Notebook Poem

The Oblong shutters of my windows

Have lopsided past-recurring forms.

And peer into the weary darkness

Unfettered by the twists and turns.

The Oblong shutters of my windows

Do gaze indeed with, ecstasy...

But find, ecstatic as they be

No single trace of you or me.

Milk Of Amnesia - A curiosity

I am pushed aside by my own self, onto myself. The slow and deliberate collapse of an old frame built upon muddy soil. But what hope of rise shall I have? For the depths of memory have always been muddy. How can one even dare to dream such lucid stuff as to create coherent structures of thought and consciousness out of the brittle pieces of a turbulent, yet palpable, past? It is a dance, and the rhythm incarnate is the sleepless turmoil of one's own wrinkled pillow. What a ballet insomnia makes out of our midnight hours. We are the architects of our own undoing, and we plan our destruction with diligence. We choose the alchemy of our poisons, and in measured drops we feed ourselves teaspoons of Aqua Toffana. Some give it a form, others give it a sensation, most give it a name, and all quake under masochistic pleasure of self torture; a slow demise!

I gave it a form, and soon came a sensation, and the name; it was all so natural. A body followed, a smooth skinned, gracefully articulated body, the fragrant aroma of soft hair, of flowery skin, of sweet breath, intoxicating in its breathing. Big wet eyes that stare one down and upset even the stillest of hearts and engulf all tentative, if any, of resistance.

I drank! And felt elated as this sweet death rushed inside every alcove. How the feeling of warmth became present even in the utterance of the name of the thought of such actions. The silent fall of reason, and the sinking into a muddy bank of memory.

I drank! And knew that all other reality was of no importance , that truth was suspended and hollowed of its meaning. The dissolution of the ties of rationality into a boiling sea of equivocal nightmares. The hands of a thousand tribulations were clawing at my drifting body.
I drank! And feared the waving of this ocean, the gushing tide and swirling whirlpools. How far have the currents pushed me? Was there a shore to begin with? The waters soaked me up.

An immense feeling of dread and loss soon followed. It was barking at the feet of my thoughts which were all trailing directionless into some sort of terrible void. A decomposition of everything that held in place the great obelisks of meaning and understanding. With that the rip of the very fabric of self. All the colors seem to run and gather into deep pools and foamy rivers, blast of sulfurous fumes marked the spots were the very ground failed to be. The stars whirled into primordial shapes as if trying to imitate that first chaos, the geometry of perfection mirrored into the blazing ashes of our own personal doom.

After that the silence that remains is the single witness and friend and companion. Sleep and peace and silence settle like a fine film of frost on all that was animated. After the descent into death and combustion the hushed chill of motionlessness is all that is left.

The Falling or The Primordial Virginity of Mind

The vaults decay, the rivers weep. We inebriate ourselves with the wine of eternity.The street creeks under footstep and aches in wooden planks, the sky burns red and clouds veer upwards. We drink, still our throats are dry. Our slumber, no more at peace, throttles in dreams of vengeance. We talk no more. The buildings compose the frostbitten air, we breath in slow, long breaths. In pain our lungs are black with memory. Still we drink. Drop by drop we drain the fluids out of our marrowless bones. We storm, and out of hidden recesses, terrible alcoves of the mind, we spur our monsters into flesh. With their teeth we tare at each other, no longer human. We are no longer human, but beasts, incapable of coordinated speech, of coordinated thought. We babble in our rationality. We tear flesh with our teeth, befallen creatures that we have rendered ourselves. Animals...no better than animals, far worse than anything that is to be found in the darkest wood. We feast on our vanity, our greed for our own image. We curse and pray to our instincts, all out of the folly of action.
The vaults decay, the rivers weep. Our arms blow red with blood, the wounds dry in sulphurs scars. We kick and shove, our limbs animated by madness. Our tongues no longer needed. We have become our own unmaking. We have soiled our humanity. Glancing in mirrors we see the reflected wolves. Our mouths bloody, our hands the same. Bend down and renounce our height. We shall walk on four legs, and bear no name, for we have lost individuality. We shall not differentiate ourselves form one another. Yet we shall kill ourselves all the same. In time we will understand the nature of our actions, and in time forget the motives of our regression. In place of thought we shall obey instinct. And my friends, I ask you, my dearest tribunal, were we not to turn to this rape sooner?

Elegy

We are falling out of a marble staircase. Out, and into a marble hall where a bright light consumes and starts its way up the immaculate walls. We are racing the deluge of the culture intoxicated lot, all quivering, formless and indistinct in its oscillations. You take its course and move towards a wall of black autumn chill, your straight back arching as each step is lain. Your perplexing shape dances like a cat in the tune of some violin. As a pause is made, your frame is jolted by contradicting thoughts and you turn round. The black varnished piano makes himself a companion to myself and my bashful conversation. You turn round exposing the fine skin of some distant spice. I take up a black curtain and you slide both hands in its grasp, your delicate fingers streaming the fabric of hard texture. My breath is kept and a wave rises as it dusks your ebony tress. A slow sound of naked air rushes out into the square. The delicate aroma of your breath. We keep ourselves alive by walking, making patterns of dissolute roundabouts. Idle flashes of your smile take hold and fears sets in and bolts up into my legs. Your face is a virgin landscape carved out from within by motions set into perennial motion. The cold slides on to the waxed cobbles and rubs the orange lamplight onto your shiny shoes. The tick and tack of your feet remind me of such things as belonging and morning. My hands take shelter and my hair stands on end. We stand, moments from each other, and I hesitate. We could have danced but I found myself gazing at the ever widening rupture. You ring round a car and slip out of sight. I depart, as an abrupt sound of tire on asphalt takes note of your departure. And as you raced through winding streets I kept my eyes on you.

Parus et Prima

Parus: How can we match up our thoughts to this new thing of fancy? We must take a stand, lay claim to our land, grasp it firm and in this iron clasp never falter from its drive. This is a dawn of ill colour.

Prima: And from where this current of determination, brave Parus? Must you stab at the very core of recollection to be struck dumb by your own remembrance of what was? Or do you forget what chains and ropes you have pulled and what gears and springs you have set in motion, like mortals do?

Parus: Here is my hand, behold the silvery blade that makes its extension! What great bonds have I not cut with its filmy edge...Severed the roots of, oh, so many a strands of wasted desire. Yet to my own surprise, more than once I found the very same knife inching towards my throat, ready at a moments notice to throttle me in my sleep. What of that, dear Prima? How can this be, am I not godlike and drift in the flux of universal time?

Prima: Is this face not soft and these eyes not tender? Is this hand not fragrant and this hair not like the hyacinth? You stay your tongue...Then it is true. This being so, how can you even doubt that in the act of remembering youth, old age which is jealous and livid, would not want to slice it into slivers?

Parus: Enough of such questions...I grow tired of the ambiguity of interrogation, from your part at least. I am not vexed Prima. There is no surprise in such actions, only disappointment .

Prima: How come, my lord?

Parus: When you gaze into infinity long enough you come to some conclusions. And see that change is an essential magnet for life. The mind has this as the prima mobile of the galvanization of ideas and the internal electrical stream it generates. There is no eternity! We cannot say that something is eternal in the true sense of the word. For you see, if we accept time as a forward pushing line, past, present and perspective the very essence of universal eternity is canceled from even before conception. For something to be eternal it has to be outside time, thus not being eternal or not even being aware of its temporal powers. Given the boundaries of time, something can be perennial, at its hight...like us dear Prima.

Prima: So this is the elusive formula, time and change and recollection.

Parus: Indeed, and even as we fathom upon such dilemma we change, time bends itself around our metamorphoses and severed are the old bonds. Recollection is just the twist of the knife...

The Museum Girl

The hour grew late, and by the notes of a fantastic melody I strummed my steps up the marble staircase. I was behind her, I am always behind her. She made a subtle trail of coiled scent anywhere she went...it was so easy to follow, and a temptation to great to oppose. She cut the very fabric of air as she waltzed to and fro the great chamber, her steps too light and elastic to bother the floor, yet her shape was earthly enough to catch the light in such a way that it did justice to her fair, smooth skin. Her dress was in sympathy with her gentle body, tracing the shape as if it were aware of its beauty...From the slope of her neck, to the contour of her breasts, to the lines of her waist, it went in a melodious lay down her form, composing a veil sensitive to grace. No agency of time was empowered to set lines upon her brow, yet her eyes were of melancholic luster. Her voice was of some distant, sweet, reverberation as only found in deep woodland areas...near gentle streams. The gestures of her hands were intuned to some greater knowledge of form.

At the far side of the chamber was I, in quiet contemplation of the artwork that hung solemnly on the high walls. Great paintings of master craftsmen that survived ages, and yet no Renoir or Delacroix could catch my eye for more than a few waning moments. The tints on noble faces of time long passed were left livid in comparison to the verve of life that was issuing out from every rustle of a flowered dress that played this young things body. Even the flurry of colour of Signac could not overshadow the brilliancy of her hair or cheeks. No greater combination of chromatic thought had there ever been invented that matched the fine pigment of her skin, making ones mind race in all possible shades. I was bare before this display of subtle alliteration in spectral terms yet in living form. If only I had more than mere language to truly grasp the entire spectacle into one solid shape...no linguistic cage could ever set bars of letters round such grace.

A Late Lunch

An effort was made upon my part, as I focused the half image, so that it became of a scaring clarity upon my retina. I have never felt the ground quake in such a manner before...'neath my helpless feet. Long sleepless hours of numbing work rendered my rationality to a timid spark, and so this paved way for lucid chimeras to play about my fancy.

Moderation was a fools game! And indeed I played a fools gamble for as long as I could remember. With dreary hands I let slip and fall card after card, in the vane hope of a untimely resurrection. No more of that my friend, no more. Look you now on what I dare behold between two of my clasped fingers! See! and let your eyes be dumb with wonder as the Queen of Hearts evades a smile. Awe, the word that comprised and compounded the very essence of the air in that single moment. Broke the vibration I did with a scuff, I did...And as I reached for the pack my hand bled in laceration as I redly palmed the next card. The King of Spades, he frowned between trickles of treacle, thick and brewing. I lifted my head.

I ran my fingers through my hair. I tried to give the impression of some internal motion, but to no avail. The narcoleptic fumes were enough to drown any sober retaliation. The whole of my cognitive ropes and pulleys were thick with tobacco and partly digested ideas. My darling half-borns....My eyes have moved up and down her face for about a quarter of an hour. Beauty was obvious, wit and so much more was long ago confirmed. Sentences of friendly voices buzzed around the jammed hinges of interest and recollection. Some voices spoke out more clearly then others, others more kind then the rest, one more true and close to my heart than all. And as I understood what folly compacted my actions and lucid, ethereal, perigrimations I drew a conclusion.

Her hand graded my shoulder, some words were addressed to me. I could hear not. I could not remove my attention from her fine hair that raced in cavalcade, of ember hues, down some length of her back and arms. With what gentleness of path, fragile veins made trail on her neck and chin, tracing outlines of nobility like in some monumental sculpture of elevated nature. In what sublime depth of calm waters did her eyes made home...I made an indistinct gesture.

With what strength I had let in my body I managed to galvanize the whole of it into an erect posture. My gaze spun wildly. And falling upon her, I saw that she was expecting an answer.
"Cigarette?" asked I, as I made for the door...