eschatonIIsequence
v
The
climax of the metaphysical sequence is transcendentally delayed.
We
have not advanced much farther than the observations Kant has made.
We’re
simply using different categories and seeing tools instead of toys.
Poststructuralists
aren’t the messiah they’re a bunch of very naughty boys.
Being
leaves out nothing and so it would imply quite naturally everything.
Even things we wouldn’t think of as natural. For example like a
ghost: Being is what comes, arrives, and lingers.
If
you would write what Being’s like beware you may end up burning
your fingers
Everything
is on fire.
Being
writes itself sometimes, it pours forth from your windows.
Getting
through the day sometimes is like shovelling a garden’s worth of
dense snow.
Little
tasks pile up no matter how inessential to the problem. Washing,
laundry, eating, taking walks; none of these things can be seemingly
put off forever.
How
many times a day I say it’s now or never?
The
pages serve as banks down which may course my private river.
I
split the day into unequal parts: there is the trial of day, there’s
the deliberation of evening, and there’s the sentence of night.
When
the sentences speak for themselves you have no choice but to trust
that they or you are doing something right.
I
have no serious problem with competition. It’s the fact that it
breeds such corruption that makes me beware of it.
Before
I’d publish in dubious mags. Now I publish my work for myself so
any weak work I make will be my own bad.
Pride
has robbed me of so many chances that I could have had.
I
cannot work with a collective, I am quite sure I’m an
individualist. One person is enough to be going on with. Like a book
of commentary on the springs of the sprouting earth, you need not
look any further.
The
only sense in which others are vital is as control specimens by which
you compare yourself. You can invent a private language but you will
die on the shelf.
I
have the attention span of a gnat examining a car windscreen. The
last thing on my mind is my ass.
I
am hopeful I never become popular or widely examined or read for I am
sure there are thoughts and whims on the muse’s wind which are cold
enough to bite me.
Race
has never been an issue for me: the casual racism of my village/town
encountered in my youth was so remote from actual ethnic lives it
seemed like they were poking fun at Martians. Only later I started to
see what some people go through and altered my reality. I still have
little to contribute; I only report dispassionately.
A
haiku of mine gives me pause,, although clearly tongue-in-cheek it
references an act of childish, ignorant, mock racist cruelty. Of
course poems do not reflect always the point of view of the poet in
question. But the questions that the haiku might raise are barely
worthy, in my opinion, questions. It’s expressive and sets out to
shock. If that’s what it does, the question of why isn’t mine,
necessarily, to answer. It reflects the questing, morally, of a child
grown self-aware and politically conscious. It’s a confessional
poem of sorts. And raises the question: what is offensive about a
colour?
We
should be self-aware with our words, even when they roam free, we
should be ready to rein them in, and gather them like shepherds.
Composing
is an excellent way to describe manifesting poems. The words float
like notes in the air and you wave your wand: the words rearrange,
the chords come together, and the language makes music as sweet as
any drum or dulcimer.
I
wish I could offer some reward to those that read these words or who
follow me through these days and nights of note and introspection. If
there is a pay-off to be had it is in the meeting of another’s
mind; not to answer questions, but compare our notes and stories.
My
story is the story of a man gone mildly mad. He thought a bid for
immortality was best served by a blinding book. It cost him many
lives, but most of all it cost him himself. For when it opened he was
banished with a look. Somewhere therein his ghost still haunts those
pages. Somehow his words still float and congregate with these.
That’s
the story of a busy Being. It can’t be bound, it floats about with
ease.
If
you cannot hear the answer did you really ask a clear question?
The
sequence asks what happens when a man puts his heart and soul into a
book. It takes another heart and soul, and not a lttle magic, to
invoke and ressurect him. His life therefore depends on an act of
faith.
The
problem of other minds is not confined to the theory of knowledge.
Perhaps
there is a second, or third order of information, and in effect we
access each as different worlds. That would make us data
globetrotters and navigators to the extreme.
As
far as commentary goes it is necessary to re-tread some places you
have already been.
The
first sequence tried to imply it was a virus, a part of a collective
which was differentiated, hungry, driven, lust-ridden and one. It’s
self-destruction was simultaneously an act of genocide and mercy. It
did not declare war on Being, it declared war on the Will.
I
would shoot this concept down with arrows but it won’t stand still.
There
is something odd between being and doing. When we are being we cannot
describe what we are doing. When we do something it’s not always
obvious who or what we’re being.
The
sequences died for my sins and were released unbounded. Now I’m
atoning again, for breeding my unwilling.
With
the will that holds up all that’s light and everything that’s
heavy; with a heart that is folded in guilt: I am reconciling.
Strange
that most crises strike young, or that they appear at least more like
crises than setbacks. Now I am calm as the dawn, uneventful as
night, and could respond to strife with trained, ground-down decorum.
Some
people cling to the same old sounds like Linus, inseperable from his
security blanket.
These
tend to be the same people I’ve found who eat fried-egg and chips,
followed by some ice-cream, and never enthusiastically depart from
their narrow menu.
After
a certain age a family man is incapable of properly caring or looking
after himself. It became part of his nature to think and put oneself
behind others.
Left
to his own devices such a man soon turns inwardly and lost to drugs,
gambling, pussy, or the bottle.
And
pussy is not the same as what keeps families together; that’s more
like a pink and puce collared Rottweiler.
The
thing you have to understand is that sometimes I say these things
because the words themselves are there ready-to-hand.
Waiting
on your proofs before becoming a published author is like waiting
hungrily for your mouldy bread before your hanging.
I
know I will not be sold, I am a toy, a plaything, artefact. Like some
old men collect stamps or build ships in little bottles, my hobby
will be to keep being a private author.
I
am my own reader, I am the text, I am the dear departed author.
Who
are you to ask me any of the questions that you ought to?
If
I should be reviewed I can imagine nothing glowing. I see huge
incomprehension, despite the long tradition I am following.
We
can’t all be like the Wasteland and get lucky with the shearing
scissors. I could juggle all my aphorisms while swinging one-handed
from a great trapeze.
I
introduced the concept of Dark Radical Poetics. By that I mean the
wordplay that examines its own workings
but
all the while with one eye on the abyss.
We
must believe the good stuff comes to those who are deserving.
What
is good about a man is far removed from his weekly earnings.
The
salve of sleep, like the leap unto death, is the result of the burden
of collective conscience on an individuated will.
At
this point it is a conscious effort I have to make in order to eat,
to ensure my survival. My will is as indifferent to food as it has
become to sex.
The
eschaton sequence charted a document’s descent into mania. Perhaps
this text documents its cognitive, and therapeutic recovery.
The
world at large can’t be ignored. But it is so large there is little
response to it I can offer but one of baffled awe.
Terrorism
doesn’t frighten me. What frightens me is the belief by certain
terrorists that they remain individuals in heaven.
In
heaven everything stays the same, everything is as one.
In
hell there is nothing but violence and anger and spite and resentment
and fear. Heaven is a conscious opposite of this.
There
is no hope for man on this planet, nor any hope for woman. But in
each individual a world has taken shape and fallen. This is the
residual content of life.
Like
a rainbow in the shimmering rain life hovers alert, buzzing away,
making light, multiplying rainbows.
The
shorter the bursts of writing can be, like ammunition, the more
precise they will be.
No-one
asked Pollock ‘Where is this going?’ No one visited the Rothko
chapel and said ‘Why?’.
My
lines are sponges, brushstrokes or scrapes of pallette knife, on a
linear canvass. But no lone mark should occupy the eye.
Love
is a reminder that we are never alone here, but it’s also a stark
reminder that each of us will die.
That
time is more than linear is not just implied by its tensedness, but
also by growth and maturity.
Think
of the age differences in intimate relationships and how a certain
boundary is set or found.
Time
seems to be experienced at a different speed, quite weirdly, as the
organism ages and memories are filled.
Certain
weeks would stretch forever like ripe fields of golden barley; now
each day that passes is another day that’s killed.
The
world is not a game, or if it is I play it badly. It’s not that I
didn’t read the rulebook I just thought no-one read it properly.
What
other game is as fascinating and disgusting as Monopoly?
Once
there was a time when I read Schopenhauer solely.
Now
I do not read except my own scribbled insights only.
As
a feat of rhyming prose I have achieved more than I meant to.
There
is a roughness to the style reflecting places I was sent to.
I
have been to places a neck-tie’d refuse to go.
Sometimes
I think about her, where she’s going, what she’s up to.
Some
people change you for the better, and forever, and for worse.
If
you want to change a person go ahead and be a nurse.
I
never incorporated text the way she did into her slash of paintings.
I tore my books instead and wrote textures into my arms.
She’d
write to me desperately from a hospital in Blackburn. I was back at
home with my vicious ex and new born son.
There’s
no surprise once you start digging how I arrived at eschaton.
Who
knows for what fathomless reasons we do the things we do when we are
young.
The
same reasons as older folk; just we are more prepared for them
When
they happen.
We
tend to know ourselves and forgive ourselves more quickly of our
youthful failings.
Even
as we tend toward a narrowing of our lives, the narrow line becomes
expansive the more you share its curves and lines.
Why
do we write a poem? Why does the weather vane turn? Why does the sea
churn? Why does the core of the earth bubble and burn? Because it is
being itself. And it wants to learn.
The
gulls are at war in the sky. The Summer is wet today. Don’t ask me
why.
I
no longer try to fathom or reason, I reflect instead. I offer my
insights like a mirror: pointing skywards and inwards.
This
is the worst type of psychopathology: one that has taken a course in
metaphysics, ontology and epistemology.
A
writer writes what he or she knows, and there’s little I know but
for myself and my experiences. Some of those experiences were cold,
others were blinding heat, but all of them are
nothing
to what I have forgot.
I
am the sum total of my memories, and the memories remaining of me.
I
am alive in these pages. I have left the mortal plane
I
am free.
Being
runs riot in the clouds, in the quasars of ink, in the beaks of
squid; Being flies like a bird and runs like a mouse; Being goes mad
and holds court in the walls of its own house.
I
am a conduit and wire for the dictates of sounds that translate into
words and not always of my accord. I struggle to get them all down.
It
feels I could go on forever documenting stuff.
Stuff
is all there is arranged in patches and piles
we
go around picking up names for these things building all the time
and
fundamental as language is there is more fundamental stuff that we
process quicker and in a non-verbal way
phenomenology
is a useful tool as is any analogy
Poetry
reveals things in new ways. The things they reveal are the objects of
phenomenology.
They
are how we are seeing the world, in all its texture, shape and
meaning.
Imagery
is of great use when it comes to poetry, but equally poetry shows
that it’s far from the eyes with which we grasp the world mostly.
The
heart knows far more intuitively and deeply what we are going about
than our little minds do.
On
the bright side the past has been lost and with it all its pain. On
the downside there is all we’ve
missed.
And all we are going to.
The
future is the potential chaos that is yet to come. Best make a list
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