Followers

Saturday, April 30, 2005

The mid-air hand clap

Quickly turns the time
pencils lines upon a face;
in life this shouldn't be.
This morning cold as milk
you sat, waiting to find out
was it him or her?

Always surfaces
never reaching above.
Our children eat poison.
Liberty makes money for the banks.
Clear the table
load the dishwasher
spread the jobs out.

Look up once in a while!

Death is coming to the U.S.A.

Such a history has side effects.

Friday, April 29, 2005

Seals

A liquid tide feathers
the rocks with it's whiter cover.
Birds cause berries to fall
from thorny vines.
Olive hands of oak
grip the messy rocks.

From warm cars
to freezing cliff tops
We came to watch
these gentle sad faces
turn amongst the waves
The rich detail
of their features glowing
like a warning

The watchful ambassadors
of another realm

Thursday, April 28, 2005

Your heat burns my wings

Born afresh
in every curve
and carving

once again
warmly ourselves
All corners cleared
of cobwebs

No secrets between friends
Bright gifts are unwrapped
ribbons on the bed
blue flowers

Harder hands have not
been held than these
or more beautifully
designed
kissed with suddenness

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

Her eyes flashed dark and golden

Writing is in itself a perilous journey, an act that creates it's own allegory. Hunched over a table writing you are vulnerable to attack, defenseless against madness and destruction. Anyone could just walk up to you and stick a knife in your back. So maybe you get yourself a gun and a bunch of friends and then set out to find the TRUTH. Nature seems determined to stop your progress; you are hit by hard rain, landslides and wild animals stoically wait for the weak to be off their guard.
Around the hazy orange campfire, that snaps and hisses,the group of nomads came to the agreement that they would defend themselves. The weapons at first seemed awkward in their hands, but as their confidence grew they seemed to have a clearer view of their purpose. They realized they were always keeping some thing at bay.
On the second day they take in a twelve year old boy, he teaches them that the dignity of childhood is silence. Distrust is already growing within the gang.

Saturday, April 23, 2005

The rooks are the rank and file

Listening to the radio to fill the gap that is left. Two mugs on the table, double set of dirty dishes.
Who's going to feed the spiders now. I should have let you teach me chess earlier, not two days before you went.
My sadness is real
that's what makes me happy.

M. has left today, back to London, then from there he is uncertain. We hugged each other before he boarded the departing bus. It was a genuine embrace. I no longer have time for false displays to prove I'm not up tight. I want to be economical with my touch, so that it becomes more than a social device. Rather an honest hand shake than an awkward hug acted out with hollowness. It's easy to fake it and carry on faking it until you get so far from yourself that a way back seems treacherous and foolhardy.
I have jumped through hoops with a painted face; others laughter buried me and I snuggled down deep in my death womb.
Why would I want to crawl out now, and risk the vulnerability of birth?

Wednesday, April 20, 2005

in the city

The week in London has been unsettling having to break the rhythm of days at the cabin, fit in with others schedules. I look forward to the quite garden, three Spartan meals and the weight training regime.

Saturday, April 16, 2005

Along side a flourishing garden

DOG ON HIS BACK

I lie on my back
and squirm
wanting you to rub my belly
sometimes that makes you
want to kick me

I squirm and grind my bum
into the dirt
"Rub my belly"
I ask with my eyes

I know it makes you sick
and want to slap me
your smacks are your only
touch of me

Of coarse I love you
Touch me again

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Notes on Shelley



He was perpetually examining his skin and the skin of others. Mrs Newton's daughter remembered one day as he was sitting in an armchair talking to her mother and father, he suddenly slipped down to the ground twisting about like an eel. They asked him what was the matter and he replied in an impressive tone, "I have the Elephantiasis".

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

Notes on Nietzsche



Nietzsche had lost the ground under his feet because he possessed nothing more than the inner world of his thoughts, which incidentally possessed him more than he it. He was uprooted and hovered above the earth, and therefore he succumbed to exaggeration and unreality.

Nietzsche had been on my program for sometime, but I hesitated to begin reading him because I felt I was insufficiently prepared. At that time he was much discussed, mostly in adverse terms, by allegedly competent philosophy students, from which I was able to deduce the hostility he aroused in the higher echelons. The supreme authority of coarse was Jakob Burckhardt, whose various critical comments on Nietzsche were bandied about. Moreover there were some persons at the university who had known Nietzsche personally and were able to retail all sorts of unflattering tidbits about him. Most of them had not read a word of Nietzsche and therefore dwelt at length on his outward foibles, for example, his putting on airs as a gentleman, his manner of playing the piano, his stylistic exaggerations, idiosyncrasies which got on the nerves of the good people of Basel in those days. Such things would not have caused me to postpone the reading of Nietzsche, on the contrary they acted as the strongest incentive.

Among my friends and acquaintances I knew of only two who openly declared themselves adherents of Nietzsche. Both were homosexuals; one of them ended by committing suicide, the other ran to seed as a misunderstood genius.

-From: Memories, Dreams, Reflections by Carl Jung

Sunday, April 10, 2005

Into the fresh air

The mind creates boundaries, walls and frameworks that are projected outward and become concrete political realities, visible representations, laws and moral codes.

Negative thinking is one of the highest forms of understanding. The process of confronting the self is not a withdrawal from the world, not an isolating process. To be is to be related.

Friday, April 08, 2005

So much seems to contradict itself

Who was I at school, joker, bully, pet, coward? Sensitive and brutal is how I grew at school.
You can not truly 'play' in the playground, but you can learn about life outside and how to survive it. In my opinion truancy should be encouraged by all self proclaimed reformers. And revolutionaries beware! The children safeguard their play in the brutal nursery.

I walk passed my old primary school, 16yrs. old, fresh out of that "hell hole" My younger brother is 6, he is sitting on his own on a wall at the edge of the playground. To me he looks friendless, lost, just sitting there, moving his feet in the dust. "Run through the gates and hold him" I'm sure a voice inside is telling me, but I have learnt not to listen too well.
Swallowing lumps of you is hard, it hurts after a while.

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

Gravity as another element

O sky above! O pure deep sky! You abyss of light! Gazing into you I tremble with divine desires

When two people enter into a relationship of any kind, they seem to lose, give up or abandon part of themselves. These parts then form a separate individual that tries it's hardest to ruin true friendship.

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

Don't let the fire go out

This world, the eternally imperfect, eternal and imperfect image of a contradiction.

He whom the flames of jealousy surround at last turns his poisoned sting against himself, like the scorpion.
- Nietzsche


I never could understand those snakes
snakes of spring
were they fucking or just trying to keep warm?
Same with the cats "Earth and "Boots"
curled up together at the back of the wood pile
on a sponge foam bed.
But I guess we're not the only animals
that sometimes need to hold on to someone.

Monday, April 04, 2005

Sympathetic magic

Ideologies with their fossilized language must be continually re-examined.

....propaganda oversimplifies, denies complexity and fatal entanglements

....to destroy the rationalistic fallacy that language alone, language divorced from experience can communicate human experience from one person to another

.....a hierarchy of artistic achievement on the mere difficulty or laboriousness of the process of composition

Reading: Arthur Adamov

Sunday, April 03, 2005

No salvation

The hope of salvation may merely be an evasion of the suffering and anguish that spring from the reality of the human condition.

BAD FAITH- The first act of bad faith consists in evading what one can not evade, in evading what one is.

....a mind laying foundations of it's salvation through self-examination and a merciless recognition of it's own predicament.

If we find the courage to display our feelings openly, we become vulnerable to tragic misunderstandings.

Saturday, April 02, 2005

Spring and Existential theatre

Don't rush planting seeds, just because the time seems right, wait for the right conditions(if too wet seeds may rot) Early potatoes can be put in around this time (april) Also leek, lettuce, onion, parsnip, pea, radish, spinach, and turnip seed.


Existentialist theatre presents the sense of the irrationality of the human condition in a form of highly lucid and logically constructed reasoning. While the theatre of the absurd strives to express it's sense of the senselessness of the human condition by open abandonment of rational devices and discursive thought. It is this striving for integration of subject matter and form in which it is expressed, that separates the two.

Friday, April 01, 2005

I used to like Plato.......

You know how much I used to like Plato. Today I realize he lied. For the things of this world are not a reflection of the ideal, but a product of human sweat, blood and hard labour. It is we who built the pyramids, hewed the marble for the temples and the rocks for the imperial roads, we who pulled the oars in the galleys and dragged wooden ploughs, while they wrote dialogues and dramas, rationalized their intrigues by appeals in the name of the fatherland, made wars over boundaries and democracies. We were filthy and died real deaths. They were 'aesthetic' and carried on subtle debates.
Tadeusz Borowski-
'This Way for the Gas, Ladies and Gentlemen'