re: frigeration

I can’t think of anything else

but this slow buzzing

the faint waves –

the stench, still squatting here as at last

(at last)

the noise fades.

Every break

is godsent

in the insomnight…

…and even then, the fear of fears –

ten minutes or less and sleep must be slept

before/or else/because

WHOOOSH!

[comes the humfmmfmm of the fucking fridge]

working its work, holding levels, avoiding peaks and

drops

keeping cool constant, until again

(again) it stops.

Not a relief –

but the tension of loss,

like I’m quilted in its absence,

that buzz,

so much buzz, the plug-in to life,

pulsating the veins

in the tile

and the grout

WHOOOSH!

[—]

 

Who could ever drop off

when they bed in a house

where power surges

in/in/in

and finds no way back out?


Mortuus Est Philippus

Promo vid for a collaboration I’m working on with Irish choreographer Philip Connaughton. Music by yours truly!


An Awaited Guest

They asked me was I lonely,

I said lonely meant empty:

my life was full.

They smiled – “you’ll find love”,

I said yes,

or that love was a silly word,

or best, nothing at all.

I hated those parties,

 

my coupled friends

with their prescriptive desires –

these absurd things they made me want,

like phantom limbs – –

feelings yet unborn,

awaiting some stranger…

…boundless, sure, terrific.

 

And then I ached for it.

 

Some nights I felt jaded

and left

but didn’t go home –

I’d lie in the quiet places

on roofs of cars, listening,

on watch,

finding pulses in the sky.

 

There was I, staring at stars,

transfixed by lights long-faded – tricked

into memory,

 

while in the blank and dark spaces,

those backdrops,

new matters were coming together,

finding form,

becoming specific.


I woke before the house

One birthday morning

I woke before the house

and crept to the stairs

where our big window was a gleam

of almost-Christmas light,

uncertain white, frosting on pale hills,

not yet breaking day from the night.

 

Nothing moved on the land.

 

Ash, willow, birch, great oak

stood still

as if there never had been life,

nor death,

just this waiting in between.

I felt some fear, or aching,

like never before –

somehow nothing would be the same,

nothing stuck to plan,

a clearness was lost that could never

be redeemed.

 

Closing my eyes, I heard

the dream-filled breath of the others

tiding under doors, through keyholes,

returning, yes! – I thought,

to day’s wake,

to life at hand.

 

But above all those sleeps

there leaned

a tree I could not name,

from which descended shimmering,

tragic things

that I could not understand.


Taj Mahal

Palace of distraction-

here, gardens grow from grief.

This hand forms the outer world

as the one in the bedroom unlearns it

forgets the such of pond and trellis,

released from hold and touch,

to much more, or less-

to bliss,

or maybe sleep.

His last days are quiet,

the life in him is small,

lies so deep it seems to

flit

fli-

fl-

and flicker.

Many small deaths

have halted the spreading

of soil, ridging, erecting of posts.

Shoes come off – but then,

again, the hesitant hiss

the mere memory

of breath,

so faint

it seems obsolete.

By May, the ivy will have

taken hold,

and from the vista out back

will ghost the lilies,

transient, strong

and sweet.


The Lowing of the Heart

The lowing of the heart in deepest night

The chirping of the heart while others sleep, from leafy height

The bleating of the heart on hills, on rolling plains

The barking of the heart near gardens, tips and drains, beyond the gate

The howling of the heart at hunt – alone – a pair – in group

The hooting of the heart on watch, in flight, at swoop – too late!

The rustle of the heart in hollow walls and chimney grates

The shrieking of the heart in show of might, enthralling mates

The roaring of the heart in chase – in pride or greatest fright

Anything lighter, wilder, louder

Than the silent part

of the heart that waits.


Fleeting Regret (August 2012, after a long hiatus)

To think, it is not ill-intent

that guides the stinging fly.

He’s crushed;

the world retains its mass,

but is slightly less alive.