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.

Waltz

Agency as the contingency that deconditionalizes everything.

Incoherent 1

Opening, we tread into gateways of the future that descend to where no-one remembers to have gone, to have tried nor wanted, for they are tied like strings into a knot of normalcy, used to but a little trembling through the devil's torch itself. But to unravel, or to bring the knife to one's mind, to sever the conscious kitchen from necessity, from the streamlined factory of linear time, of constant order itself, like a man who left the faith of the church grounds to descend the cliff walls into the gully of his soul, where reflexivity - that curse that has yet to unravel itself, would pioneer the method of mad truth, turning to its gravity substance as he tumbles out of the nighmarish bed into the centre of everything, where no encirclement of time awaits, only a slow accumulation of wounds, covered cleverly with metaphysical masks, or a scepter, or a wand, or beauty.

Moot 5

One has to expect less with a smaller field of brain, if consciousness were a harvester of unplanted wheat, thronging, as it were, within nature's general perfume, lasting the breadth and intensity of noontime, before swiftly departing as night decks out its silent staggered arrays, seeped into the accumulated security of homes, pictures, as it were, framed by mold-breeding brick against the north north west wind.

Dream-surfing

A Koppaberg spirit catches the eye in the supermarket where mediocrity melts into boundless space. Can this strange bottle, filled with the hemlock of my old fading life, resurface some kind of genuine hope? It basks in the steady, overbright lights: drink me, it says, wordlessly, as my lips tiptoe to its frothing nothingness, promising sunlight in an unlamped room.

Dreamt:

Scene: I was in Oxford.
Friend: Everything is so business-like, as if it was made-to-order.
I looked out of the shop we were in. It seemed a half-Canley, half-Malaysian small town, with touches of course, but it certainly wasn't Oxford-Oxford.
I was somehow half-naked. There was a broken down bus across the street. I scanned the windows to see if anyone cared to look at me before the bus restarted and drove away. No one did.
I was in an online forum, and was impressed by Barnett's writings.

Scene: Bungalow
My dad had me wait for an hour in a large house as he ran on an errand to pass a friend a $75 handphone handset. I suppose we drove there, for the errand involved walking through a forest fronting the house. He appeared tired as he returned, and it seemed nonsensical to walk, when one could have taken a bus, or a cab. He was fully enthused and occupied in the fact that it was a $75 handset, even when my mother was there and expected more.

--

I sit in the maze of books.
One needs no compass here,
for she lies beyond the unstirred page,
approaching on a narrative tide,
smoothing a crease she ran across,
in the richness of her ocean-satin dress.

Moot 3

The loveliest feature of a laptop rests in its ability to transform the contextual limitations of your agency, turning one into the object that responds to the vast universe of facts hovering above the ground of a footed existence. The relations remain encumbered within the algebra of life, but for once, you succeed in self-expression, for you control the meaning through which the conditions of communication must be understood.

The Warwick boy beckons;
he places his shoulder on my lap.
I caress him, for he yawns,
and is bored, and wants life.
He gazes at the trade that tests the sturdiness of his knees.
Or the madness of vineyards.
But he rests on my bench,
hashed beneath a wintry bridge,
on which people cross, to a mythic, fading shore.

These eyes plague the darkness,
they sift the lighted windows,
piercing through the blinds that mask
the privacies concealed to oneself,
to stain the tablecloths,
that hid the devil's trademark.

Moot 2

this shanked pretension still lives on in the remains of single words and lines.
the keyboard grows dark, as the fingers that play over them move invisible.
the void of which my books have been a consolation, of which my thoughts have been proud scaffoldings upon, descends.
To rebuild, when memories lurk fresh, and guilt remains.

You see, its a strange thing to look at yourself. One has never had the steel for happiness, for water flows downwards. To perceive yourself in decline, however many pretentious cloaks one adopts in the process, still makes one feel the intimate waste of life. Yes, however lacking, my silences are more able than my actions.

What is it like to be aware of emptiness, to flow with innate fervour along the shallow river of the seconds? The earth is something which one still forgets constantly.

I feel the pang of excitability around me, in this oddly infertile environment.
Loneliness and freedom mix to an etheral cocktail.
Is it excitement or is it insecurity?
Is it fun or is it anaesthesia?
Is it hope or is it fear?
Is it love or is it loneliness?
Is it Zen or is it death?

10:10

Why does one have no sense of humour?
One is married to security as a sewer to its pipe.
Or a ghost to its whitish form, a wasp to its only sting.
What, this paranoia? Liquid hands, they shaft at keyholes that give no light.
This craft of acting, a fear of pretending, and yet seeming not so.
Display, reactivity as the form that almost solidified into false hope, limitation, that, gasping from the edges of its conscious perimeters, admires, loosely, idiotically, wedged on the field like a daytime cricket.
These flats again loom, the church of robot-men.

Moot

My emotional life is as a boat on the sea of your feelings, churning and swaying.
Where is land?
Where is the solidity of the hermit that lives in the cave-quilt of his playground autonomy?
That soppy misdirection, that thankless furrowing, unsated, a mockery of free will.
Childishness as expression:
all that follows, that is, life as failure.

Updates

I met an aspiring musician today, who wrote some songs for a pretty famous band. He complained about doing math in the library.

I am hardworking and responsible for the first fifteen minutes. I grind my way through the weird squiggly symbols that fill the page with the most boring words imaginable.
My mind fills with the locular voices of Rebecca Black as the pop music begins to play.
It whirls: these thudding beats throb with an unheard future of my songs, infecting boys and girls with the brilliance of my creativity, inevitably associated with the genius of my name.
Let me be the next
composer of the next
four-chord wonder,
the song that thrills the failing radio of our social lives, steeped in the refined garbage of a university environment, these prating fingers of boys and girls that curled their lips to a yet unforgotten song.

"I'm just too...creative";
he bounced on his heels as he pronounced this fair judgement:
as they say,
fame and money and
Jesse James coolness be damned,
I'm still cutting myself away from the steadiest rocks.


Sigh

Lighted doormen pass in dull stoned alleys, but the echo of festive morning wafts.
I don't understand what you are writing.
Do I understand what I am writing?
For once, I look at the scribe of meaning, meaning as act that is unnoticeable, unfanthomable, throwing its light upon the surface colour of words - not accounts, but deeds. Its life is not the finished product of the material past, but a combulation of acts, rising to the surface from the bottom of the heightless nothing.

Aargh 3

If i could perfect sadness and mis-strategy into a line,
if i could distill unhinged meaning into salvation truths,
if i could re-justify this barren sunlight,
these worthless trembling hands,
these unworn, rotting clothes,
into dream-frocked material, for a misjudged play,
padded within the starlit-night of the train-station isled in the prarie darkness,
an image-mongering tramp calling out to noone
for reciprocation, half-simulated, alcohol-mad,
as the rich train of forgetting experiences,
of lighted eaten dinners and speeding laughter
laps into the scenery of prescient, unduly life,
as it pours like sugar trucks into dessert that
spoils the tastebuds of grinning faces,
justified, growing, schooled in railways
and bustling interchanges, these pinpoints of fleeting life,
a hub of bulbed men, of plant life, of station pebbles, what then,
of this prating significance?

Filled in this broken otherworldly tower,
craning at the stars, and speaking,
the way wolves and moths did before man was invented,
where life still fell into the darkness of pines,
or the shell-shocked fingers of the heart still felt the movement of rivers,
where natures infinite tombs lay overgrown with life,
when trumpets still sounded as each morning arose casting the neck of woods,
where these carpets laced with salt once framed the floor of the sea,
oh i would grow like the prudent flower anticipating the flush of spring,
as the cycles lose their spirit, eroding.

II

Thirty trumpets girding the mead of
sighing rivers,
callousing the routed veins of
spring-drawn utopia.

The melting glaciers
expose large crags in the
dented rocks, slight against the sun,
gesturing with stillness,
yarned like twigs aginst the noon,
sharpened to the breath of winter evening.

This industrial sooth,
like a touristperson,
grading images for length and breadth
of intensity, that barren holdout
of the transparent, colourless soul,
the nonexistent scarecrow,
the binned up brooms,
the yore-flecked wavering of
disappearing lines.

Sand and sealife,
they burrow against the vast sweeping of the sea,
feeding with alacrity
on the melancholy dunes.
The wrecks of rusted ships
sit on the coarse pebbly sand,
like a hornless Poseidon,
reduced, reduced, reduced.

I am in my room again,
with the translucent curtains that pour
deceiving sunlight into the refuted
present. The wind still breathes its
tragedy tune, with the soreness of
codas, a chronicle of lavatory existences,
and incomplete plastic walls
as we face mirrors, defacating.

The statue of Liberty,
a kind of green embodied hope,
a disappearing miasma,
choked up Athens,
a ceilingless St Pauls,
that crumpled before everything, and nothing,
the captured sunlight of a certain skillful kind,
resovoirs of men,
fish-hope, like the promise of an edible breakfast of life.
And so the morning lasts,
the softness of time left untouched
or unheard by the throbbing madness
that seams at stilting, violated, happy glasswalls.

The pizza cooks in the oven.
The flatmates speak of studying as a means
to truer things.
The shutting out of avenues that pulse tar-stroked
thoughts that usher the sights and crows,
the lights, of unbottled time.
Disbarred. My cap. My cap.

Images 2

I

I do not live in the real world. I only exist in relation to it by means of distorting words and gestures.

II

I stood on the groupside,
wading the footsteps of voices
that drew deeper tides with every breath,
skimming the light of the sun,
unbeached in the fresh shallows of the sea.

It was the tuneless drum of spring or
the tremor of branched hands reaching
an unhidden face, as it called in pregnant tones,
to the deathless hearing.

What growth, like an expanding shrine,
uncreeked these pastured boundaries,
ploughing untilled forests of thought?
What life, ungiven,
yet praying, brought heart to fruition,
through the unripening present?

Fluting, the treeglade yearns for morning,
its shadows spilling into memories
of deep-set innocence, as the finger
leaves the empty pipe.

III

From my window, I can see the trashbins.
Enormous plastic tubs, they
squat in a curved row,
missionary brothers awaiting
gulps of empty bottles,
shattering in recycling bowels,
like digestive guardians of
nature's wasting laws.

The bottle says:
A gateway leads to an opening,
to which we travel through.
A tunnel-visioned version,
carved with cold statues.
Stairways shuffle the darkness,
full of karmic stench,
feeding the fruitbats overhead,
depleting the insects and the ratmen.

IV

I feel lyrical in the mornings, when the force of memories have yet to flood the sandbanks of my dreams.

The mind still contorts with self-appreciating delight, as it skips deftly across cloudy waters.

Lily-like, they spring, infusing solitude with intoxication of poppies.

No slumbering crocodiles here, or fear of bad weather, or mismatched circumstance,
just the pure delight of a slow-filling river,
draining away as I lap at its shores.

V

Am I happy with myself,
for suprising myself so?
What lovely satisfaction,
to live in a mirror.

VI: A seminar postscript

Fighting the urge to
breathe liberation in choking
suitcases packed into a room,
I observed those
keyboard lips parting with
wholesome words, from the
crochet of teeth, stained with tobacco
and wine, and filled with pomegranates of the brain:
they scatter, these blithe, yellow seeds,
as we pick them up, like birds,
as love scatters, fiery love.

To witness that desirable
Tory male, harting forth with rugby confidence,
all-consuming in the full possibility,
within the scope of his strong-armed body.
And theres that
supersensitive white-skinned boy,
who trembles with affectation,
the moment one speaks, as if
my life, my world, insulted his.

Yes, these irrepressible grand coats,
lent to the cloakroom,
these chess-pieced girls, streaming
smoothly down to all-consummation:
I watched, slumping chairlessly.

VII: Work

Work is a kind of anticipation,
the stair-steps with hollows
in between, in some flowing church
we happen to find ourselves.

An imposition, we
mount the spiral of days, impervious
to the windowless night,
wreathed in loads of labour.

What attends the imageless vision,
as legs smooth ancient marble carpets?
What greater promise keeps,
to poor eyes that suck at light?

Only sunlight,
uncaved by heavens,
or the silent stars,
loving, communicating.
Or the rhythmic breathing
of crisp garden evenings,
as you peer hopefully,
into nothing.

Lets see if this works

I have not been working, not remotely.
Resolution: to pursue active strategies to remain focused and to concentrate as far as possible for a chance to pass the upcoming exams.

Another note to self

If one instinctively projected one's dependencies not on the individuality, within time and space, of the organism, or the metaphysically significant fact of free will, or whatever, but on someone else, or a communal hope, or some kind of outward-searching tradeoff-sustaining equilibrium, then of course it becomes extremely uncomfortable to sustain any form of independent agency.

Practical reason MUST be directed inwards-out, not the other way round.

How one justifies the absurdity of one's agency - not in phenomenal terms, but in practical ones, within a kind of social vacuum, where only feelings prevail -
for all definitions, when undependent, uninvested, fail -
how then, to celebrate one own's particularity at every moment in terms both universal and inevitable (isn't ethics about inevitability?) -
THAT is the question.
Philosophy as the ethics of ideas.

II

Transferable loneliness.
Strange. You finally desire only what you can't get,
but still desire.
All want something greater than their ability to achieve,
even though, of course, it dosen't exist.