A blog for some writing. This is life. In more words.
If you would like your comments/questions to be answered privately, please let me know; otherwise I will be posting them here on the blog.
All is quiet in the Green House,
lonelight shinting through the window
while I have known (have known).
Whipser dim-strung through the marsh
and reeds whose tendril roots
cull and coo beneath the fog;
out there is a copse
whose trees do not bend but, instead,
look to the glint of the light
violat. Crisp-hued suns
which spot the sky of my room
(perversity unbounded those trees
looking in, looking in, and in).
And picking through none of the Green
House holding thin glass, I have seen
the chandelier now darkened resolute.
(And I who have known redness.)
While there is a sole light in the window
I have waited and heard my name
jumping on the drunken calls
which butterfly in the wide wind.
It caught me under my arm
and held my hand past the house
where an empty room was waiting
with the light dim light
falling from the top of the Green House
while I, knowing cherry crimson
skinned kneedrop thin
smile gumfloss lip-turned
overbounded cock-led braim
supernova’d bloody and sweet,
knowing purest happy Red,
walked thereby in silence
and suckled my thoughts once again.
Between the wind and the sweet-blue sky
Fits perfectly and deliberately the form of
Brazen-billowed yeslet breath-tipped
Cool and cold on this morning of mornings.
It is impossible to describe every toothsome glint
Or hint of summer in flowering steps
Which trip easily as a tapped tongue
And clatter in a hollow tattoo of laughs
(Like the days in the gardens, the breeze and the girls
And the beach with its arms wide waiting
While we walked ‘round the rim and gazed outward)
Which themselves fall like bones in one’s palm,
Bird-being borne off on the wind.
(It is impossible to say of every shift and shape
Of nick and nape which blossoms in movement,
In grand gusts of opening, in innocent
Brushed strokes of an unknown hand
While the very being of that thinly set mind
Is carried whipping beautifully, endlessly
On the tail of every gorgeous word.)
Dull heavy fields of strawberries spread
Downhill, punctured and puckered by copses,
Rambling with untameable shrubs, weeds,
Mosquitos swarming dark in the dusk
And thick on the horizon. I thought of you.
And, when I came upon a thrushlet, near-dead,
Beating faintly like a small heart,
All blood and batter and sorely in need,
I raised it in my hands next to a fallen oak
And the sky slid down to a sickly hue;
The wind, it howled, it thinly wept
While I stood impassible and ever-stared
As seconds bled down me, right through me—
Until I turned and went home, leaving the dusk
My house was running to rot.
The door was oddly bruised. The tables were unkept.
But I lay the thrush there all the same,
And held a kind knife lovelily,
Until I found that I was already past your lips
And I stood for hours, and I could not.
Said the scorpion to the frog:
“I could not help myself. It is my nature.”
Lo! My little longing skips,
Leaping, rolling, ruckussed lips
Tangressed, tinctured, tickled blue
‘Till rain does fall, and fall anew.
And then myself, with little sips,
The little drips and dips and long
Lovely little sups: I strip
The sun and starlet skin, begin,
And am as a cloud if clouds were crue,
Abstracted, splintered, sickly dew
Churning, climbing, grotesque and grand,
Fluttering as flocks across the land.
Deep in darks, pulled thickly through,
The dense dusk-break of crumbled sky
In quivers of light which caw and coo
But never once do tell a lie.
No, they never tell a lie.
A cloud! A crim, cackling thing!
And swiftly swerving drunken-sing
Myself into the sky. My mind into the spheres,
The stars in buckets poured, though tears
Streaked you – shushlet – amidst the sting
Of long bird-song, seeping slowly,
Slowly, until tender tips of your wings
Were ashen and aching, already ageing,
And my toothsome maw was agape at your fears.
But not yet, my hushling thrush, for years
Pass slowly, slowly, and the light falls dimly,
Rises warm, but weak, and grand but grimly,
And holds tightly dear its ugly smears.
Young yimpled doves, know me!
Know me as you know the wind that veers,
That bursts, fast and freckled and free,
As a fistful of sky through a burning tree.
So piece me pretty, puckered pet,
I’m longing for a tête-à-tête,
To seize that slim and supple sky
Which leaks and limpers by-the-by
Like soft rain, or silken sets
Of starlets streaming their buckle and hiss
With every kiss, with swip and sweat,
But have no clue, no clue at all;
I fear my love is awry.
It burns and bursts and blazes high
But breaks and blots my snowy sheets
With cut cries, skippled sweet
Sobs which wash, wane, and die.
And yet, with me, I must love so:
Longing for the pale passing sky,
Leaving flowers strewn which senselessly grow,
Taking flowers which bloom but never know.
Oh dear, my darling blue-born love, come now
And dwell deep in myself, my love, come now,
So that you may be me, my love; how thin
That line between myself and the wide sky.
There was once here a face, afraid, eyes wide
And green, teeth tip’d and white, lips shining rose
In folds that lay softly upon the night.
Be not that face, my blue-born love, come now
And dwell. This is my flesh; this is my mind.
Come unto me, let us burn long as though
We are set to consume all things we touch.
Myself: I will seize open sky, and eat
The stars that lie therein. They are but specks,
And specks they will long-last remain, always,
When I have had my fill of height and teeth.
Not before then will I ever hold me.
So come, come now, wade to my lips, your eyes
Scream theft; your teeth chime loss. Come now and be
But one: my blue-born love, my darling sea.
Come now and be but one with me, and there
Will be a thin horizon where the sky
Burns red and all-consuming so that it
Drinks ever-deep of the blue-born ocean.
Beating a drum, struck high and strong, he came
Along the river side so that its gush
Caressed his feet, those instruments of his—
Although their heels struck deep and harsh, caressed.
This was the man who said to me, “Burn bright.”
Since then I have stood still, aflame, in want.
That man, he told me of such things; we sat
In night, licked by the fire, the river-run
Boiling. It seethed and stewed and then I ate.
He shared with me his hunted meat: the fruit
Of toil, his labor past, his work to come.
That night the river rill’d in mime of him.
The moon, sick moon, hung like a smile of him.
The trees, they rattled like the laugh of him.
And when I woke, there was a hole in me;
It was cut deep and I lay still a while.
Then I went down the lone dirt road, that road,
Star-speck’d with red as I left him and that
Small death behind, away, far-off, ahead.
Before I left he told me this that night:
He drove a deer hard on and through the wood.
Its flesh we ate, its mind since waste and gone.
The man told me of his pursuit, so grim
And grisly to the tongue, read raw that night,
As the remains hung dripping over flames.
Oh dear, my darling blue-born love: lend ear.
She ran so swiftly but ‘twas all in vain.
She ran past trees as that great lidless eye,
Burning deep in the stars, watched on and cried.
She ran through stream and brook with drops splay’d up,
Broken, all smashed and splintered like the sea
While it churns on and sprays itself on rocks:
She slipped, and was spat onto shore, alone.
And he, eyes-wide, came up behind, prepared.
Be joyous, darling dove-like lucky girl;
I am still bleeding from the heart of me.
I am still gasping in the night, in fear,
So that I am removed from me and I
Can stand apart from this slow-rupture death.
My teeth have not yet fallen out with rot,
But only ache in springtime when it rains.
Be joyous, darling little star, for I
Am embers strewn across the wind and sea.
I am the shadow of a wastrel man
And though I froth and churn and spit and seek
To eat the sky – that sky! That shining slut –
Be glad, for I am happy that you stay.
And if you were ever to leave this place,
I fear that my toothache would grow to rot
And my pain lapse into the deepest want.
I am afflicted by this malady
Which turns sweet things to deep decay, into
A hunger to consume the world! But no.
Be glad that you are not that deer, my love.
Come unto me, my toothsome patient nurse,
And do not be afraid: I am not him,
His hunger, or the flame. Come unto me
And we will sink forever until dawn
Cuts into us with its all-truthful eye,
And shows that which we have so feared ‘till now.
Be not afraid! Be not afraid! But still,
In those long hours of blue-wash’d morning light
Will we look back with our hearts in our mouths
Like roses in our teeth, like bleeding gums,
And will we seep confessions through our sins?
My darling love, what have I done? A breath
Still lingers in between the lavender
Strewn long and blossoming all down your flesh.
Be not afraid! Be not afraid! I sleep.
Danton was a sad little man
Who had a small, sad little life,
Making flowers of paper leaves
And counting days by cigarettes.
Head full of sky and minuets,
Heart full of empty love sonnets,
He wasted time in passing days
And dreamed of lullabies in flesh.
This is all that there is of him;
If one were to take count of words
His would prove to be not but few,
And his life is surmised in one
Swift cut between our minds and his.
As such the swift, heavy blow falls:
Empty/Vacant/Call Now/For Rent
I’ve turned that post I made a little earlier – “An Arrival” – into a short story. It’s about dinner and malaise and all sorts of things. If you feel like letting me know how it is, feedback is very welcome and I look forward to hearing from you. In any other case, I hope you thoroughly enjoy the read nonetheless. (The story itself is available just after following the “Read More” link.)
I had forgotten the light of snow which was dull and blue and lethargic. I had forgotten how, inside, I was like an astronaut or deep-sea diver protected from the elements, and how therein I could lie sweetly in mid-morning warmth. But upon the cold frost which swept the grass outside I could remember all: the toboggan and the firelight and the lukewarm water which burned my frozen hands like flames. I sat with steam billowing against me, mugs filled and emptied, the overcast skies falling in pieces and settling quietly in white banks around my quiet and quaint existence.
It was over long drinks in the depths of a gloomy night that my dearest friend confessed to me. He was a milquetoast man, a mild-mannered person of middling height who spent his spare time burrowing through books in the comfort of his room. After months of insistence I had finally tweezed him from that cozy little hole and into my house for dinner. He arrived with a sour look on his face. I was tearing him from his pages, and thus from his lovers. He had a famous contempt for the flesh; though he drew the attention of a handful at university, he had never involved himself. His delights and passions which folded and blossomed according to their own delicate natures were to him as fulfilling as any cup from which to drink, or gathering at which to converse. He had cultivated his own secret garden of pleasures within the confines of his head. I had taken him from that fanciful world; he cynically awaited my attempt to meet its worth.