Release

How does one attain richness in acts?
In living differently,
or in turning away, to glance clearly
at life, its golden statutes
bled into words, flesh, thing.
In the wish of a still embalmed second
like the imprinted mesh of a recognized glance,
that remains, that frames into a moving picture.
Each sore-faced man, or the still-eyed burn,
or a memory, like an unearthed golden urn,
lays out beachlike, shored against the tidal seconds,
orbed within each raindrop
each dissipation trampling softly onto umbrellas
as we tread across the rich rose gardens.

Hmm

Cold ruffles and bed tossings,
in the rotting temporary prison,
stayed a week or a day,
quilted from loneliness
by Dickens; or a childhood souvenir.
Stepping into weedsprung alleys,
peopleless in the architectural trunks,
cobbled and lost in history:
the sounds of stories, meaningful and meaningless.
Staring, laced by the draped windows of empty streets,
into the faces of revellers,
a kind of liquid consequence dawns,
shadowed by pigeons herding, flocking.

Wallowage 1

If one pursues liberty to its limits like a hollow madman, or lets all beliefs fall away, or all attachments cease, then, one leaps into the abyss of days, into the rush of hollow mocking air, the exhilaration of suffering a kind of salvation balm for unsated pain, a palindromic schema that reverses the sight of staggering into absurdity, clownhood.

Moot 7

Faith like a dram of frothing beer seams over the nottinghill of hopes. Purdy, its undirected pies still drag the table over the gravelled pub floor. Cramming the ground with tabled garlands, or filling the balconies with sunbathers better attuned to the polar skin of winter, as the bumblebees crowd around honey plates, full of the summer of attraction and forgetting youth, spilling into the future like an ancient river. What? Can this balcony to the machinery of soul, I mean the consistency that swears better than it manueveurs, like a revision vehicle, actually breathe the continuity of sunshine without inner stagnation, in the way one enters the ownership of an overfamiliar thing like someone awaking from nothing to find himself a person again, loafed in a dungeon of present that reverses, as it were, into the future like a retreating rear view mirror of emotive occurences? Yes? I read that Merlin once fled to the forest in escape of irrational human fear, as the couch in the hidden Carribean balcony bends, but found the woods too enchanted for his dreams, too full of the criterias which determine the tightropes, the plans, the trapeze-tension, of the circus that amuse the nonexistent Muses that watch them. In that case, one might reason that spell-frames, or a toothbrush that cleanses more than material dirt, or even shelter that has reached further than the commanding hands of nature, will continue to pierce the air that fills the torched, uncrested running of highways that seem to bridge the strange crevasse that divides heaven and hell, or man and man, or past and future, or stairways and the sky, or clouds and candy, or fire and the vast sinking sea.

So. This strange landfill that holds up the attic of the earth on pencilled beams. Wallow my friend. For home is here, at least, in the strange choking motions of a concentrated second. For it is but gone, like a illusion that mimiked itself, prating in the garments of truth a second ago, exposed to its vanity and the stranger wind, deprived of the mirror of necessity which breaks and cracks with each passing second, only to rise again in an elevator of transcending hope, flapping its winged frame over the drowning forces that trembles and overwhelms. No, not a predictive instrument, a breakable, sure orb, or a telescope, to watch and to severe, lost in observation but saved, even recovered in an identity compass......

Incoherent 2

The heart beats like footsteps over endless dirt,
trodding where circumstance has etched out a path.
Lost in the cluster of darkwood pines,
where rotting logs ply the inheritance of human wealth.
Like a lining of pictures against the wall
of friends, of wishes petering into memory,
like a sewer, a blanketed sky, that curtains
the future from a weary gaze. Or that ladle of rewards,
that plate of contentment that breeds the automobile rhythms of happiness,
that extends the cliff of suspended days,
diving like seabirds into the waves, these frothing days.
Thronging with sounds,
spilling into ears like a mapped echo, but dissipating like the richest scents of flowers into the spring-duned air, trembling over
meads and brooks, with that withdrawing trickle,
unsated and content,
would this river be a doorway
to the depth-drowning sea.

Bathroom Soliloquay

This frozen white light, on the endless shore of the shower room. Witness the piped workings of the veins of industrial earth, while the docile toilet roll awaits its message, cast as the loyal scribe of our lives; its progress of days.

Moot 6

I am stoked to the bedframe, lilting on the unforgettable scent of English air. Evening falls away from the echoed yellow painting the sunlight makes on the windblown leaves. This glow of spring that has crowned the earth with its bluest garlands, now descends, like a retreating cloak of childhood furling away from a windowless sky, its purest reflected blue crafting a pathway in which to lose the world in, as we now tunnel into hopes in search of the lamps of truth.

Such is the regret of the present, that we preserve clarity and bad conscience for a later date.