don’t know what you’re talking about

must this always be the same ..why can’t you kiss like her ..have you always been  lovin’ class ..why does your ass have you come last ..are you often too proud to yield ..does your daddy keep your shield ..do you rush the tower to fail ..does your coach think you’re too pale ..do you think you can play guitar ..does your lover think you’re a star ..does your mommy know where you are?

masked moon

In earlier posts I sported with my fondness for a simple quote from Shakespeare ..’no more..’ ..this line has such dramatic qualities of gravitas ..minimalism ..and if you like ..flippancy ..that it seems to me to be as old as theatre itself..Shakespeare used this line a lot ..in fact I once queried a Shakespeare database so as to ascertain how many times he used it ..to my surprise the search engine found 500 instances and wasn’t capable of compiling lists beyond that scale ..so as in some form of continuity I decided today to write yet another post on this timeless line ..

No More

wherewithal they should so wit the page
we dread their measures on our stage
sweetly read of cruellest honeys
sagely bread ..so spread and fed
owed on owned treasured moneys
sought and lost at fountainhead
found at cost by honours bed
so squandered all the flower said
unblossomed by errors of simple praxis
picked a part where the masked moon waxes

Othello

have just been watching Oliver Parker’s adaption of Shakespeare’s Othello ..with Fishbourne in the lead ..an excellent work ..a very masterful essay on deceits so familiar to so many of us ..piecing our lives together from what remains of our humanity

..life is somewhat like a jigsaw puzzle and its pieces..or several.. ~our impressions of ourselves ..our regard for others ..our worldviews ..our sense of right or wrong ..all assembled from fact and fiction ..honesty and lies ..hope and fear ..objectivity and subjectivity ..charity and malevolence ..freedom and control

if you’ve ever tried to live outside the jigsaw ..if you find yourself there or have been there for even a moment ..you will no doubt know how hard it is to remain there ..where it often seems that every dynamic and interplay conspires to force one back into the image of the puzzle ..where the pieces are lonely for completion ..where the process and the picture serve to imperil every promise ..it is such an effort to not become a piece of someone elses puzzle ..

fuck that ..seriously ..fuck that ..don’t stand for it ..and if in this you cannot succeed ..keep at least a part of yourself ..outside a puzzle

Aaron should have such an Othello trespass within ..or Cain be so Able
a halfmoon struck so poorly coined upon some fable
where many a puzzle pegged as pieces
fitted as keys to turn some wheel of fortune
full circling those dizzy spirits spun to be spoken so

Tolkiens latest must read..

some years ago now ..I sold a rare edition of a book on 14th century poetry ..with a rather compendious glossary compiled by none other than JRR Tolkien himself [published 1900]..it constituted some 40 % of the entire volume ..this book inspired me sufficiently to finally get around to reading him [in my early 30's] ..I appreciated his legacy of pioneering the 20th century fantasy epic despite fantasy having become quite a sophisticated form in itself ..recently I have read that his elderly son has edited a complete and previously unpublished poem of his fathers on the legend of Sigurd and Gudrún, [J. R. R. Tolkien: The Legend OF Sigurd And Gudrun -Edited by Christopher Tolkien] ..and I look forward to reading it at some point ..for in this sort of work the man was truly in his element.

fatted chance

governance spurned
like a worm turned
away from the high table of patience
or a gorgeous glutton of fatted chance
Juno strutting to a piglet dance

nothing like a Kangaroo

‘A mouse … a mouse’ ..Renmao shrilled striking out here and there with a flail…overturning tables and chairs ..skittering madly about the shadows..quite an unbecoming thing for the Pharoah’s accountant ..passing close by Suten Anu …the Kings favourite scribe ..who casually extends a foot ..tripping him up ..Renmao falls quite heavily ..there is even some blood ..’you shall regret this Suten Anu ..you may have the Pharoahs ear ..but I have his money!’ ..Suten Anu gives a withering smile ..’it is not a mouse it is a Jerboa‘ ..he kneels down hand extended …making kissing sounds as a strange little creature ..comes timidly to him ..jumping onto his palm ..’look here Renmao …see his tiny little forelegs …how quite extraordinarily large his hindlegs are …how long his tail is? ..Renmao is blinking ..still wiping the blood from his nose ..Suten Anu continues ..’this little one’s name is Sokkwi …he is the beloved pet of Anok Sabe …the Pharoahs second son …interestingly enough the last person that interfered with Sokkwi ..Anok Sabe had none other than General Hetshepsu himself personally drown …quite the sentamentalist is our little Anok Sabe ..perhaps you’d like to tell him yourself’ ..it was sort of put like a question ..one that Renmao seemed loathe to answer ..’I see ..I see’ said Renmao …’such things are good to know ..thank you Suten Anu …you always were the wise one’ ..Suten Anu sets Sokkwi down again, smiling craftily ..’see that no harm comes to him’

prelude

a contrapuntal candlelight
in heat of nights dreaming flight
burning truth into sight
like frozen stars in spiral dark
silent signs of distant marque
a diamond road to deaths delight
sequined through the Janus night

so very slow

what a funny old timepiece
…it loved telling the time
..yet prefering it to be done in a style
beyond its own capacities…
it loved that way so much
it went about contriving situations
that saw other ..more gifted clocks
measure the fleeting moments..

tho’ it took all night to finesse
an ivory monstrance of moment posessed
marking shadows as pendulum’s way
each hand had some timely delay

vespered vaunting

evolved by imitation interpreted as it appears
personified by spirit art fondly volunteers
every subtle nuance expression souvenirs
beguiled by invitations offered over years

formed to fashion a hallowed haunting
diamond dazzled vespered vaunting
charming stars from darkest reach
heavenly orbits of fluencies speech

honoured by dancing candlelight
dreamers do divinely write
tempests spun from secrets of a lie
swanning through some shamanic sky

no other illusions so worthy to concieve
for senses so costly…so destined to decieve
clouded in eyes of hopeless consent
misty with all it surely meant

the troupers

no quillwhipt casts mere pounce of rehearsal
flickering through the spotlit significances
a crystal feathered focus by overstated reflections dark
soliliquy with silvered voice in deep mask there
a metamorphosis of meaning by character shifts
mere forked talk with masks to mean style no more vanities
in pomps pouted frills of rouge masque charade
showcasing verse witted grotesques to the bantered want they will
all curiosities crush.. expectations doubtless by lured suspense
duelling inspirations of zen touched personifications of performance
a suddenly decisive deadpan playwright pens a stunning glare
glass in stars inspiring eyes by inkwell
..each character some shy authorship
pimping dreamed elegance over penned excellence
leers by simpering well worded sycophants sublime
smiling years upon Caesar’s mystic ideas
the kitten purrs for muse magnificant verse

praxis

… a song without a soul
a people without a conscience
a desire without a heart
a voice without a mind
hungry for more than ideas
seeking the soft road to satisfaction
we say nothing
…when the shadows prepare
listening to the mission statement
…smelling it there
…craving new misadventure
up for a share

there’s an equation in their guile
fortunately eluding us
…a unified theory of lies and fact
a secret revelation of malice and tact

this must be where all the energy goes
never becoming a thing it knows

the press are manufacturing monad tears
not just in denial
…they’re the spies of the river itself
trying so hard to own the years
pointlessly trying to wash away
every sign of their failure today

truly making a world of worldliness
living only in the red
not doing those things
no-one else would do
surrounded by a sanctity
more alone than thought
shaping fashions of unity
only as capable as they prefer to be

hoodwinked

strung along a loophole
winking in the hood
unicorn at the hawser
dragon by the snout
humoured by gravity’s loft
drifting down the mountains
carved by lateral moraine
sliding through the valley
prancing past the clouds
a silverpoint of sky
drooling braided streams
…of meltwater moment
indulged by flowing dreams

on writing

Recently on the web there were numerous articles and exhibitions revolving around the writers workspace ..generally featuring desks and studies etc ..my apartment has an open plan ground floor …comprising the lounge and kitchen …it is the largest space in my home …it also has the new aircon.. I like to keep a clean desk ..I like to see space on it …which is why I love my wacom bamboo 6×9 pen tablet …its usually all that I use ..being able to put aside the cordless mouse and keypad ..I have 2 pc’s both connected to the same 22 inch LCD monitor ..one is always online ..the other almost never ..they are not networked ..at the moment I also use 4 notebooks ..red …green and yellow ..as well as another that is folio size ..sometimes I construct the work in notepad form before typing in to my offline pc ..using XP’s onscreen keyboard ..to undergo further rewriting ..otherwise it’s direct into my offline pc …oh, ocaissionally I write directly into the text editor of this blog ..usually when I’ve been drinking ..there are also numerous works commited only to memory itself ..because .. I’m like that ..I can write anywhere ..pretty much under almost any conditions ..so on ocaission I may be found writing in a bar ..tucked away in a booth somewhere ..just not so much these days ..

I sometimes work rewriting older ..more romantic pieces I wrote in my 20’s ..I am almost always listening to music when I write ..notably 181 classical guitar ..groovera ..secret agent lounge  ..Datempo lounge [all online] ..I often give voice to my writing by performing it as I’m writing it ..with little regard for what my neighbours might think ..I particularly enjoy fabricating convincing cathartic outbursts as a kind of hoax episode ..one never knows when one is being profiled and it’s always fun to flag soft spots of irresistable sensitivity for future reference ..you know …games people play and suchlike ..it’s also a way of adding something like drama to my fairly undramatic life ..I like humour and romance ..though I find it difficult to write about romance [as realities beyond ideals] when I’m not amorously connected to anyone ..this is why I enjoy rewriting my own accounts of love since lost ..I use Verse perfect …rhymezone ..and even mobysaurus ..as well as an old Oxford concise that has utterly deteriorated into something like a loose leaf heap of grubby neglect

sirensong

a people so like others of late
already broken and addled with hate
surrendered to big-brother the reins of state
an Oedipus to the nanny who made them wait
and so sired a horror that soon becomes their fate

have you seen the smiling ciphers
…we find stalking here?
not so arrogant to believe no-one would see
the sweeping shadows of their duality

we stood with the right when the left was wrong
we walked away when the left was strong…
…harassing trapped dissent to milk it’s ideas
credit being due where it disappears
nanny has a siren to sing your fears

D.O.A.

it was wrong…
…all so very wrong
inexplicably agitated ..unsettled
his scopic drive… subverted
oversaturated by red shifts
looking for something
…somehow not there
no longer a spectator
..yet somehow not an actor
no more superfluous jouissance in the mirror
a very real feeling of destiny
transformed into a looked at being
revisited by lost involvement
weak from ennui
he could take it no more
barely able to walk
he stumbles down dark streets of despair
faltering ..falling
seeking the expertise of only one man

…the masterful Dr Lacan

incredibly …against all pleasure
he finds him in his shabby clinic
begging him to run some tests
a specialist in metynomy
he is obliged to acquiesce

..he waits
not daring to hope
anxiety in his shallow breath

Dr Lacan returns
it is not good
.. he seems grim
surprised

“how bad is it …doc?”
suddenly so pale

“its liminal poisoning “
such sympathy in his voice

“give it to me straight ..doc ..how long have I got?”

the art of archery

he can be seen stalking the waterfall
a stranger that thinks you know him
he makes no effort to silence his footfalls
he is savouring the moment as he draws near
his long shadow reveals his weapon
now he is upon you
as you are tethered in trance
meditating
just as his shadow smiles
something shines in the sunlight
an angel poised to dive
somewhat silvered
first here
now there
tugging at his shadow
wet with ribbons of blood
an arrow in his neck
he kneels before you
speechless in loss
a darkness taking him further
into the arms of death
when you open your eyes
rising to go
wondering where the blood came from
knowing you’ll never know

Poetic licence

A country manor…a harpsichord is playing…diverse small birds flit about a great hall..wine is being served…an artist is sketching some actors ..others pace about practicing their lines..dwarfs on stilts tilt at each other, rehearsing pratfalls, several poets are swapping couplets while a beautiful woman cradles her lover on a lounge..over near the lovers a fool plays the lute…eyes full of tears…softly whimpering as they neck like swans..the lover raises his head from her shoulder for a moment to say…

[Darkertower]

…be generous boy

…my love has lost track of my style
searches with sparkles strung trembling by smile
all composure outwritten by a prettier quill
and still…
…it’s all there

the luckiest look to see in her eyes
for just a moment more
breathing kisses to adore
a mouthful of rapport
…willowed in affections

I fear

…have me fainting here

his lipstick smeared face is again smothered in murmuring kisses as the boy plays on…until their pleasures are interrupted by an exuberant bard who gathers them all together to speak

[Spillforth]

I have just madly dashed by coach from Hushminster to bring you the best of news in the greatest haste..Prince Rufus has issued us with his royal licence…

[he commences to read an from an elaborately penned document]

Rufus I… by earthly graces and natural dominion etcetera… To all our ministers, Mayors, Constables and other of our officers of might or motion ..loving subjects. Know ye that we of our facility fond and worthy, exceptional humilities and mere merit, have licenced and authorized and by these flourishes do license and endow these our subjects; William Spillforth, Gregorio Darkertower, Bunter Toffin, Simon Pond, Kit Marley, Orlando D’angelillio, Winston Weston, Amadeus Strange, Chesterfield Defoe, Scarlett Hepburn, Constance Chatterley, Fanny Swift, Miriam Columbine and all others associated with their labors, freely to study, teach, practice, produce, perform and compose; comedies, histories, harlequinnades, grotesques, tragedies, masques, mysteries, pranks, shenanigans, foolery, japes, romances, bungles and pratfalls to shew or otherwise exhibit, to the utmost of their considerable talents, imagination, learning, wisdom, flair and finesse within a purpose built house henceforth known as Darling House and to be funded from the public purse..as also in setting forth about the ale-houses, taverns, inns or any other convenient places such as town halls, universities or cathedrals within the liberties of our free dominion and having our special dispensation of theatrical immunity so that they may refine their art with clear conscience…..witnessed ourself at Hushminster…this 23rd day of May…

©Gregory David Andrews 2008

splash

The movie Gothic fairly intrigued me when I saw it in my early 20’s ..principally as a poet who had just read Don Juan..also due to the eccentricities of Polidori..who happened to be so uncannily like some of the ’special’ folks I was sharing digs with at the time that I was quite astounded and became suspicious that  certain pathologies were more ubiquitous than I’d assumed..over time I learned that those who present as dedicated to change..often never did or do..or that the change was merely a ceremonial lapse of self..a rite of passage only to come full circle..of those that do..not enough can be said of them..-this tho’..not being the place..how a ceremonial lapse of self can lead to real change seemed mysterious to me..as most examples I’d encountered really only signified shallow transformations..

I became interested then..in the notion of deep ceremonial transformation ..especially as a writer  who preferred his characters to be unique as well as convincing..it seemed especially necessary at that particular point as I found only a few people to be actually convincing in real life anyway..so I developed a personal science of prototyping fictitious identities by means of immersion..[ nothing to do with sensory deprivation or waterboarding ]..this involves expert research..real experience ..keen observation..a perceptual rather than judgmental mindset..and so on..one becomes keenly aware of complex factors never seriously noticed before..oscillating capacities of self..-their ability to see themselves clearly or coherently ..perceiving their own behaviors with varying acuity etcetera…

Interestingly enough..at 44 I no longer have a high regard for the works of Byron..

Gothish

cloudswept silver spun pearling
a sky scented jeweled mysterious
spirit shrine to butterfly dreams
chrysalis weave of shadow lace gossamer
moon frosted velvet blossomings

being

a moment transcending its own specificity
carried beyond identity
lingers longer than it lasted

ringing like a bell

struck by the resonance of always

©Gregory David Andrews 2008

esoteria 26

speed

bloodsong chills a death most sudden
a slipping mantle heals an ancient wound
marked by the mask
a diamond in the groove
linked by moons of betrayal
…a circuit sliced in the mirror
ash black petals of nightblown roses

patience

a point bled of all anticipation
a gloss of eyes silver-crossing the sun
all a blur of unseemly disguise
swiftly intimate ephemeral surprise
sabotaging the script
being principally equipped
to elaborately depict
all the telling truths
the lies outstripped

finesse

a serpent soothed by pendulous sword
seahorse in the well there to tell
a lion snared by its own revenge
caged by the dweller within

direction

a scheme so schemed
it begged to be dreamed
woven in threads on chances loom
a tapestry of soul in spirit perfume
a throw of a switch away
a tripwire of tragedy strained until

pursuit

a troop of vigilantes that want for eyes
the mindless charm the vicious blind
a dragon mimics the jackals mind
a talisman in the garden
hidden by craft
a blade buried deeper
than its darker haft

protection

a cunning honed by armors calm
sweetened to the point of honeyed charm
wired through the roots
a current surges with venoms repute
all through the forest
the trees are mute

risk

the ancient ones are gathering clouds
a winding path is worn with hours
silent stars are quiet with flowers
a symphony falters
an orchestra in disarray
the conductor has escaped
to live another day

space

transmissions eluding covert spaces
set aside by nights desolate places
decryptions applied to no real sign
the message is quenched in oils of time

preparation

shifting sands of altered states
signs occulted from future fates
crystal shaped by secret hands
designed to resonate forgotten plans
the one that sees the eyes of time
to catch the jade before the crime
restores the summit to its climb
to see the clouds in their prime

alchemy

by the next transmutation
the die is cast
elemental forms transcend their past
by the last transmutation
all has begun
three times closer one by one

spirit

ribbons are held across the way
to mark the moment the line is crossed
turned by the tide till all is lost
blogged into a corner
where the shadows were tossed

future

butterflies weep for dreams decieved
beating their wings to be believed
an ocean that hears only silence
a thread burning with finalities violence

past

the trajectory is set
the bullets are poised
chambered…pointed…released
five beads of darkness
a pendulum cut from its trembling wire
one last shot…
plunging through and through
a fictitious dreaming mind
…and everything it knew

mettle

hardened by hammers of outrage
honed to the quick of focus
hovering above insatiable flame
an anonymous potential
poised to plummet

solution

elusive revelation thrice transmuted
never beheld and already refuted
ephemeral method by chance informed
tree of knowledge wholly transformed
uncommon depth guessed before seen
a strategy shaped by what it may mean

quest

query the quill that pre-empts the fact
to know the will before its act
so mind and soul are left intact
for the greater good and its impact

potential

a treasure so surpassing all others
…to know it humbles a person…
-lies waiting to be thieved
the moment its perceived
…even ghosts are played to games
strangers waiting to stake their claims

dimension

a place is hidden secure in all hearts
shape shifting to whim of obscure arts
a desire that sleeps deeper than all
a knowing secretly overflowing
an etheric singularity
a crystal dance of cascading flux

fusion

a solar resonance of defied decay
intangible shadows strike at their prey
the jaguar purrs in the velvet moss
the lion scents an uncertain loss
birds have grown quiet
with the passing sun
clouds swollen with moonswift pride
through threshhold of night softly glide

fission

a crucible of separation
just to pickle a blade
a firestorm of devastation
hidden by the shade
anonymous gravitation
an impressive cavitation
collectively displayed

motion

fractal footprints of a selfish past
a torus turned inside out
passing dopplers into rings of diamonds
heavy with scattering shadows
a softly tipped crush of dust
ground by wishful thinking

medium

early come the aces cluttering up the hands
an overflow of hearts broken covenants
though the house seems set to win
by all the laws applied within
the jokers wild by any extreme
a conclusion held in high esteem

prophesy

ashen gray smiles washed away by rain
kisses blown deep inside a strangers pain
a frozen moment carried off by the breeze
escaping the enmity of expertise

healing

leave to rest the wounds of learning
tightly wrapped in fond discerning
shaping cures that end in sleep
to heal a heart love would keep

challenge

each and every milestone by passage of day
passes into night along the way
a journey finished a task performed
a challenge completed a story transformed

sorcery

they had no art for the best of things
their best of faith in the worst of things
shaped by forces as frightening
as all their own spent lightening

©Gregory David Andrews -2008

Voice

avoid by means of addition
all increase to attrition
deeper still…
frame those moments in lingering endurances
that transequently…
place all proximal necessities
fittingly within
a contextual specificity of exemplars
or…as a sample in salience…
let connaturually synonymous comparisons
define corresponding equivocalities
so craft juxtaposition compellingly
through another’s eyes…
to put it in its little black dress
let clarification be pervasive…
for where cause will contingently inspire
effect may be nuanced by supervenience
qualified…
without modesty,
a concession to convention
consensually accounted for
functionally conclusive…
on purpose

thought I might add that this monologue..on transitions of thread..is voiced  during a nice tryst with a pretty lady …perhaps ..she asks for his name..he may say something like….’Winston’…

…’Winston Churchill…and I am not wholly …from around here’…

©Gregory David Andrews 2008