44. The Vagrants Song: “Oh Breathing Yet Free Mountain Air”1

Besides the blurry fire, no pressure.
Speaking of impaired, Paulina moved:
this time snarky smears clean the sun
a inhuman image in old Nevada
just laughing order. Dagoenean
had disgust. The little one
will be happier, entering this liberty.
The skies are torn. The Geldi come
gods of corrosive kitsch now playing down

Always amazement out of Trumfleet:
our tokens flourish, the game go on
oh this is old talk! – callow kitsch ’n’
new pleasure. Rats reads poems;
gods bear the fight. To Liberty!
My & your – scratch scabs modulate the head.
Trust excess. Rearrange all areas
gently with my fingernails. Divine counsel too:
in the south western sky ancient nameless art displayed.

 

 

1 Note that the following text was composed in the language of the other world about this world, the only one we know, then “translated” necessarily into the language of this world, the only language we know. This is normal for poetry.

35. Off We Go

So here in a low winter sun, to write
what the words are saying today. They
hear it all, really they do, even this far
past the absolute point where we all died.
First Mark D was shot, then the police laughed & lied
and it all took off, and then we crashed.
Nothing changed where we are – but what we want
no longer nameless. We can’t utter yet our future.
It sits on the chair and laughs.

Glad to have escaped Tone Vale. Its scars
the tokens of what formed us – imposed power
the Head Which Is Not in its dutiful pleasure.

Everyone’s story is the same. They haven’t
told it yet is all it means
decaff is bad, and missed deliveries
if you have a meeting on a monday
why not? at the granular level the balance
wavers & havers, you can’t tell or understand
go through with it, please, eyes open
it’s a pretty minimal joy isn’t it?
but it may be sufficient here
you’re so keen, then off we go.

A mouse, a mandarin, the talking horse &
the ever-bleeding head of liberty, removed
from underneath the White Tower, stolen out
from its jewelled reliquary in the basement of the Chapel
of the Opened Book.
This is narrative now
which I am glad the laws of avant-garde poetry don’t allow1.

There isn’t any more consistency than this in anything
OK? with gods above and gods below, they allow

whatever sort of cake we choose to eat.

Shots of Our Gracie leading the mill girls dancing down the street
amazing what a sundog does for you once seen aright
optic effects our tokens of hope & delight.

And then they all sat down to tea.

After blue, red, the mouse decides
not to modulate, but shine
delight is clear, bright, we hope now open.

 

 

1 exceptions made for some Cambridge poets I believe

34. Behold Our KitschN;-) Gods Displayed

kitschn godslit

My head, the head which is not, the head of ancient liberty, staked on a traffic cone, my head which remembers always sundogs shining in the south‑western sky, my old head reads that scabs are rats, my head reads that art will fight & flourish, my head can never stop splashing & shaking. All excesses are mine.

Oh, my fingernails, the tokens of laborious growth, my fingernails scratch the text beneath, rearrange it as a game of go1, my fingernails exceed my flesh, they rake your flesh gently, & excited will pleasure you, clicking w/ laughter.

Ah, my mouth, the mouth with which to eat & talk, inhales, exhales, the nameless mouth, the mouth of disgust, the mouth that is tight & keeps its own counsel, unpredictable & cruel. More is more divine, says the mouth, less too, more blue.

What do mice2 do? Happen in amazement, stuck to this big conceptual mess. Blue & red modulate to grey & pink. Areas of white flourish variously. Don’t trust what you can’t bite or write.

 

 

1 weiqi

 

 

2 are you really saying this is a bear?

29. This New Vagrant Sanctuary1

One Positive Thing That Has Come out of Stort Poetry Group’s Change of Meeting Place to the Bar at the Rhodes Centre:
– at least no one can maintain ignorance
  as to what has paid for all our poetry now

 
stories unfolded the universe in wonder
a dream or a scar to me or you
to themselves hidden, small, disordered

 
somewhere in the west midlands
the dog’s head has got the vapours

 
bubbling of declining games
swift above the brambles
all the symbols of memory
think in utter astonishment

 

O: “Sometimes, don’t you sometimes wish you didn’t care? I mean of course you want a change, we want a change, but if a thing ain’t godsdamn coming, then the next thing I wish is that I didn’t care.”
A: “We are become history. There is no backward now. No way back. You know what we have to do. Where we should go.”
J: “We don’t choose what we’ll remember, what stops with us.”
– even now he is a citizen of this new vagrant sanctuary

China Miéville, Iron Council (Pan Books, 2005) pp 88, 275 & 295

 

and all done
in the various regions of this dark and obscure Terrestrial Star
where, wandering as strangers, we lead,
                              in a short space of time,
                              a life harassed by varied fortunes.

from letter from Thomas Digges to William Cecil, Lord Burghley, quoted in Benjamin Woolley, The Queen’s Conjuror: The Life and Magic of Dr Dee (Flamingo, 2002), p 155, cited from F R Johnson & Sanford V Larkey, “Thomas Digges, the Copernican System, and the idea of the infinity of the universe in 1576”, Huntington Library Bulletin, v5, 1934

 
massed choirs might have helped us once Sig. Verdi
but the succour we seek surrounds us not like rain
but a bright feast we have prepared for
                                        flying coloured words
                                        above the grey
                                        of conceptual & concrete poetry
                                        that’s never
                                        as beautiful & nourishing as
                                        music, good food, common fun

 

“Here we meet with the idea put forward by Mme Blavatsky, that there can be no manifestation without differentiation into the Pairs of Opposites. Kether differentiates into two aspects as Chokrah and Binah, and manifestation is in being. Now in this supernal triangle, The Head Which Is Not, the Father and the Mother, we have the root concept of our cosmogony, and we shall return to it again and again under innumerable aspects, and each time that we return to it we shall receive illumination.”

Dion Fortune, The Mystical Qabalah (Aquarian/Thorsons, 1987), p 45

 
close attention close attention
of children concerned/unconcerned
chomo ildrmef mchi
loseor attrtro entita
chble bis ildrle let
in close attention lose

 

Der Garten trauert,
Kühl sinkt in die Blumen der Regen.
Der Sommer schauert
Still seinem Ende entgegen.

Hermann Hesse, “Der Garten trauert”, as Richard Strauss, Vier letzte Lieder, “September”.

 

 

 1 Is this all a mistake?

17. How Comes It Then

Out of need maybe in lack
of adequacy but no sudden entry
don’t we always just accept then
these circumstances for full slavery?

Each time, each time I tell you
we accept the natural right of rulers
we thrust ourselves into darkness
a world of no colour or light

As the sun sparkles we must
build up into some true many
rejoicing in diversity & need to
help eachother live into this light

And darkness – any intensity of purpose
purely against what the few lay claim to
that world of random murder, constant hate
in which we feed upon the bodies of the weak

The predators take off & thrive
on the tolls we pay for air & earth
these circumstances not of our own choosing but
each day of acceptance shall be our blame

OK, then, summer, & it’s delicious
but waiting on the beach for due attention
won’t get us anywhere – get a pen, all
the unbroken instruments of this world to write

Don’t care if it’s too personal, don’t
care if just impersonal, least said
but be the best & most perfected
open to all our pleasing games

Swimming, like that good god1, with-
in the world with which world we are all in
-volved, supported say by all its gaiety & mess
no fuss, no, but being here one evening

You can go on, to flourish
in this deep summer where the warmth
tends this world now – not distant
& not sad:
           but here

Where the earth is filled with slaves, yes
& despots’ weeds crunch out the ecosystems
abased & prostrate, no, needn’t be
stripped to our rich bodies we shall live here
                                               to swim
                                               in summer light
                                               & hide in
                                               its darkness too

 

 

 

 

 1  you remember? – the unknown one?