Tag Archives: cities

Cities #12

I wake with the weight of youth and regret. The air is sticky with the force of prosody. What is even the point of poetry or drawing out the lines? Are the strings in tune? I can not seem to hold the speed – steady as she goes. The trace minerals point to the inclusion of spectacle. Worlds within worlds carved and empty so that every scrap needs to be eaten. What was it O’Hara said about food and poetry about style and swagger about the city that chases me? What was my intention of starting this jaunt? We are greeted most morning by birds bickering as dreams start to unravel. The road is still there and I am still there and the inconsistencies of intimacy are all we have left. You take the high road and I take the low road and somehow, somewhere in this room or the next the history of this place or poem becomes manifest. The tide seems to ebb, taking with it feel part of the world. We are left with stretches of reference points and other anchors to cast.  

 

 

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Cities #11

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Flowers are nice. The desire wound right around the starting line where the wind picks up. The hard outer shell sharp to a point opens out into pale blue blooms. The sky welcomes the shift and crumbled sheets where a tiny head and tiny hands lay sleeping. I pivot where the meaning starts to fray while remembering the kaleidoscope of orange and black land and flutter and land again. Resigning myself to the fact that I will not transform came easy, one look in the mirror and the wound reopened in the present tense. Breathing does not come easy, every movement is forced and considered but somehow I play my part in reseeding the wildflowers and weeds. I am worth my weight in fruit or at least I take that to be my truth.

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Cities (working title) #10

When the line is loose all bets are off and somewhere the voices and somehow the insignificant details start to glow. The wind that felled the tree never seemed like felling me but I crumble and crumble and only hope for the world to turn. To begin, a word is a bold assertion of time and purpose and love and being with or without yet somehow I struggle to decide what to eat and when to care. I strip it all back and every day I strip it all back to find guilt and shame and history. I have no eye for detail or colour or position or numbers or social niceties. I lie. For a time and round deep and background noise I play ball and laugh and nod and hit every note. The move is step and step and turn and turn up the volume. Hold your own, throw a ball, let your chest swell, make your mark, fill your lungs. The list is the shortest point between a and being someone else so I fold myself in to take up less space because already the world is too full of chatter.

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cities (working title) #9

Daylighting our lived arteries which run with the bulls and lunar time. I place our lost contact on hold and pray the only way I know how- eyes rolled deep within my head. Where do we start in the ruins that so many call jewels? Where do we go and how do we teach trapped within the chambers of history? There are lines intersecting and then there are breezes which seem to ghost us, leaving us to doubt our very existence. The phone rings. There is always a phone ringing. The production of wings is now unethical and only the worthy whose lives are scaled back and sanded will rise to the top. I log on and register my disapproval and become ephemeral. My bones turn to water and falls from the sky in heavy burst of contrition.

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Cities (working title) #7

The destruction of the imagination is the shifting light and breeze. To separate interruption from time is to die on the hill holding an empty bottle of sand. I cannot hold a tune or the space we have departed but I can recall the names of objects let out in the sun. We hold truth in ferns and other forms of life that outlive the use of certain words and greetings. When we say good bye, I will lower my head and weep allowing the wind to reseed my grief. There is no end to the flame the fans the movement of emotions in real time. I can not decide. Is ‘river’ a noun not being solid or abstract but there – always being different. You are a river broken from the confines of our plural collective sense play. Now sing me a song of six pence and shortly after we will reach out across the seam and exchange fivers before the world is turned over.

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Cities (working title) #6

The tiny petals crease the tear drop and I break into a list of verbs. My action is absolute and caught in the fix. Where there is water there is the chance to change the molecular structure of poetry and expelled air. We all dance the single swing and turn regret into mulch. Bitter seeds grow in bitter ground and I fail to call forth the voyages of Brendan the navigator or that Greek fella who just wanted to go home. We all have a story, mine is not worth listening to and that is ok. It has been heard before. I cast nets and sails and thousands of tiny pieces of colourful paper before consulting my maps and the tears of the prophets. I cry too and find the simple interactions with mathematics and celestial beings impossible.

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Cities (working title) #5

I strike off along the urban expanse – a contradiction in terms as the warm embrace envelops the very words I speak. I am overcome with emotions as I watch 51 raindrops unfurl. Precision is the key to life everlasting or the slow match to death but I don’t recall which. We sleep on command and I can never tell if the dream is ours or mine alone. Where does one pronoun end and the other begin when we are all being transported through the history of architecture? Where does my sense of colour differ from the line drawn in the sand? I have questions and concrete pillars reaching skywards but the reflections of light leave me numb.

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Cities (working title) #4

We take the sun road north and follow the path through the entrails of our community. All animals are not created equal – some are moody and steal away in the night. When I say I followed what I mean is that I heard you cry and deleted the poem as an act of liberation. We praise our inaction and justify the mountains we build on top of scrap heaps and scraggs top and tailed. The language we use is so full of waste and misdirected barbs it is no wonder we are nomads and slink off into the night. Once, I found a little patch of light upon the apex. I stopped and sent back word that the sun followed me and that I was sorry I left nothing but darkness. But the world turns as we cut and fill our lot and lay to waste whole regions of deposits still reeling and speaking.

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Cities (working title) #3

Crash headlong into the flaming interior of my expressionless love. We write and tackle the rotating moon and leave it sightless while I, myself, am crisp and worn. Brittle coastal repetitions greatly outweigh the possibility that ‘A’ is jump and I find myself in deep water flailing like a star. There are voices outside the cranium superimposed onto pink parchment. I hear the words “let me not” and then tie the loose light so that we can call a spade a symbol of human ingenuity. We are turned out from either side of the lazy bed to meet the new arrival and somehow, as the story goes, the ships flew flagless into the night.

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Cities (working titles) #2

The day, the sun, the silver-tongued gargoyle of the world eats and laughs and doubles down as he coughs up his void and we pray for death. Where there is a flame there are mirrored rooms glistening in the sun and where there is hope there is none. The song continues in a different key but the words never change – a tirade of histories unknown. The city has never been this loud. Birds sit on the roof tops before casting their imaginations high and wide. The game continues. The sea changes. Surely, we saw it coming, placed as we are. I can’t put this sentence right or wrong, all I can do is draw a line under the word fact and pray to god I remember where I left my keys. I live tweet my search and find not one but two descriptions of hell were peace and rest can never dwell.

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