Bones To Bury

The key is changing and I’m slipping over the landscape and into the grass.  Tall grass.  When the lawnmowers come, maybe they’ll find me, or maybe they’ll mulch me up like field mices.  What a way to go, but if it’s good enough for those soft gentle creatures then the captain of this ship can stear that course too:  karma is my wind and my ocean, and there’s no voyage short enough to want not for companions.

Run, run, fuck.  Run but oh trip slide my god was that worth it?  I heard and felt her breathing.  In the end it’s all some kind of dance.  Sometimes it takes years to figure out what the tempo was, and to begin to hear the ghostly murmours of the music you were moving to.  We should make our own music.  Dance to that with passion.  Hum it or tap it and just grab a hand and start twirling.  It’s all vertigo either way, and like dervishes you could whorl to enlightenment.

Cackle my friend.  Feel warm in your skin, that warm glow is your warm glow.  Strike a light, little buddy, and let the match brighten your features for a moment in incandescence.

You’re giving me noise now with your gasket-face head-blowing.  Too much static now you swine, and too much swine flu.  I can live beside, we just need to keep the cake flowing.
(Rummages and find, former suitcase addendum, former flowing auburn - but my god that was a flowing Nile of red hair - former postcard in your mailbox. haha)
There’s old magic in old dust, and old dust in old magic, and some days more so the other.

Breathe in and sigh, smile and pause, and we can pass this one on as old luck.

Open it up; that’s it.  The stretch of paper, the line of words.  The sea of sharks and islands.

You’re doing good kid.   Someone behind you coughs, and you’re in a library at a desk between the stacks.  All these books, all these enthusiastic readers.  Sponges.

You’re definitely on a roll.  Lanes of traffic, drifts of seaweed, jungles of Malaysia.

 I think though that I’m much better loving the world as a whole and precipitatively, as I’m a bit of a funny creature and not at all a rock but just person soup.

Big colourful banners, with all the happiest symbols on.

—–

Mrrah. Hello. I am in England working my ass off. No free time and hard hard work, but it will mean I’ll be able to return to Oz with a pocket full of cookies to fund ideas! That’s the plan anyway.

Don’t feel up for jaunting verbal, as my soul is currently being held by high command. When shackles broken, I’ll sing about it all.

Cheerio!
Osh

The poetics of desire embody life as we know it.  A subtle and sublime codependent network of motivations operating at every level of our thought.  And the world we experience see-saws the mechanisms and tips the scales and winds the gears.  A self-justifying, self-instantiating narrative positioning of ourselves as the main character, complete with the ironies of contrivance.  The experience of the real substantiates the poetics of desire.

They are flight attendants.  They are Japanese schoolgirls.  Wistful fantasies and over optimistic future-plans foot-firsting into a dreamworld of plenty and ever satiated sexual abandon.

I promise her a delicious dinner.  Vegan, lactose free.  An orchestra of roast vegetables.  We talk she draws fantastically colourful pictures with pencils with names like Sailors Jumper Blue, and Carmine Red.

They send him a package.  Birthday cake.  Powerpuff girls with all the sucrose pink a boy could want.  Customs is scared of eggs, and blows it up.

When some barely loyal formless void earns frequent flier miles, the ocean daydreams.

The go board - a bohemian chess board.

The stack expands past the arithmetic ditch.

The bias persists behind the lyric.

“Why — won’t an antique bounce?”

———————————

The breeze plays russet curls against a rosy cheek. A wistful daydreamer adventuring into the Autumn fireworks of multicoloured leaves.  An upcurled smile above a woollen knitted sweater.

————————–

I was packing my bag with the things that I’d found.  A thick hardback book called “The observed” that would be valuable where I was going.  My companion was looking at a loose book of notes and sketches I’d made that would help me remember also.  And as I packed my rucksack, it seemed that I had a growing amount of important things that I needed to take with me, and that I might not be able to fit it all.  But finally I realized I could delay no longer, and we both started hiking to our destination far off.

A few minutes earlier I’d been passing through the city to meet her, knowing that it was my last time.  A gave myself the luxury of extended glances at the gorgeous Gothic architecture of this ever darkened city.  The churches with their bizarre intersecting rods, joining in a halo above the roof and continuing slightly on - each thick with ornate stone carving.  The corridors between buildings in this amazing city being almost an optical illusion of intersecting flying buttress supports.  Then I came to building on the left that was more simply decorated.  A flat wall building that could have been some Hotel de Ville.  It’s most significant decoration had been a larger than life size religious figure or angel attached quite high on the wall and overlooking the street, but when I came to it the angel lay detached and fallen on the ground.  I stopped for a moment in curiosity at this new interest, but then realised these buildings were no longer sturdy/safe, and on seeing my path ahead flanked by more of these types of buildings with accompanying angelic decorations I started running at the fear of the building crumbling on top of me.

I met her just behind the station where I’d lost her and the others when arriving to the city.  I remember we’d just left the train (she’d just made the generous concession of paying for my journey, as I was a stranger and was struggling to pay, and this was a life-or-death type necessity to travel).  The doors were just closing when I was reminded I should scan my passport as I got off.   I didn’t even know if I had one, but when I checked and realized I did, I made the mad dash back to the doors of the train and got it scanned just in time.  The atmosphere of the train had been claustrophobic.  Knowing that one was effectively trapped in this metal box, in a fascist, controlling world that you weren’t supposed to be in made one paranoid and on edge.  I was glad to be out. but as headed back up the steps to the railway bridge to find my companions I did not see them, and they had disappeared down some unknown path, and i had been left hopelessly lost.

He tapped his knarled fingers on the wood of the table. The right hand shifted: Now handling a large mug of rum, now stroking his auburn beard. His hand, his body, the stool, desk and entire cabin wheeled languidly starboard with a creak, as the lamp overhead swung to port, then all begun to swap orientations. The swinging of the lamp pulled shadows from wall to opposite wall. Light danced on the canvas treasure map below. Light danced across the buckles and rings of his clothes. Light danced in his eyes.

trying to remember what was in that direction, he jettisoned his slack, lack-lustre libido, and picked up a parched leather suitcase fit for the road. Nothing left to turn his back on, striding fist-pawed into the sunset with a bent cigarette hanging from his bottom lip.

“Shazam!” the explosion hadn’t come, and now he was left with a morbid fear of the Everyday. Kitchens and children’s parties and Sunday newspapers. He kept his cool and watched through dark sunglasses, whilst sweat trickled conspicuously down his temples. The Big Corporations; he was supposed to be at the top of all this. These worlds formed out of empty McDonald’s containers and Coke cans and whathaveyou. He could snipe from the lofty heights of penthouse apartments, but this was all street-fight. It was dirty and pleasant and emotional and screaming and what Christmas is all about.

Someone was waiting to meet you.
You met them but didn’t get on.
Your heart was broken quite quickly,
by a girl of whom you’d grown fond.

An exciting sub-plot was ventured,
but this someone was waiting once more.
You’d grown so much as  a person,
you forgot what you’d disliked them for.

And perhaps dénouement was coming,
the climax a sweet memory,
but plenty more time together,
in a house by a lake and a tree.

The End

“Clansmen, my brothers: We can build something here, on this sacred land.  make dwellings on this ground and reclaim this ancient isle as it’s true owners!”

“We could, but you’ve sold all the bricks!”

They were each given a suckable lozenge as recompense.

“Suck it up!”

Cover your walls with little white tiles that allow you to clean them with bleach.

—

I think mess can be good. As children we played, and made mudcakes and groped about,
to the reproach of the grown-up responsible people who generally think all things out.

“This love affair’s likely to end in mess - one of us is sure to get hurt.”
So we took off our clothes to keep them from
the blood and the cum and the dirt.

fitting perfectly and splitting into a thousand splinters in all directions like light through a prism.  The splinters shook the walls, knocked dust from ledges, and finally penetrated the wallpaper and plaster and floorboards until the room was nothing more than a filigree lattice open to the sky.   Baring naked the timber frames, monumentally carved into a tendril canopy of vines branches leaves roots.  Back to the forest.

What a room this was. Not covered and convoluted but set free to move with the wind and drink up the rain.    A womb of still motion.  An auditorium for the stars.