Hormonal Discharge

It seemed all nice and pretty at first, but
then it began to morph into beauty, furthering
its imperfection – then hormonal discharge
necessary – then a liquid I didn’t even know
I had in there.

Just like me, you struggled for finesse and
needlery – they stand to life as a fork
stands to spiral architecture.
For once, I wish you to experience
a new, stupor-like felicity, companion to
a youth’s consumption.

Heavens whirlpool fast their fleshlings as
a Holy Ghost of golden sex and smirks,
flowing flesh poised to burst
as expectant as any day it was before.

Abortion Clinics

If, late at night, I
trawl to my doorstep into
smut- soaked snow, is it
fair - to let myself
not understand it all?
If no son of the Almighty One
can escape the glory of his Father,
It seems perfectly reasonable that
the Holy Ghost might be found
lovingly hovering over
our abortion clinics.

Grinding Counterparts

The way a machine accommodates even the
most displeasingly grinding counterparts,
one hand restlessly transferred weight
from angle
to angle, eyes ogling over every rib and bones
that now you might well say are
no more.

If craving inordinately enfiates,
Less is genuine, she must have thought.
Less is always good, for it
stands on its own.

More Poetry Exercises - 25/12/08

I.

Body Exercise: Falling Asleep

The slide can do anything
that my pill cannot. Seemingly
stationary and motionless,
the sharp angle does not reveal itself
until I approach, knowingly, the maw
as late as possible.

I relieve unpleasant shades of past
impacts, the slide approaches the apex of
its race in fractures – what am I to do?
I can’t, if my pill cannot.


II.

Diamond poem (compressed)

Nothing
IS NOT, sterile
waving, screaming, waking
not there yet, worms, exactness, dust
whispering, birthing, loving
accord-ing, moving
Desire



III.

Simile exercises

as blue as a highway treetop
as rough as a roundel
as lonely as an a
as tall as a sky
as talkative as you, in sunny springtime
as eager as a irrident thought
crying like a storm
praying like dreaming with eyes wide open
reliable as desolation
as expensive as lust itself
as mad as a rose
milling around like April to Winter
common as life
regular as a song of boredom
as pretty as the ‘you’
as reluctant as a grown-up newborn
as smooth as semen
as quick as a cirrus
running like a cascade of thought
creeping like a newly formed sentiment
as loud as a dream of the future
as nervous as a coiling mesh of optic fibers
as green as a mind on its wrong day
as angular as a song
as mellow as sex
as sure as a second before understanding
shaking like a brittle bone
as rich as breath itself
as perky as the young to the jaded
growing like a futureless thought

selection1:

as mellow as the ‘you’
as pretty as sex

milling around like life
common as April to Winter

as mad as the young to the jaded
as perky as a rose

Paste:

As mellow as ‘the you,’ similarly
milling around, like life when it is
detestable to you the most,
Uninspired boredom is stifled and
pervasive, common as April
to Winter, cunning disguised within the
perkiness of a rose,
pretty as sex.
You are mad, as the young to the jaded, and
it disapproves of your petty rebellions,
of your
-not so new- similes.


IV.

Laundry poem

Inane, cavernous, a nightmare from
another world, not for humans;
the very opposite of what it was
made for.

For we made it for prettiness and fresh
inspiration, but – no water-
the earth and glow of unnatural
mechanisms belongs to it,
a place of troubled, contorted thoughts.

One does not clear his mind
by a laundry machine.

More Poetry Exercises -17/12/08

I.

Window Exercise

So old it appears boredom,

carved in a square stone –

Higher stands the sunset

dart, cutting edge.

Color after color aftercolor

after – Camera Ob / scurant –

I’d rather float in the open,

in between those two

distant, well lit floors.

Hot beverage beckons –

In before thunderstorm.

II.

Widow Exercise

‘I have water in my glass.

I have water in my glasses,

it keeps nesting in there no

matter how much I try to

hold it back.

I have water in the glass I

hold, toasting to you! who do

not need to stifle your shaking

hand at every sip, who is out

there, rolling on rock

bottom,

Spiteful of me.

I have water in my stomach,

it roams and sloshes like living

fire would.

III.

Mono- syllabic Exercise

See?

Such is why we are one.

It is in ours to be lost in

One of us - any of us – all of

Us.

Be with us. Be us. Be

One.

IV.

Love Metaphor Exercise

It seems mysteriously contrived at

first – it is still, like a newly-hatched

cadence of forward movement – then

it becomes me. You.

V.

Sandwich Exercise

They'll spend the summer

fending off bad thoughts, bent on

crushing the garden—

their failure a putrid testament,

a steam let off slowly.

(After Joshua Beckman)

A Few Poetry Exercises - 16/12/08

I.

dare – genuine – accommodate – counterparts – angle – transferred

The way a machine accommodates even the

most displeasingly grinding counterparts,

Da’re restlessly transferred her weight from angle

to angle, eyes ogling over every rib and bone

of a woman, that now you might well say is

no more.

Less is genuine, she must have thought.

Less is always good.

II.

Body Part Exercise – Hair

The nest of all filth that is

mankind is your hair, my love.

Your rigoring libido oils off

every tip as drops of teary,

aphonous vinegar

that want to hurt me at every step.

The guilty pleasure of my earthly

days is you hair: my love.

When you’re too rapt to notice I

pluck, just one at a time,

let it slither in your glass of water

for the night.

III.

Circular Poem

A love that never ends.

Fork in one eye,

spoon jutting among ribs,

criss-cross hatch all over

your skin.

A love that never ends.

IV.

False Memory Exercise – reincarnation

A few minutes later, it was into flesh

that I was copied. In the damp recesses of

some netherworld, a whirlpool of the

matter I was to become steadily spun,

steadily dripped in the freshly-baked mold.

A few minutes ago, I was nothing: it took

a blink of an eye, to make me nothing again.

V.

Home Exercise – Holy Mary icon

Hail Mary. It is only proper of

you to have such a simple name.

No matter the excruciatingly tirading

toil one might be under, it is easy,

and good, to remember those few

letters.

You have seen your share of ghosts,

more than I have seen, from above the

arch: I feel safer at night, knowing that

you intercede, in my name, to them.

NightLine

I.

Dim above and beyond them all,

folding further it craves clouds

as nutriment.

It will entice them: disembodied, yet

it has a black and white sketch

ready for each and all.

II.

The young girl shudders and folds further

into her thin, dim nightgown as her hand

inelegantly scours the door and finally

yields, her body quickly disappearing into

the open car.

Night air turns intangibly electric as a

single twist of the key accords a myriad of

tiny blue- red- white lights, a concert from

the inside, a ritual of protection from the outside.

Notes on The NighFlight ring crystalline clear in

her ears as she slowly slips into unconscious

peace- the house and its motherly malevolence

cannot touch her here. Angrily glaring

just beyond the lawn, it is not human.

Right now, the car is.

III.

Between Hillsdon Rd. and Apparition Dr.

a snowflake parades. It leads

as on its own, and craves filing

its nails against your porch, all

night long.

Fast, it falls from the night clouds but

then the air - it feels intangibly

electric.

Afraid to burn too quick, it rushes the backdoor

window and slides sideways, ready for action.

IV.

Disillusioned, a clerk of average skill and even

less prowess, indentured to a credit institution whose

name at times he couldn’t utter himself, has a

curious pastime on the commute home, every day

between 19.30 and 20.43: he wedges his head in

between his left hand and window - and looks outside.

He likes not to be seen in almost all circumstances,

but only there he can do so with power.

He can be disembodied eyes, I’m here

and I know you but you can’t feel

me. In my mind, I have power over you.

Yet, tonight it is different. The snow by the wayside

is already spurring a desperate, relinquishing grey and

most windows are sealed black. A twist and

rumble of the tram car,

yet it is different. His eyes are

already closing, the wedge falling apart. As he

slips into unconscious peace, far in the distance a car door slams shut.

V.

Though I am safe below my duvet I suddenly think

there is something terrifying about the very idea

of living in a house – of living.

The permanent uneasiness of disembodied

eyes looms against the windowpane; at any given time

I can still be harmed.

I giggle nervously and fold further

within my duvet. What Friedrich saw in a

monk and the seashore violates me

within my very own nest.

VI.

There, brother! he dashes forward and wraps his frozen

hand around the sculptured forms of a streetlamp,

consuming desire, sliding in circles faster and faster as if the halting of universal entropy entirely depended

on his enticing that frivolous gal, night breeze.

Humming, a line of trucks stuck at a red light or

maybe a tram subdued far off, thanks - but I would

just like to sit here and look at his quick

body fast slivering, his ghost already part extracted,

donning a dewey spacesuit poised for launch.

The frozen hand detaches and he hits the curb full force, ready for action.

VII.

The one difference between

a January night

and any other night is that

you

are not there.

Yet, I know for sure

a part of

this nervous slumber is

in you.

Why

It seemed all nice and pretty at first, but

then it began to turn into beauty, furthering

its imperfection – then hormonal discharge

necessary – then a liquid I didn’t even know

I had in there.

My act that wants to be a cog, but it would have

to take the place of at least two of yours; it ends

up rolling down my doorsteps hapless, seemingly

ignorant of other cogs but still there, waiting for a

magnetic pull to work its magic.

If you give me an extra second I swear I will

make it work this time, I will attach it to an

internal organ but then I’ll think – why?- and I

might decide it works better as a eked frill than

a functional appendix.

My word - ends up glued as an extra line in

your well-balanced poem, awkward waving

after the final goodbye, embarrassed glancing thru

windows of a car stuck at a red light- twice.

Short Life

Post stretches of strange desert fire I

chose to leave the short life as conch

shell in a miasmatic twilight, up to

the moment I will know why I made

myself go this far without noticing.

Wind blows from two simultaneous

directions, I cannot tell which one

scorches the most. I envy and miss You,

who sleeps half in a tomb decay does

not dare, half in the shivering heart of

a quasar.

Sagebrush scratches the lacquer at my

calf as I bury the conch shell- which is

just a shut, stone-dry deaf mussel but no

one will notice- in the chilly, uncouth bed

which currents wrestle by way of laughter.

In the double iris grasping the water

gloom I was giving it short life, rash that

scratches into seasons which are no more;

Come rust my joints will ache and

we will be incommensurably distant.