The Architecture Of Water.

January 19, 2009 at 6:46 pm | Posted in prosepoemthingy, writing | 15 Comments
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Dear Mr MC Paulus of gmail dot com,

Further to your letter of 3/1/09 we regret to inform you that we are unable to supply three pairs of bright green parachute pants (‘M C Hammer style’ or otherwise embroidered).

This is a staircase.

Subtitle (and/or font change like a spicy sidestep tango dip and delve.)  If I was M. C. Escher to whom I would address these Australian sentences with windows through which black bowler hat shaped silences appear in a clear blue sky…

Thou accuseded me of stream of consciousness (inspirated me through unintended accusation) and whilst I confess to wetness often inappropriate, I hold to my comfortable self-delusion of linguistic architecture-hood.

If I was M C Paulus the words would be clouds, the architecture of water, ridiculously delicate and precise balancing those holes in the sky and there would be no first word just as there is no last.

if i was (#6)

January 16, 2009 at 6:57 pm | Posted in writing | 13 Comments
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“Ordinary objects of simple affection to which we apply these strange heiroglyphs become imbued with the energy of human emotion.” He scratches his balding head. I must remember to ask a physicist about emotion. If ghosts, the old dog looks up at him, silly old bugger, he thinks. I remember my last rabbit, disappeared down the same whole. Has he forgotten my, could be related to time not being linear in as much as the dead must be the most lonely of all our friends, no fingers to entwine, no lips with which, witch, wish, to kiss is a transitive verb, old man says the old dog to himself scratching behind his ear. Where is she? Requires a subject, has he forgotten my my goodness, he thinks, I have forgotten to remember to feed the

Sammy! Mr Beckett! Sir, it’s closing time.

If I Was (#4) Percy Bysshe Shelley

December 31, 2008 at 5:20 pm | Posted in writing | 19 Comments
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(Mary,
Byron has electricity. Shall we winter in the chateau?
Percy.)

There’s comfort in the anonymity of an airport, neither here nor there and noone expects you to develop a conversation, he thinks, logs out and closes the notebook.

(I would order a drink, Ray Winstone style and look around the bar here but to what point? By the time I have made my visual pirouette the drink would be drunk, the plane descended over the bay and the limo door opened.)

He’s caught in an aural loop. The sound of the notebook closing, kerplunk, Easter Island, he says to the driver grinning and remembers he has forgotten to write to his niece. She rambles through fog shrewn landscapes and silences.

Far beneath the crumbling castle by the shores of some eternal lake machinery awakes and whirrs his welcome into place. Just one scene is worrying him. It plays in his head of its own volition and where there should be movement there is just a pause. Pinteresque, he thinks but this time content.

There would be Irish wolfhounds. All shy slobber and gentle discretion and in another room, has she forgotten I am coming home, the stereo is blasting “I am Henry The Eighth I am, I am”.

if i was (3) Buckminster Fuller

September 30, 2008 at 6:34 pm | Posted in writing | 8 Comments
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It is of utmost importance that we do not lose touch with certain fundamental principles. Lessons learnt as it were he said tapping his cane on the blackboard. Squires, are you listening? What’s that you’re doing boy? “When in doubt go back to first principles.” Ah well yes ahem, carry on…
The first of which was beautifully articulated by R. Buckminster Fuller. I choose to describe this thing in words rather than post a diagram or insert links but this is not laziness it’s discipline. Three triangles arranged side to side like a facet of a geodome, how many now and there’s four. The whole is more than the sum of its parts. The surplus. Now it is possible to take any two things at random from any domain and connect them. I can grab an avatar here and there an idea and they will interact in someway or one can gain more control over the Morrison-Huxley Effect and reach that ullulate harmonic by allowing the choices to be random but within certain parameters. For instance we could insist on a previous common context since all meaning is entirely context dependant like some cafe by the sea,
Squires! Are you listening? What’s that boy? In your pocket? What did you just do?

if i was (2)

September 10, 2008 at 4:12 pm | Posted in poetry | 36 Comments
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e.e.cummings i would wrought you
a poemthingy of soft bent iron like
garden gates tilted open by age and
as you approached there would be
(scented like sweet tea ambrosia
oceans and tulips are you)
a whispering, amazing,
and, ,gone just before falling asleep
to the sound of rain on roof sound
(you tasting like desert moon
and bumblebee song)
the gates would sigh like old
philosophers knowing they knew
not the carpentry artistry, gone,
and, ,amazing and sink
to the groundsky
defeated by dew,

If I Was (1)

August 19, 2008 at 6:30 pm | Posted in music | 21 Comments
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Penn and Teller, well I’ld make my own links, backwards. Writing a novel’s not hard. I’ld start with an ending and being me, a happy one, why not, it’s a fifty fifty shot from here and if I’m choosing my destiny instead of being blown about by any tide into whatsoever whirlpool I would choose at least to be a little happier coming out. So now who would I have to be, to be that man happy to have been, those qualities I will find in him, a story of becoming and because he is not saving the world, merely exercising his fundamental right to the pursuit of happiness, he will not need to be a superhero. Now if I become that man and write that story it will end with me sitting on a balcony next to a most beautiful woman who I may not even have seen, since how she looks becomes fundamentally unimportant when I am blinded by the light of the sun reflecting from the ocean spiralling up through the valley alive with energy, some sleeping and others laughing, some dancing and many merely pondering the miracle of existence, exu, I would tell that story backwards as did you,

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