Sunday, 27 September 2009

it is a lie?

Here I am an old
and young person looking
for some (what do they call it?)
children have a word for
it. Or maybe not? What indeed
she says, what indeed is that
is that

On nights of many
yesteryears when the nights
full of fumes and smoke and pulsating
dreams, I danced insanely
These have waned, we were
pained, I am drained. And now
and now, and now
ashes are all that are left, and sometimes
the embers stir, but leave me
unmoved. But some beats
some melodies some dreams
vaguely familiar.

With age love withers.
A strange senescent senility has set
in, and the heart never skips a beat
for anything. And yet one (what
do you call it?)...
Hope? Maybe that-
and I do it, an old and young person
who detests and yet savours
what is that cruel thing they call?
Error? Hatred? Weakness?
Savoir faire? Don't nod, don't say, don't whisper
that it's... experience?

With age the mind wanders.
Into and through strange alleys
and by-lanes. Then a strange cul-de-sac wherein
no truth whaddyacallit resides. Hides a lost
whisper, hides a strange dream. The heavy, rather
unpleasant hangover. After drinking, in the
Dark. For; do we know? Who is it, I ask?
Or perhaps, it only wanders and never
questions. That is the sign.
Of age.

With youth, however, is associated that callousness
I talk of. It is a strange coldness. Another
hangover, from childhood.
I daresay children can be nice, it is a cliche
that they are cruel. Different from adults
inasmuch they do not pretend.
Youth; inevitable pretentious
(now impostor!)
In the afternoons
I feel youthful and cruel.

At night old cold
I stay awake
and break
my heart, thinking
of what never was
and could not be.

It is a lie if I say that ashes are all that are
left, with an occasional ember. For with
age, when the passion dies out
a new sense emerges. It is not that
dreams are our only company.
It is an understanding.

(Of the birth that was death
and the death that was birth.
And the life that was breath
And the reconciliatory mirth.)

And an understanding.
So much understanding.

It is a lie.

Wednesday, 23 September 2009

do you call it dead.

Staring at the edge of a precipice, only a terrace with plants in pots, and the finite sky beyond, staring and staring until the prophecy becomes an unmentionable poem, and an unthinkable thought....why must we always think that which should not must not be thought?

I hate poetry, you shout to the finite sky, a mute agonized shriek, and who can prophesy that which cannot happen? Or that cannot be spoken? Then you sigh and the gathering clouds make the finitude more emphatic and unbearable.

Then a flash of lightning ends it all. Against the stark heavy sky a lonely tree stands charred. A mere silhouette, an aesthetic oddity, a lost dream. You turn your eyes away as they were always meant to be turned away. Your heart skips a beat and then returns to normal. Away in the horizon it rains in torrents. But you can only feel it in the distance, it may never come at all.

You turn away as you were always meant to. Away from the terrace and the sooty sad figure and the heavy greyness. Into the room you walk alone. Warm with artificial lighting and with wooden countenance you survey the mahogany and teak. They called it comfortable.

Do you call it dead?

Wednesday, 16 September 2009

wherein she laments for the lost touch

the city
cloys on the senses
like an old
whore with cheap
as a beggar does for alms
for intercourse

and then
she dies
near the nostrils
and cries
her last cry
don't leave

but leave we must
as the incense makes us sick
incense is also offered to
lost gods

Monday, 14 September 2009

if only the butler did it

Well, what can I say? I am an oaf though not obnoxious. Hardly endeared myself to the Rhodes Committee by refusing to answer the first question. Which was, "Why do you think you should get this scholarship? Why not someone else?" So I said, "I don't think that I can answer this question." And today, two people refused to have coffee with me in BCl. Everybody hates me. I need another haircut if I am to succeed in life.

Righto. Right ho. Today I went to Milonda's 4 times! To faff around i.e., where I met my dear friend Batman. Whose batman? For shame, he is no valid valet, he is a superhero, a Lennon shenanigan, while he (you know who!) is Rainman! Hee hee. Oh stupid! So then dear stoner-loner told me about how kinky Goblin Market utterly twisted...woe for the little girls corrupted so early by their ahem!

OK. I am so sleepy only, but about to defrost my mind with Arnoldian prose. When he began the dialogue with his own mind, why did he not stop to consider whether he was really spreading sweetness and light or some mildewed (sticky) raspberry jam that stinks miles and miles until all the Margarets and Marguerites and Margrits and Margots get the drift, eh?

I am sick of literary allusions. I realize this post sucks. (d)Over Beach i.e., I am not over Beach. If only the butler did it!

You can see how excaaite I am. What can I say? Spenser, Sophocles, Seneca, the Rossettis. Read the last of the lot. After them three with names beginning with S-es. Why do I exist?

My laptop just answered the question.
His name is Lenovo Thinkpad.