Wednesday, May 21, 2014

It is Well with the Abode

It is Well with the Abode

Denizens of the docuverse like changeable days when it hails,
Homemade jam, an honesty box and following New Forest trails,
But know these to be shadows.

I defer to this house, it knows better!
I defer to that yurt on a virgate they call "Dolutell".

Gary Turk sermonizing brown-jumper'd doggerel, or Plato's
Assertion that looking up is in the mind, and the rest shadows?

I defer to this house (it knows better).
If it flirts to reopen a drawer that I closed, it is well.

It is well with the house that I wait on its initiative,
And well with my work to accede to what the house thinks proper.
I defer not to those with whom, for whom, plenty of us live:
The Puritan, the Sulk, the insidious Potential-lopper.

Sopping past, I awake with my past as before, sopping pasts,
Empty a tub of Brylcreem on my head; and osteoblasts
Degrading the base of my antlers at last cause them to shed.
Propensities in past lives were adapted by those who led
Revolts or starved peoples, and war was my browbeating husband:
Firebrands, emperors and all the feudal powers' escutcheoned
Magnates indoctrinated me, and I had thought that their views
Were my own, their lusts my own. Like men who, by piecemeal, abuse
Their partners till they are living a life of perpetual
Unwitting unfulfillment, concocting a perceptual
Illusion so that a wife's husk ends up attending stock car
Racing meets, like those men who have turned their blithe wives into scar
Tissue, each pope, each hunter of stags, each warmonger, each king
That presided over past lives prevented me from glimpsing
Inner perceptions; and that is why I defer to the site,
The henge, the house and to my intercessor’s songs in the night:
“Look up, away from the sky, in your mind, and then you will know.”
The writer has a melanoma, shouts out of a window
At the sun: "Fuck off incandescence, shadow casting shadows –
There are deserts and pestilence and this thing on my face grows
Because you are a shadow of something more real but toxic!” 

Saturday, May 10, 2014

A puff of plosive air to define myself

1. A precariat, but not feckless
2. A pariah, but that's what other people do to you
3. Pyrotechnical in my self-pity
4. A pragmatics-ferret, compensating for not being able
    to read faces or transports of prosody
5. The Peter Pan of musique concrète!