Hymnal

i, no doubtedly, think you a repository for my thinking.

i get a real buzz out of the endearing attribute of yours of sometimes answering, sometimes not.

when the formality flag of reciprocity is down, i feel the most comfortable.

i think your silence can become easily confused with my conscience. i have had little chance to write to 'space' and let it echo back so to speak. but that said, naturally i love your profound, human tainted answers equally as much as the echoes.

at first i was ashamed of this perpetual need to message you; but now, i hope with no pain to you, i want to unleash. just be human. to embrace the manifestations of emotion, whatever they may be.

i just wish they could be written on crinkled rice paper, with a flowing ink nib, sealed and stamped and delivered (perhaps by horse and cart) to your door.

but oh, what an ideal. an ideal short lived in moments of past times; and in moments when i am driven enough to write an actual letter.

that said, i want to share with you some fine revelations that have presented themselves to me of late.

i feel i am tired of the realisation of what love, and hope, faith, and charity et al are meant to be upon our conscience. more often than not do they shackle us perhaps than redeem?

the eternal expectation of how human beings must act in given situations. what is this? is this living? where are the grandparents of the soul; where is intuition? why must people feel guilt over for breaking new ground?

why is love not seen as a spectrum, but a sole point of attachment and acquirement? of territory? of egos colliding.

aaah.

this world is infinite.

i want to share it

by passing it into the cusp of your palm

while the galaxies gaze down at us,

its children;

i want to do this

with no strings attached.

i am addicted to two songs right now by 'hot chip'.

certainly not the melancholic tone of my last few messages, but instead laced with childlike wonder (possibly on a trip of acid!), joy, flamboyance and indulgence in life.

if anything, they are a tribute to the 90's children that we are, who danced around empowered by childlike rapture.

'motion sickness'

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4f_olfZTbMo

'flutes'

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oo2lCREilQw&feature=related

and in the context of summer, there is a 'white winter hymnal' by the 'fleet foxes' which explodes spring from its frosty belly.

its coldness warms me, if you know what i mean!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DrQRS40OKNE

does my constant messaging overwhelm you?

you may ask why i don't talk to you of these things in person. well, i find too oft we are surrounded by spontaneous words that are glorious and generous to incredible conversations and that these thoughts never present themselves until i am alone.

alone to wonder what the world may mean to me, to you, to all of us.

love.

Mediocrity

As the three tabs of chrome spin anti-clockwise

I notice my pinched lips

Resolute against this unholy action of my laptop:

Siphoning my lifeline post-laziness.

First I noticed the paralysed scroll bars,

Unlit and stone cold. Frozen.

Then it was those tantalising red flags of my periphery

That just would not present themselves

They still don’t.

And it must suffice lest I lose my mind.

While private universes battle out their kettle drums

And Natraj his one dhum of the cosmic drum of dance,

 I am still watching time go anti-clockwise.

A part of me just says it is simply not fair.

I am disgusted by my superficiality.

Guyamas Sonora rings in my waxed ears

Fairly returning the livid memory of this evening,

This reality since May of stranded love.

The electric violin is pitiful, I want to cry for it,

But the trumpet cradles us both into redemption.

I talked to B this evening about it,

Am I really attached I protested.

Having just given my insights on pure love,

And the lack of expectation I have in it.

The music share, the intermittent messaging is enough,

But I am attached to sharing my world with him.

I pity how I have become this stringed afterthought.

It is pure mediocrity where I live

Stranded in this world

Strapped in May, this September.

Unlit and stone cold. Frozen.

Argh-Jesus-Rolly

Its 11.32pm. I am in bed, awash with yellow lamplight,

Wind (enveloping this perching palace I call home)

Traffic: the indelible mark of their gemstone

‘Low spark of high heeled boys’

And, the assuaging ease of step one completed of my mission

(*more action on ANSFW facebook page).

Earlier this evening I played hopscotch along the motorway

Strung to Hot Chip’s ‘Motion Sickness’

Which, if anything, joyfully quickened my step

To side step the sliding shells in the lamplight.

Oh what a burden would lie on my conscience

If the crashing crush nether my shoe

Bristled every neck hair in eulogy to that raised soul.

I had just dined. Nachos. And chocolate mousse.

With my three sisters who live in a doll’s house

With their three cats:

Married but Spinsters to be.

With the melancholy of late

I welcome this joy that has deluged my body this afternoon

Washing away doubt, self deprecation and self pity.

In the library this afternoon,

While the waterfront got wetter

I combated my fears on a few pieces of paper:

A moratorium on facebook

More sleep:

Nothing new really

But sometimes these things must be written down to be realised.

The theme of the day, I felt, so properly summarised in my friend’s text

(In light of knowing I was still coughing)

Argh-Jesus-Rolly.

My life encapsulated!

(Aside from my friend, Hot Chip writes theme songs for my life:

Look up 'Motion Sickness'. Now.)

x

*image courtesy: online

Phlegmatic

Armed with a mug of hot, eddying miso soup

(the wallowing of heat around the swelling,

persistent glands is warmth/music to my inner ears)

Listening to the words of a song,

An anthem of giving

A song that stirs the soul into action:

I reflect on the many devoid (of writing) days past

And,

The day.

I have a disclaimer:

In my need to perfect.

To reconcile myself  with my ever (un) controlled hand

I fall into a helpless, un-avoidable state of abandonment

Where every juncture of the day

Is a piece of writing in the making

If only I could then pull out my quill

And paper

I may have finished my novel by now.

But no.

It is no to be.

Yet.

Disclaimer duly noted to self.

A wedge of light, solid and raising

Penetrated my cave of solid dark

Sticky tiredness:

Consciousness afloat in denying the light

So aware of its overriding power in my wake.

I am stilled by the dust stranded in the rays

Like all those who are caged by hierarchy, servitude

And their dignity, a long fragmented shadow disenthralled

Into the last breath of hope which is the mere thread

That keeps them alive.

Their lifeline.

What am I doing pitying my disease

And revelling in the life I live

When it poses no challenge to the mind?

To the physical body?

To the soul?

I was stirred

By the negative spaces contrasted by sunlight

And vowed that on my rise from disease

I will condemn my comfort.

I will start with the ego

That is addicted to the red number in my periphery

That assuages any loss or rejection.

I will live by what I say:

Be a soldier of conviction

Upstanding in the face of condemnation.

In the face of such a soul stirring morning

How can I not be humiliated by the

Composure, quiet intelligence and abundant talent

Of a writer that ripples the clouds above Brooklyn hill?

It is the silence that intrigues.

x

Underset

i am listening to eddie vedder's reminisce on society

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lm8oxC24QZc

and can't help but feel the somewhat heart wrenching song

(from a heart wrenching, albeit cliche,  film 'into the wild')

is setting the serious and slightly hopeless overtone of this entry.

the clouds have set in after a gloriously sunny morning,

which has heightened the fecund green leaflets ready to burst forth

with some more warmth.

the deciduous magnolias have laid a magenta cloak city-wide,

as have the tufts of brilliant yellow daffodils.

the botanics are in full bloom

and the hills are a millions different hues of greens and yellows (gorse).

i am tired, and underset.

i end here.

x

Hinged

Rasp

Comfortably: Confident.

Scrawling, vagrantly, transversing greyed walls

Paper in hand; body stapled to wall.

Weak;

May I from those lips.

A concrete den it was.

Vagrancy hard here when

So contained; so proper. So grey.

Sunshine in hand then

With ease something slips

Crawling awkwardly;

Into something easy,

Something natural; green into

Something confident; yet guarded

Yes. Dark. Dark Green.

Paper thin Offers made; a grilled window ajar

A moment; penitence for grey; a song for Green.

Sharp, crisp, snap call; a kea call

It could have been my bird.

Courtship in sea blue, golden, frolicsome hues

A time of childlessness;

A time for rainbow joy.

Declaring no person; No time

Impending rest so easily,

Fleetingly Orange ruffles; the green filed.

I am the lucky; I am told: I won’t forget.

A moral amicably split

Shared; shared with barraged brain

Of other fantasies;

The fuck fantasies.

Where do I figure here?

It looks; Kaleidoscope eyes

And I could have loved.

I declare, and then wait.

Friendship is pledged on a bog down, wet out night

While the bell bird Kea sang the morn after.

I know this after all;

The green cellophane warps; then melts.

I wait.

Words, words: and words

Sunshiny words, Euphoric words,

Coloured in moments; Sung out words

Scientific words;

The rainbow joy sang out.

Words twisted for gravitas

Words then shunned;

Rustled infinitely: barbed: lost;

Letters hooked on raspy, dry wind:

Waiting.

Achingly waiting;

Achingly co-operatively happily waiting for

The painted in crazy beckoning finger.

The rainbow joy sung.

Days greyed; I slopped; words hung

Decapitated and hanging; bleeding, and dripping; soul less.

Varnish dustier; settled eerily by no work, no words

No words, no words, no words NO words; no words.

The world waited:

The silence graveyardly: death eaten wait.

I hung; quartered, aching, bleeding, dripping; soul-less.

Then decapitated became dead flesh; numb flesh; sad flesh; rotting flesh.

I was with you then

The stench hung

I was with you.

Lines drawn; boundaries made.

Reclusive and swollen,

Red faced, red handed, and still aching

Time was counted, counted

Then counted again.

Clouds turned from grey to green

The grass from green to red

Me; red to embarrassment.

Finer lines strewn electrically

Buzzed with micro disturbance.

And I obsessed and buzzed with it.

The electricity just frizzled.

The frizzle frazzled; then seizing, birthed

A polychrome feather-let rose

Raised a wing; testingly another

Recoiled a head

Uncovering midnight-blue-calm.

The downward wind

The look in the eye

The burn in the cheek

The smarting eyes.

‘but I like giving’

--you count every gift given—

Composure. No tears. No eye contact.

Leave hollowed out. Defeated. Hurt.

Silence then contact. Gush forth

You were right. So was I. I read you. I was being read.

‘War has ended; negotiations met’

The faint old music of yesteryear,

Dim in the new light.

God rays stagger in

Crisp Goldeness; amalgamated Godliness.

Each a muslin layered euphoria

Blinding. Brighter, better; BRILLIANT.

Polychrome Rhythms.

Red.

1 Harp string

Green.

10 harping strings.

Woven single pledged threads

Crisscrossing

Colour. Twang. Light Green.

47 strings. Complete.

Un-flaking when all else is

It takes form; its feathers  

Germinates;

Ruffled

She is Beauty and Wisdom;

This is too.

Promise me that this can last.

This beauty, this wisdom

This you; the you

The Monday smile I wear.

The fluidity that you wear

The knock on your door

The plea coming within.

This you, the you

Why guarded so long?

Why vulnerable in frazzling pain?

Did life ever tell you

You detach. You suffer. You renew.

Were you born but yesterday?

Are you the sentimental tune

That wraps its dusty hymn

Around nauseating awakenings?

And creates that immeasurable pain?

Pained immeasurably

Frustratingly real, controllable, childish;

Tangible but dependent.

Untouchably independent

Frustratingly controllable.

We then

Rose together.

A tawny, scraggly but determined form

Rose over unchanged prosecution;

Made this small fortune

We could afford ourselves.

A clear call to Parvati; mountain air thin.

Two eyes watched;

Universe guided

Throwing Passion above Logic

Of our past.

Tilling Paravati’s field; toiling Passion to awakeness.

Lying under moonlight

Watching smoke rise from our fingers

Threads rethreaded; pledged anew.

Second hands could die a hundred deaths

And we would have not known.

We were in euphoria you know;

Unbridled sweetness.

I could have killed you.

The air thin made me drunk

The sweetness, painful.

We had eyes, hungrily lapping life’s sap.

A triangle sounded; a quartet ebbed away

Drum beats surged

Surged through spinal columns

Bristling neck hairs; dilating pupils.

Gods descended to every neck hair

The trumpets sounded;

The choirs sang

We rose in god rays of gold specks

We ran through dying ochre, summer grass

 And tripped on rusty second hands

Left behind by Green and Red millennia ago.

 I could hate Green, you know.

It is there.

I could shake

I could press my lips against yours

Enraging myself; Connecting anew.

Red tells me so,

But now her death toll rings.

I succumbed to Green’s wisdom, beauty

I shook for it

I crumble for it now.

Your green keeps me coming back

You, Parvati, shed your green feathers

Draw. Me. Nearer.

So it is here

I return.

I whored you for a while.

But I return you now.

The Monday smile complacent;

Satisfied.

Your feathers lie in my room’s corner

A glimmering shrine,

Although fading now.

I have not seen you.

But heard you were

Intwined,

Inseparable

Euphoric

For now. Atleast.