Parts I to VIII together (i think its done)
all of the movement, frozen
society transformation, paralysed
contimplations shivering upon a cross, lost
Blinding flux machine speed lust for life but that life's not Life i tell you, he said, scratching his tannin beard a timeless forgotten old man, dying, always dying...
So all of us are waiting,
we stand firm in our pocket,
cold, our muscles shaking,
sent to the back of class.
All you want is definition,
all you want is contextualisation,
but this is the end
the end, end, end,
of time -
- a final stutter before all-stop.
impotent desire of Eliot wrote
students sitting-steps smoke-till-they-choke
watching cars dart by under a hazy blue dome of irish light
the sky now so far away
we've wandered into a swamp,
and we're struggling,
quick-sand has its heavy grip,
sucking down thighs and eyes,
calves, fingertips, toes beneath ground...
there is no place to go, no goal...
lost in darkness blinded by the light.
a young man stretches
upon the summit sketches
lost in the ambience
of a sunset transience
eyes all in gold,
hands feeling the air,
unfold in the air.
in awe he surrenders
to the divinity of space
in a crazed illusion answers stick to him like leeches
covering his flesh to breach all breaches;
where were you when i captured the slime when I took these streets and splayed them through the page?
livid with the fear i took to rage and smeared the veil with defacation, and with such skill!
(some of my best work yet)
even though i cannot hear my voice.
magpies bicker and rattle around the roofs of suburb houses, five for silver, blues and golds.
delciately detailed panorama's flowing.
i see the filth in oily shores.
i feel the creek of lonely floors, the squeak
of rats and doors and springs recoiling as he turns
in the darkness -
how often he left his good-time prostitute, only to emerge again,
back to the sphere of instant slobbering desire.
the sky now so far away
a flash of crystal light in the twilit neighbourhood,
and burst! bang!
his body jerks with the shock, electric...
as silence slowly returns.
my eyes rove the streets below looking for a danger, some devious foriegn stranger, an enemy of some sort so i can know, that there in him lies the problem... and not in myself.
abortion buckets exist.
i'm within a sickness which penetrates an emanation of dimming
lost, and confusing...
without a node.
and cloudless, without water or depths,
a canvas cloudless the sky the breath stuck on exhale harmful, pin-prick pinch, twitch, self-torture in the type -
pin-prick! static blink.
i will not go. i will not go so firmly out of the light, i will fight,
for this hallucination?
a lucifer nation?
incarceration a sarcophagus tombal inhaling,
ailing, are you ailing my mother? mother, are you really going to die?
father, father, did you really have to fly?
Fire, fire, will you really burn?
Rejuvinate (the original sin?)
Rejuvinating Original Sin with every new Creation... and yet...
seeing the gradual decline, degeneration... and yet.
feeling the bulge of walls, suffocation.
And yet. I cannot be nostalgic.
And yet. Here there's no retreat.
Now there's only this, and yet,
possibles impossibly hidden in this heavy mist,
impossibly hidden in the burgeoning grey beyond,
enliven, the humblest thoughts of nought and song,
the fabulous dance of time, even in decline
And in this gyration some particular node will twang and be invigorated to incessant vibrations high pitched resonances will often blur, become one,
and yes, Believe.
And yet - Time is falling - and yet -
Desire is burning.
And yet, lips are smirking...
and yet and yet,
Eliot is learning.
"Enter the Owl"
Night has fallen. world is there, changed, inverted.
Translucant shapes on the window pane,
spectral bodies scroll across the window pane.
a morphosing myriad - the invisible surface always staying the same.
this screen of dream upon the window pane their canvas always remainging the same. The Flame
burns not the real,
only the shadows it reveals.
never a tear or the surreal scream be ignored... eyes have dialated with their force of motion, their texture manipulates the pulp of Mind,
( )Don't give up the Race.
Hope struggles in a deep grey beyond -
wriggles through a black warm soil. Untangling
into a flush of air - blind
in a sudden sense of space
tears cleaning into revealing a lunar midnight landscape,
hugging the depths of a moon-lit lake,
crystal waters to remove the heavy grime,
an element to cleanse the logg'ed slime.
some time... some time...
an element to desperse this heavy time.
crystal waters suffuce, suffuce shame, too element
hearty... voice in my brain...
element heary, hearty, starting... voices in my brain...
a muddle, and brown puddles...
oh where might we recover the crystal frame - that Flame!
In the future incarnation of the idea's conrete plane?
Or in the wanderings, of a mind and guided mind -
between us... the ghost of consciousness,
between us... the language of creation,
us, the frame.
reflecting a flame on the Window Pane.
reflecting the Flame.