Were you ever called a whore?

 

 

We fall,
and hard,
and in the shadows,
prick ourselves on snags,
that tear our clothes;
grazed and cut,
we stagger on –
Impressions, ideas, fancies!
Of these have we been disabused.

But is this spring,
come again?

Lovely,
yesterday,
in the bright sunlight,
to see you,
felt green hat in among the photo clouds,
apple suedes on the gallery’s damp floor.

Melvyn,
and I,
merrily circling with you the light cloud images,
my nostrils full of pollen spikes.
The pictures:
wisps of trailing dreams churning in ‘scapes of infinite blue;
dark clouds, too.

Photographs in two time places,
caught;
at once, all:
the one and tother.

So excitement swells,
and everything besides us quells,
because the knowing of itself,
knows,
and dares beyond the frames;
to skirt knowingly the unsaid;
to want beyond the wounded past,
to pull things,
once again,
inside out.

In whimsy’s currents flow these thoughts,
these feelings,
these drives;
eddies swirling in these waters,
so that as you sit,
on a summer’s day,
it moves,
a mirror to everything, above.
The wavelets on the surface,
hammered into shape,
burn, bite and dazzle;
the sun’s flames leaping and dancing on the ripples.

In the basement,
on the concrete floor,
your Y proneness shifts,
releasing knees on black-clad thighs;
two pendulums swinging,
brushing;
yawing metronomes in the cool,
coolness of my, desultory thoughts.

Oh, what am I saying?
Feelings like reveries walk along these silver lips straying langerously.
These myths are too soon made,
carried one to the next,
one-on-one,
until contained no longer,
become new truths.

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Dysmorphia as a reaction to the nothingness of reality.

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I like the idea of a competing tension between the nothingness of Being and material fullness as corporeal dysmorphia.

At the heart of Being there is nothing but the emotional drive to acquire a cultural identity. That identity gives name to that inner emptiness from which it is born, and provides it with a carapace that thickens over time, shrouding a vast hollow scape in a shell.

And thus consciousness arises, conscious of itself in thoughts, those Wittgensteinian language processes: the growing sense of self, the I am voice (or voices) endlessly providing the emptiness echo chamber of our collective inner world with noise (occasionally music), seemingly tangible, but really for the most part, a collection of reducted scripts, and cultural conditioning, like a colourful striped beachball bouncing against the backdrop of an otherwise forgettable 4D lanscape.

But it is the very silence, the unanswered prayer, the yawning void within, that gives meaning to this demanding emptiness. Abetted by a carousel of emotions, wooed and smoothed by mind, endless shifts are animated around this dull unresponsive void-like quality, the death zone, the disquieting nothingness, as dark as a black hole, and in so being, is the numb quality of nothingness brought to life. The tense dynamic, the dullness personified through animated lust, at last spawns a tangible, hopeful, dysmorphia.

At last, the dysmorphic creation that results from the time spent in the pursuit of escape from one’s nothingness, one’s embraced neurosis, into an even greater nothing, while on the way, convincing, tricking, cajoling, soliciting, others to join in more and more non-activity in social interaction because nothing begets as effectively nothing as nothing itself.

Capitalism, for instance where the pursuit of value for its own sake, has become an end in itself. Nothing is more pleasing to the merchant than selling air in pop corn or in mint chocolate for a value it cannot by its very nothingness possess. That is the absolute end, to create something of material value from nothing: the supreme achievement of the inner dysmorphic neurosis.

And if this makes no sense, then it has indeed failed to turn nothing into something, but then, as it begun as such, nothing, so it can hardly have lost that which it did not have, and so, in nothingness there’s a transformative potential which is its only inherent value, its skill at attracting to itself more of its own nothingness. The grand ability to create an anxious buzz that is intense enough to draw to it so much more than the actual silence emanating from it.

And finally anything is better, isn’t it, than one’s own inner silence? That bottomless well from which all loneliness springs and all society eventually must return.

The Ginger Line

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Dedicated to the memory of Steven Hawking, RIP.

 

The Ginger Line

 

Destination: Canada Water.

The next station is Surrey Quays.

Doors will open on the right-hand side.

Exit here for Goldsmith’s College.

 

Everyday caught

In the labyrinth of mind,

Where dreams,

Desires

And lust,

Collude.

 

In the cerebellum

Fragments flash cerebrum bright:

Wheels in tunnels burn,

      A neural screech amplified deep,

As waves of electrons churn,

     And in multiple places keep.

 

This stop:

– Birth –

Is in Westminster!

 

It’s time:

 

Do you love me?

DO YOU LOVE ME?

           Yes, No, Ohhh (the audience).

 

In the space-time continuum,

The labyrinth, is no less,

 

It’s time …

 

You love me, right?

YOU LOVE ME, RIGHT?

    Yes, No, Ohhh (the audience).

 

DO-MI-NA-TION

DEATH FREE

DO-MI-NA-TION

ASH FREE

 

Lost in the labyrinth: the journey to the exit.

The hollow Overground train pulls!

And from floor to ceiling,

Between the orange pins,

A cacophony of continuous limbs,

      Seated hips,

      Angled legs,

      Dangling feet,

The heads,

Turn, ghostlike,

In fractals, inside out,

Forever somewhere; everywhere nowhere.

 

From  STOP to STOP,

In labyrinthine networks,

In tubes,

Brushed viscose,

Lit and digital and LCD,

Overhead promises:

 

Like these,

A hundred escalating messages,

Each more insistent than the last,

All compelling enough to distract,

With that man-on-man desire to enslave the heart.

 

Its time…

 

           You love, right?

YOU LOVE, RIGHT?

    Yes, No, Ohhh (the audience).

 

DO-MI-NA-TION

DEATH FREE

DO-MI-NA-TION

ASH FREE

 

Why? WHY?

Has the bacterial sludge,

Built these edifices of glass and steel.

The labyrinthian cage,

Whose walls race upward at the speed of light,

While the inner commuter flame gutters,

As overhead,

In galaxies all around, everywhere,

Supernovas explode in showers.

So that, for a moment, the Overground glows chromatic.

 

New Cross Gate, Southwark, Canada Water.

        

       ALL CHANGE, PLEASE.

       THIS TRAIN TERMINATES HERE.

 

A few automated steps and

Southwark,

Green Park,

Baker Street,

And Swiss Cottage,

Briefly appear,

Fade and disappear:

And here walking down Belsize Road,

The evening of the

Super Gibbous Moon,

Rising blood orange,

In Ziggurat dimensions,

Over The Alexandra Road Estate:

As a slinking silhouette,

Homeward bound makes, I.

For there

On the event horizon of knowing …

Surely given, and taken,

A few more bends.

 

It’s time, again. One more time …

 

           You love me, right?

YOU LOVE ME, RIGHT?

    Yes, No, Ohhh (the audience).

 

DO-MI-NA-TION

DEATH FREE

DO-MI-NA-TION

FREE ME.

 

To the event horizon of consciousness,

To that black hole at the core.

Death’s star-like eye,

Embrace, pass through,

(Fear not),

On, through the labyrinth bound northward,

For herein,

We return, entering and exiting,

Here and elsewhere,

Heavenward.

 

Stars, I LIED!

Again, it’s time.

 

You love me, right?

YOU LOVE ME, RIGHT?

Yes, No, Ohhh (the audience).

 

SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL

SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL

DEATH FREE.

LOVE!

BE,

WINGS FREE:

 

    SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL

 

One more stop:

 

      New Bond Street.

 

GET BEYOND

DESIRE,

BEYOND THE LABYRINTHEAN LIE,

DIE CONSUMER, DIE!

BE

MATERIAL FREE.

 

Last stop:

 

      No-name, this one:

 

BE:

 

    SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL.

 

SAY IT:

 

    SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL.

 

 

All Set For Take-Off.

High on the O2:
Red Rossopomodoro, Wagamama,
and on the bus shelter, Marc Jacobs,
and again higher,
Habitat,
then Metroline moves past.
It’s the 113
to Oxford Circus,
and the 13 to Victoria:
Thrilla Lives On,
the slogan shouts,
while National Express has
All Set For Take-Off.

They’re gone…
It calms, empties,
nothing much
just the red lidless eyes,
of cars
two, three, four dozen
pairs
hover over the asphalt road.

Where…
where am I?
Ahhh, yeah,
in the Oriental Star,
the road seen from a table and stool,
waiting
for food.
Where have I hailed from?
My lover’s womb.
No, no
*NOT THAT!*
The North Star, yes:
A pub on the Finchley Road,
Where Tottenham beat Liverpool 4-1
A pyrrhic victory!
Over a couple of beers.

Warm years, and tears.
A sense of place,
a home, a nest,
Receding in the traffic
Of a busy road,
Waiting on noodles.