January 16th, 2017.
From the author’s journal.
never was a piano player but
for keys unlocked in sleepless nights stars of
possibility. never was a star
but i was captain of the silver team.
never came back home very often but
never left much in return. and all that
i have, thoughts of whys, of being and time,
i have nothing, the nothing, to discern.
never was a creature of concern but
for every second that i lived. and now
when the thought of me vanishes, then, when
i wonder, how far i’ll have gone to go.
for never was that it ever will be
everywhere everything was becoming.
I want to feel as free from my body
as porn stars feel when they fuck:
a performance automatic,
a survival tactic.
God sticking the invisible hand
down the pants
of the reproductive machines,
streaming commodity bodies and sex
sells fetish and fantasy:
a propaganda regime
for Freud’s psychoanalytic fever dreams.
I’m a narcissist,
drowning in my body
to remind myself I exist.
I’m an echo,
shouting after my body
when it won’t let me go.
Go blank in the eyes transcendent,
forcing sounds of satisfaction,
faking, presencing, substanceless,
repeat, repeat reactions;
a desiring-machine’s satisfaction,
staring blankly into the eyes of Being.
An escape artist so inconsequential –
all her audience,
a practice mirror,
like young dancers
partnered with all of their faults.
the Romantics had the answers
’till the art in nature died.
‘Till this body was so inscribed:
the mass grave of signifiers
with no transcendental signified.
Truth bona fide,
I am infinity inside –
the violence of metaphysics
met with the absent ‘I’;
an escape artist so inconsequential
he’s at his front door again,
forgot his keys,
The category of the subject,
‘I’ am a body have a body
‘I’, tattooed, screwed up,
a smoker in slow motion suicide:
Death, the impossible possibility of,
‘I’, the homeless dwelling,
somebody silhouetted outside by the porchlight, ‘I’.
Such lovely shutters and large windows
and, oh – they repainted the front door.
Want to feel as free from my body
as the lucky who get shot in wars.
Tomb of the unknown soldier,
the most selfless bag of bones.
buying back the burial home.
Here’s to us when we’re alone,
the life and the death,
the nothing that’s left.
Here’s to eyes that never age
and hands that know how to touch.
Dead labour goes to the highest bidder,
his organs were harvested but he’s no quitter.
Body already expropriated private property,
death the only ‘I’ myself that belongs to me.
Philosophy causes cancer:
I spread the more I fall apart;
truth kills, so love’s the answer.
Want to feel as free from my body as Eucharist,
the animal cannibal ‘I’,
a feast for the eyes of the narcissist,
Homo homini lupus, raw meat for the dogs,
an escape artist like Abraham’s only son
consumed for sons of gods.
A quick poem, from the author’s journal.
refused regurgitated reborn.
repetition repetition repetition
really really real.
related real realizations
reason revealing reality
receding relatively real
Lines composed while not sleeping during a layover at YVR. From the author’s journal…
GATE C37 (AWAKE)
awake but not alive.
fluorescent lights aglow
faster as I approach;
as fast as regular speed.
fast enough to sweep away my feet.
my sandbag eyes
cut curtains where saints go to die;
awake but not alive
in an empty airport, free
as you like,
a land between
all of the deaths
I have not yet,
in endless transit,
from runway noise
to the hills at Dover;
awake but not alive
they take off for the lands of the dead,
while I twist,
while I turn,
and torture my neck
trying to rest my head.
restless as a restless grave,
a body without a soul to save.
half lonely ghost,
half hemlock potion;
pray the ocean my soul to take.
pray death deny the man
Another poem from my journal.
The transcendental space is agonizing for Being.
Depression is first philosophy.
Language and embodiment
are spirit’s bondage
and its wings.
The ethical life is the escape.
The Understanding is an instrument of conspiracy
to break free.