."

"I need to destroy you one more time."

"The girl who does cartwheels does the vases." 

      The smell of effigies
      signals chaos, entropy

      Systems revolve,
      turn independent,
      turn unrestricted, 
      turn to confusion. 

      Order collapses
      in cosmic collisions and
      the truth is revealed
      amid random destruction. 

Q: "What are those little yellow pills called?"

A: "Speed." 

-: "( ! )"

Panacea

In this, life's torment
Love has a place. 
A small one, mind;
More counterpoint or
Contrast to
Magnify our sorrows. 

Weep your tears, save them
Up in a sacred vessel. 
Drink them down, so
Salty and so sweet, and in
So doing, sustain your
Heart through
One more
Day in Hell. 

And So It Goes...

Old bones grow colder,
Their souls 'neath the boulders,
Earth and landscaped lawns. 
Recollections linger
'Till they, too, begin to moulder. 
Time's soldiers knock off
The pawns. 

The living cling to the notion
That the mind contains some potion
To keep oblivion at bay. 
To stay as actors at eternal play. 

Such hubris! What vanity!
The forgotten hordes must laugh
At that pathetic inanity!

Roped

It seemed so simple. 
Sitting in that
Waiting room chair. 
Reading Smithsonian,
Bright lights and vague
Hospital odours. 
The table to my
Right
Separates
Me from the other, empty
Chair when I realise it
Is
No longer empty. 
Occupied now by
Another, waiting. 
A young woman, and I
Brainless, begin to babble
About old cartoons and
Supermarionation which she's
Probably too young to
Remember. 

Those eyes. 
It was her eyes. 
Sparkling as diamonds which
Left me with
Brainlock. 
Eyes,
Twin lassos. 
I never had a chance. 

Cat Swallow

Come on!
Exercise the cat swallow,
Reveal the wicked throat, fangs
With which to
Cleave and savage
My wet
Silence. 

Sunday 12 May 2013

I Watch the Ants

I watch the ants, marching
Inexorably from the dead
Bird's eye

Future memory: locusts gnaw
My bones as wild, black tears crawl
Down my lover's face. 

Wind, rain, falling leaves;
Is this new world any
Different
From the old? Still
We cry, still we die. 

Still can't fly, weighted by
Withered love. 
My darling, I never
Understood her;
I promised her moonshine
Not the moon, 
Toasted it a thousand
Times and still she
Calls me liar. 
Do you see why?
Perhaps but her blinded eyes
Never will. 

I opened mine just yesterday only
To see distinguished people play
Private parts in public places. 
What good is
It for her to
See again?

Breaking

Violent fear
Rebounds,
Rebuilds

Casts blunt fist,
Urges no reflection;
Reaction
Resists
The glance around
That would reveal
A self to
Itself, 

Deceived. 

Deep Machine Funk

The utility of electricity has
become questionable. 
Elvis knew this when he shot
his television. 
Composing verse on this 
"thinking machine" ignites
a raw nostalgia
for pen & parchment. 
The process was one of
control but, now it is with
controls that I battle. 

Strange, how the idea used to
be the hard part. 
Communing with one's private
muse. Modern times have
flipped
the creative universe. 
Thoughts still surface with
eerie rapidity, as in brain fever
or with bad speed. 
Fixing thought to page is
what now vexes. 

How a product can
humiliate is a conundrum
beyond
my ken. 

Belief Vies With Observation

A well-rounded individual
turns abruptly
aside. 

The lights are dimmed at
an appropriately coincidental
moment. 

The important satellite loses
touch
with synchronicity. 

Perhaps 
the dark is
a simulation. 

Defensive postures can
be
adequately disguised. 

Many things happen at
one time. 

Time is
a machine which
Is always fed. 

On Dreams

Backbrain
Primalarchival
Storied stories
Stored, 
Sleep restored
To a semblance
Of life. 

What horror
That the past
Lasts. 

Eye/Window/30 Seconds

beasts in the infinite
awake

into the prepared intersection

of some national purpose. 

      first light breaks
      the room into day

      quick investigation
      reveals no new signs

      safe to navigate
      the familiar terrain

the daydream continues
on a higher plane


bombs take time to fall

                  •••••••••••••••
                         (reprise)

The design inherent
in the selected view
entrances
the levitating
fakir
for a time

Vacationing in Hong Kong

deafening Chinese
footfalls; 
     interjections. 

all the high women
are polarised. 
approach slowly, 
from the left--

their arrogant
echoes are
your guides
still. 

Monetary Policy

upwind
they discuss
aspects
of Money. 

one, a foreigner,
swift
and glib. 

he baits
the naive all
the while chuckling
to himself. 

A Clown’s Affection For Beauty

He lived to smile
in the circle with
paint-raped face. 

Always falling while
only seeming out
of control. 

Creating funny patterns, 
vast, funny patterns. 

Everything is ordained. 

He dreams in the
silent afterdark of
Pinocchio 
laying under his
mother's skirts, hearing
only lies. 

Everything draws together
in his dream. Those
who watch, they just
laugh and laugh until
they scream. 

Building Meaning

Architecture both includes
And excludes
Space. 
Man's Euclidean attempt to
Impose order upon a
Fractal universe. 
Purpose made
Concrete, however
Futile. 
The Tower of Babel wasn't
Built in a day; pure
Construct of the will, of
Mind made manifest, in
Spiralling structures of
Stone, steel, glass. 
Utility secondary to the
Desire to control
Something. 
Anything. 
Anything to keep the
Worms at bay. 

Acquisition of Knowledge

You orbit my haven,
in which every
object is a sensor, my
vision a phosphor screen. 

Traces remain. 

I've drawn your face since. 
Afterimage superimposed,
multisensual, over the room's
contents. 

An image burned into
my third eye's retina,
impossible
to erase. 

Up the Butt of Theology

You know, 
Jesus should've pulled a
Prodigal, told His Dad
To fuck right off; these
Humans ain't worth it. 

All that suffering,
For nothing. 

Any change in the suffer-meter
Here on Terra Firma?
Hell, no!
And Hell, yes! 'cause that's
Right where we are, folks. 

The bigger the God, the
Bigger the joke. 
Think you're headed somewhere?
Damn straight you are. 

Straight to worm food. 

Amen and kiss your ass
Goodbye. 

One Among Illusions

Hope is just a word, 
A word that's often heard
Spoken
By the have's to the nots
Because those who gots
Believe it's 'cause they deserve
Their bounty. 

Random chance, more than works;
More the luck of birth than
Anything done to deserve what
Life chooses to serve up. 
Black, white, good, evil, be but
Concepts to cover over the
Reality of the common wisdom: 

Shit just happens. 

Tao’s Dark Side

Wake, feeling
Like a salesman
On rounds eternal. 
My apartment, these rooms, 
Some cheap motel...
View cluttered by
Familiar artefacts;
Suitcase of material
Memories chained to
My soul. 

Tired, I want to
Go home. 

Problem. 

The road's so long, 
Home's but a concept, 
Co-ordinates forgotten...
Adrift. 
Feeling....

Trite Question

If with Necessity, 
Invention's mother
And with the Devil
You do deal, 
Then who's the broker
And who's your brother
'Pon life's treach'rous 
Battlefield? 

Friday 10 May 2013

An Aloof Exchange

white noise, 
clouds, 

some word seeds. 
the resultant random
electricity continues
it's fall into
the
mirrored room. 

stasis. 

infinite regression. 

entropy incarnate; no
progress. 

eye joins eye
on the bridge of rain. 
inflection is sense, 
observation a waste. 

minds in motion
grind time too fine. 

Before the Statements


(there  is  a
 break  here) 


A transition in
   consumption. 


Transportation is 
   triumphant 
      over time. 


An ego is as 
   an ego does. 

Untitled

A bedroom at

3:55 in the

morning. 

Why?

No sleep;
don't feel. Inclined. 


Dead space. 

In These Days

My apotheosis is the crow
which in it's sleek sweep stoops
to carcass-feed. 

To peck
at mouldering eyes, over
ripe flesh is 
the only art that matters
when
a pope rates as news
alongside nuclear
war's overkill and
royal bloatings, as
insipid adverts bend 
minds to purchase pointless 
products to swell
the landfill that is our
urban life. 

Let go! Fly and feed on
all the noxious things and by
so doing
end
their power to defile us. 
Thrive in revile; victory for
all who swallow 
all, even
their puke. 

Vindictive Sharing

my love is leaving
as the trees are freezing. 
cold, my heart radiates
ripples in ice, outward, 
burning brown the world, 
life sheathed in an unnatural
glaze 'neath my icicle gaze. 

love is leaving. 
gone the branches, 
lost, the matches. 
i thwart creation's purpose 
living on as entropy's engine. 
this loss of heat i feel 
shall be reflected, inflicted
unto all... 

An Urban Daydream / Sandra

Sweet waitress, 
     on another timeline. 

No lay; no way 
     but we'll still have
     a fine time. 

Play at long acquaintance 
     and promises of lust. 

Hearing the Call


I speak of Death
Of corpses clean with
No taint of sin, with 
Souls pristine.

I speak of Death, 
You say "metaphor." 
What would it take to
Make you see the Reaper's
Real, awake and waiting
Somewhere near? 

Give up pretence, hope
And prayer. All are
Illusion, wishful defence in
Collusion with your fear
That one day soon you
Won't be here.

Wednesday 8 May 2013

Of Revolutions

I hate the quiet and the small, 
The gutless wonders of the world
Who rule in secret, silent
Cells of power, 
Praying 'gainst the justice hour
When streets will bleed
And cathedrals crash. 

The word from poor to poor
Will spread, a virus with
A voice of thunder, like
The brazen head of Magnus:
Let towns be ruined, 
The cities Hell!

Listen to the tolling bells
That strike the hours
To the coming doom
Which can but revive
This cursèd world that
Most do slave to serve. 

Mayhap all 'cept those up
In the tower, whose
Well-deserved fall shall
Mark the hour. 

Tuesday 7 May 2013

Erosion of the Divine

The Hierophant in astral
Rhythm chants his mystic spell
To meld, through wedlock weld,  
Two souls discrete, unique. They he now
Unites in bold alchemic fusion,
Amalgam of essences in collusion.

Where once stood two, now wind and
Water, aether, fire, all of blessèd earth,
Work their weird of transmutation.
First there had stood a sundered pair,
But now a holy whole, enchanted 'neath, Between, betwixt,
Amidst their witnesses of sacred wood.
It steps stalwart forth, a creature new,
Replete with power, purpose; pure product of its occult birth.
Indeed, the eulogy of history has but Now begun
When these two were formed to one.
 
Once Fate heard that, She, loudly
Laughing, did
Decree that, "just the two would never Do,
So let us see, if can they bump it up 
At least to three."

At least that's how the story goes. 

But, given time, this world
Can breach most any wall.
Steel or majick, or even
Fabled adamant.
The most potent spell, 
Just as crystals in pure liquid form, 
Does through entropy decay, 
Leaving all its
Parts asunder, scattered far
Without the slightest clue 
To where they really are.

Alas, though still the pair do dwell
And interact,
No love is left
Within their holy
Pact; no, nothing but a frozen Hell
Where she has her's and
He has his,
And they've both relearned what
Lonely is. 

Devolution

I sit   in my circle
of lamplight fire, daring not
to look up as I feel the walls
recede, keeping
pace with my
devolution. 
Walls, black, empty, echo
the terror of the arboreal past, 
the frozen desert night, 
the Jurassic, lizard-ruled dark. 
Shrunken now, a pale-eyed
mammal, barely capable
of remembering those 
who didn't make it 
back
to this haven. 

I hunker, quiver and wait
for dawn. 

Of Honoured Mem’ry


A dozen short long years
Ago, from fairy skies 
Of slan'drous blue and 
Lying clouds like burial shrouds
Came brutal bolt, aimed 
As mistletoe, evil and true 
Through mind and heart, 
Through very soul it
Flew, news black as 
Devils' bile...  

Struck down, my
Brother, the other me 
And I too far to right
The wrong, sweet vengeance 
For to bring to that Shelob who 
Did the dire dart let fly. 
No mere death would ever 
Do, lest it contain eternities 
Of endless pain 

If in justice the world 
Does turn, then let all of 
Hell my fury guide, my
Sword to hone to cut 
Hardest bone and as 
Thanks to Hell, I'll 
Sacrifice the worthless life 
Of my foe who stole 
From Earth and I a man 
Whose piss be too noble 
To be let on
Her grave 

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