In the Bin of Ideas I am Marked by the Face III

I heard a cry. Correction. A cry rose up amidst the songs 

of corvids. Because you had jumped from a great height

and because of their memory, as in they know what death

should look like their calls rose up as you lay there in silence

for a time, perhaps unconscious, covered by the weeds and then

they were quiet as your voice rose to harmonise. That is what

I woke to this morning. Oh and then they began to scream 

alongside you a thundering sound in the air, screaming for help

windows rattling the vehicle is coming slow down eye the dots

mark retreat from this sinking world alarm a chorus too. 

                            *

They are moving back a little. 

There is stupidity all around the mouth. 

This week we are spoken over

a ridiculous conversation

no choice but to proceed as one

crying out in the weeds 

for some public information. 

In the Bin of Ideas I am Marked by the Face II

 Isn't it funny how we got up one morning to see them looking exactly as the nuclear family. Daddy, Mummy and all of us. I find it to be more harrowing than that little mess in the day collar or even the speaking ham. To raise yourself to the governance of franchise you've to become eloquently worse than the competitor and so it's there they stand and I detested thinking that thought this morning as all the eyes of the little i's fell out and the sunset rose again as if it had never slept. Really, I stared right through it. For one night it did not become dark. I was able to see across most of the sky, realising its corners, as if they were, and a strange song was in my ears. Something about two lovers who were bound to one another in spite of all of their previously examined and realised desires. Birds flew about them and they stayed their course, far out beyond murder and recrimination. They were petrified. It was disgusting to see them like this as it showed us some obvious things about ourselves, about myself, under this never darkening sky. That power is corruption; authority its enforcement and this brooding family with lovers at the helm its consequence. Tired and tired and tired now, the eyes falling away I must dot them return to them make a more precious argument but really it is that simple bastardised authority which catches in the throat as the music from sunrise pierces from arrangements of clouds. Problem is the authorities of knowledges, bodies, mechanics and solar flares, these songs, we cannot proceed any other way. Let's take that lilting hill together one by one by one dot by dot by eye by eye by goodbye i. 

Angela, 

fading to fuck. 

In the Bin of Ideas I am Marked by the Face

First is a little postcard from Berlin. Second is a poem from the weekend. Midsummer. Last is a desperate little noise, slightly nabbed from Diane Di Prima...

                                *

Walk out together, 

inside our dream 

we gave one another new names

dressed together, our hair

shining cent from trees, callow

kitten, are we given

to this sunlight. Chewing

a strawberry, yes, you’re all of this

 laughter to the end

let’s walk out the day our dreams

with new names given to one

the same to breeze along the air.

        *

We hugged a second time

as I left from the market

my bank at the bottom

but hearing the clamour of bells

returning the bending line

I saw inside a butterfly

resting onto your eyes dear

height of summer

the year all around

        *

If the word 'benefits'

still fills up your mouth

then you are still the enemy.

IX, X, XI,XII

 

IX Marcus builds his babies. They are

physically hand grenade. One is his

darling, his humours. One his 

scourge. Marcus made a baby. Its

hand for the women. Marcus slams

on the door. For he had a world

to do. We saw he had failed at

his chance. The thing you ought to do. 

X It made two lists to 

struggle. Go out. The trees

orange glow about the

railing. We are going sad

towards the Bright new 

Days. Must eke the

beforehand of rooms. 

It tastes the good. Spends

money. Wails out of the palm.

XI There’s a way

for biting the 

facial patterning.

Acts on heaps of

stomach. A dark

and greenish moth.

I’ve carved my

knees for biting. 

Bite. Bite again. 

Revise. Immutable  

socket. Winter. 

Distillation. How

old. Hungry. As

you became wrapt

the air dressed 

you. The clouds

kissed your spine. 

Lay there out in

the garden. A pool

of your growing

lifelessness. 

XII The list begins to glint a quiet violent orange. Impossible to see. Each letter is a living evaluation of scattered motive. One day respond. One day, respond. Until then it is forever too late. Nothing will be cleared. Oily. Was oily. Oily and ashamed.

 

An Arabella

Today I met an Arabella, and moving

through the valley swish from the trees, 

a stream broke away, long grasses cut at my thighs

oh moving feels so frequently sad and alone,

or unable to fill up this time without recourse 

to the usual flares flash in the sky, at deep midnight. 

Still, I had never met an Arabella 

scrunchies at our wrists which indicate

a pleasant day pours into the world, I walked out calm. 

An Arabella, further, to a person or a sound 

I once met, last night and music appeared. 

Tracing alone through the valley dark and cold

daylight for once, today,  and not a threat. 

An Arabella sundown in the garden 

waking from a dream into another dream 

where long grasses tingling my clear thighs

swallowtails over the pond is only music.

If I could say an Arabella day. Walking to the copse 

where I spoke with the others, shunned

by the village approach, out and south we rode

in scrunchies, little ribbons lit the way. 

Until the dreaming dawn, you must wake up, 

go to a little work and rest by the moon’s blue fire. 

I’m on my knees like real estate, neither praying

but waiting for the grasses to rise up

hi an Arabella morning light, enclosed.

Aubade

Ask me. The answer will always be no. 

Ask me again and again

amongst the pinprick light

of the stars, for now

I believe in the stars. I believe in them for you

and get back silence

which deepens love

and anxiety, shelving like the sea

we once swam in, remember? Silence. For soon

we will all need such silence, can you hear it? 

The night is coming, but the bright day

is where we will hide

conduct our loves under pinprick cover. Ask me. The answer

will be in secret

is the only way to move

they want us dead. Our love is dead to them. The answer is always no

silently we kiss among the pinpoints 

of stars, and I believe in the stars

for now, take cover

triumph silent heart.

The Quiet Room

Private heart quiet room trooped

from another world, a corridor, you see

the wailing pipes wood resin aerosol tremor.

Far off though now to tiptoe, trill, at last

an empty building summer’s distance

distinctly promise, boughs I sat to leave

young broken frame, his roots upturned,

delight and pulped to bruises

little cuts along the ribs, 

with two whips, then another, little

punished face crowding quiet private heart

room trooped to his bed, to wake him dead.