3.

My blanket is an alpine range

Snow-covered silks with dancing suns

fresh from the sky just for the eve,

an omelette of tourists on cotton sleeve.

// Another day a bloodstained scene of war

with flowers the size of fortresses,

stalks streams flowing up the slope,

vessels of thought, of dreamless sleep.

// I poise my lens, a photographer

capturing a snapshot of the History of Man

before I hop on the late night train

to the place where no cameras reign.


I am adding // s to the start of each stanza (save the first) because the line spacing isn’t working.

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2.

The first tree

to lose all its leaves and stand exposed to the hustling of others’s leaves,

the rustle of warmth as it waves its branches in

vain,

wind strong enough to chill but

not to let those fingers touch and feel its own existence –

But it will perhaps hold first the golden chandelier when the spring comes.


(Final work imported from A.Symmetric Space, a side project I have now rescinded.)

Stream of Consciousness

I was thinking of doing some stream of consciousness writing. A stream, a flowing stream not necessarily of water but of music, of lava, hot from the oven, hot from the heart, hot from the centre of the Earth, hot from the pot stirred most smoothly by the ladle of Time. But the consciousness that pours out is chaotic, regardless of how you try to stir it. It does not obey the Laws of Whatever-You-Want-It-To, it does not even flow as one stream but has slight bumps in it, slight words here they come that you don’t expect, slight phrases even, or break offs. So the fluid is not continuous (not /necessarily/ continuous, it could be.) Don’t bother with trying to model it.

But yes, I had this idea from watching a monologue on credit from Love and Money, where the video was just (!) a mouth talking talking for five minutes straight it hurt my eyes at first but I grew more intrigued by the mouth, the emotion in the lips and teeth, wonder if you can see that normally if you’re not tunnelling? But yes, I thought hey I’d like to write something like that and see what I sound like in my head on paper if that makes sense, though it isn’t really a monologue at all: it’s a polylogue, the voices of your surroundings speaking through you in terms of the interactions, people your thoughts the discarded receipt on the floor saying something in their silent language of waves and frequencies, possessing you. Possessing you through your eyes and nervous system and brain and back to fingers onto paper. Clickety click.

Then surely every thought is not a mono-thought but a poly-thought, and we have so many more thoughts apart from those we know of, thoughts we pass on to others and then forget, if we ever knew them. Hah. Giving someone a thought you never knew, as though you could do something unconsciously like that. Well, maybe you could, the same way you do some things without thinking like maybe raising your hand in response to a question asked to a group, something you wouldn’t do if you were asked individually, yes? But you know you’re doing those things. But you arguably know you’re influencing others’s thoughts, just not specifically which and what.

Okay bad analogy – let’s try some biological process that’s happening inside you that you’re not aware of. Did you learn how to respirate? Presumably no. Actually maybe your cells did at some level at some point, but the key is you’re not aware of it. That’s better. Now think on that and good night.


(Imported from A.Symmetric Space, a side project I have now rescinded)