Not a suicide note
It
is over
I
want to end it
I
want to type the letter of my life
and
then refuse to send it.
I
didn’t ask to be here
I
don’t recall ever making a conscious decision
I
think like the ball in a pinball machine
if
you can recall them. End it
I’ve
tried to open up my wrists
I’ve
tried overdosing
I’ve
tried stepping in front of cars
my
work was built for closing
this
substance we call consciousness
it
was an error. Of our choosing
I
am suicidal, filled with desire
I
cannot cope with moving
I
want to die quietly
in
my sleep
remaining
alive I cannot help but feel
like
something strange I am
metaphysically
losing.
Cemetery wall
I
am psychotic
but
pure
I
am the power that moves you
when
you are not sure
I
am the star in the darkness
the
ripple in the well
I
am the wand casting circles
in
search of a spell.
I
am the curse that involves all of us
and
condemns us all
I
am the writing on the cenotaph
the
dark destructive power
of
the terrible sea.
I
am the sunshine that is good to you
the
sense of being free
like
the running about shirtless
in
your childhood memory
I
am the moon
in
the sky plunged in darkness
I
am the star
in
as yet undiscovered galaxies
I
am the fix I am the address
to
the problem
the
destination
you
haven’t conjured in your imagination yet
I
am the sorry source of all
that
comes to pass
and
will pass by us all.
I
am the sad empty bottle
left
by night on the cemetery wall.
Dark matter
We
don’t know what to look for
but
we know you are there
bombarding
us with particles invisible
inaudible
to the ear
We
have lengthy equations
that
will not add up
if
you are not here/ you are a speculation
akin
to noumenon
omnipresent
as the air
that
we take for granted and breathe upon
and
depend upon for our searching
near
and far
we
do not know if our detectors will even
note
that you’re here
In
the most abstract realms of mathematics
you
are the zero that we cannot find
you
are almost a special sort of nothing
a
glancing vortex of fear
that
holds the rest of existence that we can measure
I
call it Sorge or Care
Gravity
I'm
out of gin
and
my best friend's been in
talking
me into the future
and
heroin
I
feel better and worse just for being here
his dog's not
allowed
but not a bow-wow
bothers the entire flat
the
whole house
is flat without him
I feel weak, yet
powerful
on the verge of frenzy
But useless as a car
to
a non-drivee
on a weekend release/ my brother
what will I
do with ye
spend money
and try not to overpower thee
I
sleep in bed all day
It's my duty
while the love of my life
goes through the motions
of mourning her ex husband
we all
die someday
is it you I'll fail
to attend
your lock
your funeral
Or is it me who is lost in your beauty
I need
to grow up
this world
this force
this gravity
Choring
Guess
what
you
can’t escape it the calamity
of
all things leading north
where
the heart won’t go
but
the imagination soared
not
so very long ago
you
bring lightning now to my storm
when
I thought I couldn’t go on
I
thought of you and thought
things
could be worse
but
also so much
better
now
you and your dog are back together
and
I am left holding the fort
choring
cleaning
things
for
a better word for the housewife
you’d
have me become
I
must take the walk
whoring
expressions
from pretty ladies in the street
and
I’m left wondering what
is
it me or you
in
your almighty wisdom
that
we are looking back and waking
arise
waking up from
Sheer face
I’m
not afraid of the judgment when it comes
and
it always comes
I
have always been on the look out for that lightning to strike
for
the world to turn again cyclically and
once
having put its fut down
will
not put its foot down again/ this is your last
adventure
before
the curse of cold and lonely
and
living is cumbersome and
increasingly
costly
I
will look the judgement dead-on in the eyes and tell it
you
don’t know what it was like to be me
this
tail on an unborn unknown willing
comet
I
arch out into the night and at sea you would mistake me for
a
satellite or aircraft
but
one with no sense of its way
not
recalling take-off
and
with literally no clue as to the destination
with
a skeleton on board for a crew
your
judgement I do not fear
facing
Mistaken
There
is hell to pay
in
each long neutral day
bereft
of detail
or
discriminatory feature
beyond
the sea
where
waves clash with small
hurricanes
of
wind power and
atmospheric
pressure
that
the birds in their time
come
to ride
below
a sky of twinkling
satellites
and planets
and
stars
reminding
us where we are
in
the arms of things
desperately
waiting
for
the hell that we have yet to pay
willing
but mistaken
For Icarus
I
would call you Icarus
for
you sail so close to the sun
you
heed not my warnings
tales
I wear on my arms
of
coming undone
I
have walked for many miles my Icarus
yet
my feet and legs remain scar less
it
is when one attempts to fly
my
doubting son
that
the skin begins to melt
and
the spirit waxes
even
as the solar wind wanes
and
the sea it leaps
effervescent
waves as the shore
relaxes
knowing
that where we sprang from
we
will return to soon
even
as the ash of others and the piles of bones
makes
for the ground we couldn’t bear
to
stick to
and
cast us like our mothers out
we
go in search like fathers
we
go in search of life
not
suicide
or
these curls and coils that look to me here
as
I about manage to glide
like
suicidal missions
On Immortality
I
walk without you
no
not walk I shuffle, scuttle
head
down and spring
from
the shade
once
every so other often
when
I hear your name
before
then I am a face mistaken
for
the blanks on the street
in
their bubble wrap
coats
and facial decoration
pay
me no heed
I
am thankful for that
for
I feel foreign and alien, a robot
scout
broken
on
the treacherous surface of Mars
turned
blue and green
by
time
crossed
with its exact location
in
this particular consciousness
in
this instantiation
of
its rounds
you
have to read your stars
to
understand how they move
and
how all things move
relative
to earth
and
how the earth wobbles
it
is not even fixed in the stars
as
time takes another piss
on
the outer arms
of
the milky way
a
system it would appear
that’s
been long
forgotten
but
I won’t be forgetting the scars
they
remain long and golden
like
agonizing comets
they
foretell
if
you could only trace them
backwards
tickling
a child out of hell
until
he accepts Yahwe
I
will accept no such entity but me
to
all this I belong
it
is from what I sprang
and
it is all for me
death
does not bother my lines
it
is in the beats, and in the beatings
of
my father
that
I have discovered meaning
and
in the cold hearted
mother
of mimes
that
I first found love
and
saw it for its mere enzymes
only
at times we make art
that
scatters time
and
lights a pinprick spark
of
everlasting life
of
the all hovering mind
underlying
it all
immortality
In praise of Morpheus
Love
be damned
where
once there rang church bells
there
now lie gravestones
each
as enduring
and
insufferable as vows made
by
the briefly living
the
all-so briefly loving
as
the pods become seeds
and
the seeds become pods
the
grounds cracks
and
the air cracks
soon
with water
and
from that water springs
our
doppelganger
leaping
as soon as it walks
into
the arms of danger
not
from outside harm
nor
wily predator
but
the wolf that is become wolf for man
and
drives the heart’s blood
and
jellies the legs
as
reason jams
and
we fall for the one with the eyes
the
breast and thighs
we
keep opening doors
into
a life
we
will come to despise later on in
the
form of morphine
Love
be damned
still
we survive
disinfected
at last from the past
in
the form of gin
and
heroin
Nihilos Cristos
Pay
no heed for the morrow
and
follow me
these
are the words of a madman
who
believes in immortality
or
that the world is beginning
to
end
which
of course to the finite minds among us
it
must be/ to our grandchildren
we
build conceptual shrines
in
which we will live
although
we will go unloved
how
utterly deluded are we?
The
sea will run pink with our blood
the
sky will run black
and
the smears of stars will be no more to us
than
the madman’s reappearance would
in
this world of resistance and self
sacrifice
in
this the realm of the centuries old Samsara
our
eyes will be spread out like plates
across
the comic table
our
elements returned to the void
where
once they were
free/
evaporated
burned
and returned like change
to
the universal bank of
everything/
underlined
by
nothing
Unwanted patterns
The
rain will not abate
in
the second week of March
it
falls like Icarus
each
drop buffeted and blown
against
the rooftops and
the
windows loudly
screaming
of the fall from the sky
and
smeared in Rorschach
patterns
and
we are pattern forming
animals
heads
down in the rain
feet
giving off the steam produced
with
each futile footstep
as
we trudge to the shops
walk
the unwanted dog
mind
filled with
monies
and
what to have for supper
compromise
on meatballs
ready-bought
instead
of hand-made and seasoned
but
this is not the first compromise
we
make
we
look at the earth
from
our minor tunnelled
perspectives
makes
me not want to be alive
makes
me not want to describe
these
ever changing patterns
Open door to heaven
There
will be a time
where
there is no more time
when
this particle or monad
speaks
no more
if
in the words there is vitality
perhaps
therein there lies immortality
but
in the sketches of perceptions
that
I saw
if
I leave a carbon footprint
it
was not because I meant it
we
inherit the draught of previous
unlocked
doors
as
I climb the stairs to heaven
bestowing
peace upon the women
and
every sort of children
that
I’ve known
