Saturday, January 18, 2020

the black poem

throat cleansing /*[the wooden bucket
filled with goop.
a black panther.
eventide (even= evening, tide=me time) troop.

great green (like the roof of my grandparent's house) overalls.
half wit pike spill trident {obvs. neptune reference}.
]the coal lump[, coated.
to keep the black out. {this is a reference to an incident in the Australian Parliament where some member brought in a lump of coal to demonstrate its harmlessness however it was first coated with a clear protective resin to ensure that it didn't leave black marks on the hands or suits of members}

fast forward.
a gigantic spleen {nod to Baudelaire}
brief frenzied gope (invented?)
a big baked bean,]

({})a black nugget
small dark and soft (a mouse)
resting in the hand
plucked from the earth (an emerald)

a form like folded cloth
resinous, with a snake's skin
tight and light (beryl)
absorbent

lines (lineations) folded on one another
a complex knot of meaning
raw, drawn straight out of the ground
still with a crust of gangue

a blinking eye
gazing up from the deep well
or a reflecting star
or my own reflection [ just imagery to try and capture it --

(for how can we know
if time came to pass
the size of her cope [there is a band reference here i forget exactly..{oh yes camp cope!important band!(brilliant early dayz gtr videos on the bed)}i made one the other day but less sweet]
the pleasure of grass{yes that grass})(i am a gardener, and so of *course* i gardened)
]
still wanted you
didn't cope well
[i made a decision it was {wise [saturated fat palm oil
we're all being scammed] (that was a conversation nugget i overheard while trying to pose and so it got into the poem but is completely unrelated (rose was reading some article about palm oil is oil))}]

the big century {the soft pulse of meaning, quietly drawn into itself, like a creature}
opening wide {i am still thinking about her, most days, i doubt she knows}
take in the plaster {she is younger, so has the whole of her life in front of her}
fake it abide {don't ruin everything, (fool)}

open penelope {not her real name}
open for me {[her () heart]imagination}
don't walk away {she never did, it was I(or rather, nor did I{just a sentience(a sense)})}
keep it all free {free as her voice in the air}

ghost poet writing
upon a dark ground
the winner has frozen
the loser is found

how happy it was
the old burra day
remember it baby? (addressed to wife)
it's all flown away (sadness)

now grinds in the future
a train to nowhere (certainty of death, soon too)
the driver is stupid (me)
i've not paid my fare (also me)

hold out your hand
we'll spin once again
i'm not even sorry (i am)
i don't have a plan (true)

the endless tide rising
drink in the days
the pathos the pathos (references another poem)
it's all washed away

the endless tide rising (cc)
drink in the swell
i feel like i've swallowed
a 40 foot whale [must be said in Edinburgh accent, like my gt grandma]

be brief don't unpick it
there is no true story
a feast for a forest
a possum of glory [possums are misunderstood here]

the autos the path
don't think but do write
the meaning is hidden [of course]
inside the dark night [this old trope is tiresome but what else can be said about it? perhaps i lack the agility of old days to make more of it than this. but drawing my brush out of the well the fact is that it is black and i just splash it over the page as simple as that, no more to say]

a grass snake a fit
a pumpkin to ride
a spade is a spade
and i'm ready for five

be giggling a moment
i'll undo your dress
in haste and in youth
the taste is the best

a hole in the wall
i kicked it i'm sorry
be empty my true one
i'll tell you the story

forthwith forthwith
unkind and unfriendly
emptying my mind
of the posturing telly

i can't scribe so well
got caught in a rhythm
it's taken all over
like butter and clover

will empty into fast days of plagiarism
i must give my poem to the people
it is not good enough to know everything
the mundane poisons me, i need tragedy
but don't give me what i want

frightened people do dark things
Rousseau explained it well when he said
"this sublime reasoning
soars above the heads of the common people"
(so give them god)

inexplicable writing nonsense
is this my own mind now?
a nonsense machine?
i feel like Coleridge in the later years
which gives me more comfort than it should

Carthage was a mere trade town
Rome burned
Paris was like a beautiful flower
London is a warm hearth

i used to have a frission
but now after years at home
being a father and working in an office
i have nothing to say

except -- here at the centre
here at the very heart
it is cool

madness does overtake the world
there is likely going to be murder
the spin dryer is speeding up
but here at the heart
it is cool

in the garden of the heart
it is cool
at night i like half awake
and cross my legs in half lotus
lying on my back still
and visit arunagiri

^*/