This construct is in sight

Our rusted cages sadly sway, some second close,
some far away,
Bitter breath that blows between, now heard my voice,
my dance, unseen,

And this, my corpse, which I forgot,
I hold,
between two broken fingers.

My palms meet in morbid prayer, communal love,
communal fair,
For it is time, and he has risen, alone he walks,
in lonely wisdom,

And though your heart may wish it not,
he hangs, aloft,
between two broken fingers.

We are alone, my desert flower, "don't, not yet!"
no not this hour,
For what it was and now lays dying, cannot go on,
cannot keep crying,

And you, my friend, who I must kill, I leave you now
so you may end,
O! spiteful thing, that we must die, and still we dance,
still. . . we try,

And you, my heart. . .

you shall someday stop your beating,
my tiny life, crushed,
between two broken fingers.

my child

You do know who you are talking to? You do have some awareness of who I am, right? This morning, heaving with autumn, breaks apart as burnt paper beneath a whales tongue. Sweet memory of summer, held between our teeth. The old air of London, holds aloft a single hair. That old air, of London...

The sores in my mouth are better today. The canker tells of strange, acidic vapors - my teeth are cagey with it all. Perhaps one must dilute the existing quaquaqua... to up and have done with viscosities and verbose wall hangings. One oily figure melts into the next. An uncluttered life reflects an uncluttered head. And still there is movement in that old air. The spinning leaves remind me so.

If one should experience disasters within, then the world will bear the marks of strife. But if the mind is witness to a troubled world, and refuses to call it so, then surely strife will pollute the soul. I know from my own lies, the corrosive fictions that scatter here, now there.

Is that your fist you shake beneath the table? We have such intimate contempt for one another. Better to walk against the wind - to hear the wooden nail scratch your grimy window. It is all up with us. My body creaks like a wind blown cellar. Each bottle sings unto the melting snow - blow my child. Blow.

Sun, arise.

Here, amid such ruined things,
Words, in dust, crawl and cry.
Here, alone, where symbols sing,
Set in stone, or sung to die.

Still! my breath, my beating heart,
Broken clock, or time unwind.
Alone, again, be not in fright,
Up! ol boy. Sun, arise.

A few words on/off

It never starts on a first page, it can't, it wont.
Make this your start and the lamp light your sun.
Sweet robe of morning, when chill pursues my nakedness.
Your kiss a tongue of weeping, i miss the wanting, not the wanted.
Her eyes still cast the stone, a creature's shadow creeping.
But never in the daylight, never on the breeze.
This is the shape i make in the moonlight, i catch silver.
Were i a wolf my blood would pump quicker.
And if i were a spider, my many legs would wrap around.
The firmness of her belly offers a tongueless clue.
We cry alone together, separated by our own impossibility.
Sketching idea that phlegms from emotions unutterable.
Manufacture flame from shade - give me a picture.
Portrait of solitude, a lone lee ness, a song.
A poem of crisis and buzzing bees, they carry us.
Over earth and under the wire, catches my throat.
Curdled and gargle, as wrath of bitter toad.
Her purity (a song in A minor) suspended between two hollow trees.
Swung from a bough, beaten, dry, lidless eyes.
And toothless ears! readily suck at swollen strings.
Her hatred is my refuge, no man is an island.
I start counting backward, and lose my mark, in time.

Just checking in

It has been ages since i wrote here - little reason - Just not much to share - and i harbor disdain for the current zeitgeist of narcissistic idolatry. Facebook, myspace and blogging. I hate people who self worship at these holy cyberspaces. Man i hate myself.

If you want to know a bit about what i've been up too, creatively speaking, then check out www.myspace.com/chottomattemusic We're playing stacks of gigs - and the ethos behind the music has evolved significantly.

Otherwise - living in Fitzroy. Teaching at a school in Glenroy (and absolutely loving it!). And still singing. My teacher turns 86 tomorrow. Happy Birthday Myra. I love you.

Oh, Culture vultures should quest for scraps at www.openculture.com This is my new favourite site in the whole pathetic joke of a universe.

Nokta . from Onur Senturk on Vimeo.

Merci , adieu