Tuesday, August 08, 2017

Narrowband

Years 1 to 17: all een
Years 18 to 34: all null
Years 35 to 45: all een

A pie, Low Saxon, up high on my skull,
Through a lifetime’s noise, either “een” or “null”
Notch each year – remnants of a lifetime’s noise.

“Een” is happy and “null” is not, up high,
At the apex of the sutures, then I
Felt for one weary width no worthy joys.

And how long and wide, all null, this next block?
Foregone, does my outré confession shock
Those who loved me in years after the boy’s

Notches were made? I was not happy, friend,
In our time. These blocks of een and null bend
Like a triskelion’s legs, when, in poise,

This next block is coming.

Sunday, July 30, 2017

For Woo, Who Made Me Milk With Cloves

A private sensation—
Explosions that inhere
In the indentation
And sacral diapir
Above my bum crack, where
The buttocks’ contours let,
And a pocket of air
Formed between in the sweat,
Once risen, egresses;
This private sensation
Is felt, effervesces
To mark the privation
Of awareness of it,
But could fizz like Cava,
Still I, like a spirit
Barred from his cadaver,
Benighted, may not know
Sensations inside you.

Monday, July 03, 2017

Experiment with a Sunbeam

There is a sun spot on the floor in the doorway, farthest facet of a sunbeam that penetrates through the window of an adjacent room. Slowly closing the door to my bedroom, I watch to see what will happen when it reaches the spot. I expect the beam will be blocked, but instead it bounces off the back of the door and remains on the floor as a reflected beam. The glint then moves ahead of the closing door, which cannot gain on it.

Like the sunbeam constant on the closing door,
Glimpsing its reflection moving on the floor
With an independent will,
Enticingly towards the threshold sill,
I am thus barred, divided by rejection,
A constant desiring its reflection,
Clothed by the self's conspiracy,
In so nude a bum in the mirror see
The object of desire.

Thursday, June 22, 2017

Below Solomon's Temple

"I find, if I shake my balls," grabs my attention as the opening to a statement, spoken as if into my ear. It makes me glance up.

The voice that sounded so close belongs to a man who is actually some way off, apparently illustrating his words with an unfortunate mime. He and a woman are approaching from above, descending along one of the permutations of pathway. Although I can see them, it seems that they can't yet see me sat here in the valley, veiled as I am by mist. It must also be that the mist is increasing the amplitude of his interjection, his ejaculation so to speak, which continues, "it makes me go stiffer."

His display of ingenuity in overcoming impotence is suspended when he notices me sat on this bench, suddenly distinct among buttercups, their yellow at once accenting the white mist. I hear him say to the woman, quieter but still surprisingly discernible at this distance: "Do you think he heard me?"

Wednesday, May 31, 2017

Skele


Saturday, May 13, 2017

Atlas

I can only settle in a position that injures me. Lying prone, each voiced exhalation a soothing groan, I bring my hand underneath my body, bend it forwards and use my outer wrist to apply pressure to my tummy. I have fallen asleep this way only to be roused by an ache in my hand, and have not been able to pluck my guitar strings properly for three months until the tendons have healed. Despite this, I still do it; my fingers generally tremble, dexterity is never quite recovered, and it sometimes feels like I am re-learning to hold a pencil.

As a boy, I would fall asleep with my neck flat against the headboard. The rim of the headboard would be wedged between the topmost vertebrae, so that the globe of my head tilted back onto the wall. I think that some gradual realignment may have occurred over the years, where there are nerves and arteries, because I now walk with such imbalance.

The human flesh miasma encumbers
A pledge to increase policing numbers.
I cannot, cannot as one who lumbers
Abroad,
Aggregate avoirdupois of slumber's
Headboard
Bear; the sky and the oceans it umbers
Bear.

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

The Scapegoat

At ten past eight,
And for two undifferentiated whiles,
I vacillate,
Migraine beneath my occipital condyles,
In this passageway,
Uncertain of where I am in the sequence
Of my day.
AM or PM? I, whom, in their frequence,
Phantoms affirm,
First stamp one foot squarely off-gait on the floor,
Pivot, infirm,
And then stride as purposefully as before,
But the other way.