Wimaway

April 6, 2009 at 6:23 pm | Posted in memoirs, writing | 14 Comments
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I had a fantasy in which the only skill I needed to survive and prosper was to cast type.
I am an extraordinarily slow moving and monobrained creature, sloth-like, possessed of great polymorpheousnesses. And I do enjoy what I do with a kind of stubborn insistence. The spheres of the universe, Buddha’s balls, etc. The question is whether it is appropriate to foist it on others. Flicking it round like that monkey at the monolith, Squires. Is there some morality required? “Must we have rules?” Sunonhead squints up into the flickering canopy.

Ari abandoned,

August 18, 2008 at 6:27 pm | Posted in prosepoemthingy, writing | 14 Comments
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Somewhere inside someplace else
he mumbles, ari abandoned into
the starry night, just grab it by
the scruff of the neck, boy,
but make sure you do it light,

I told him, I said, you’ll never get one of those things to stop for you. They’re made of light, they’ll be faster than you even going backwards but does he listen. Off chasing horses again. And we are left here, my darling, with this tiny fire contained in the desert at night, said Sunonhead into the emptiness as he struck damp flints and smiled.

the keith jarrett riff,

August 1, 2008 at 6:58 pm | Posted in genre isn't dead yet but it should be, music | 10 Comments
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hey, you gotta have a hand jive
bootsy said if we’re going again,
count those silly bubbles,
pop pop pop
deep below some ancient carp is
singing some wild and thrubbing song
and sunonhead is drifting off,
he hopes his work is surely done

hey, Squires he says jangling the keys,
home time frog jumps in beer oclock,
ding ding, Shanghai, we’re here
wake up, says F, slamming his glass down on the piano, jesus man the parties just begun, i tell you you play great but I ain’t hiring you, goddamn junkie dead and done,

he turns from the obvious mirror in which his reflection can’t be seen,
i remember the days, sir ian, in wonderful suits of grey,
pluperfect in green felt hat,
some whiskery comedian,
some less outrageous Monk,
kerplunk,

’tis a gift to be simple

July 12, 2008 at 6:12 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 26 Comments
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said Pooh Bear on a stroll,

I saw for miles through that cool blue

your eyes,

the sky, the skies in love with you,

(the image under the link and the title are by the extraordinary Rick ‘Mobbsy’ Mobbs.)

Ari remains undisciplined.

July 9, 2008 at 5:31 pm | Posted in writing | 14 Comments
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Sunonhead stands on one leg, one hand shielding his eyes from the morning sun and the other holding his spear. He is pretending to be in a old seafarer’s quick line drawing of an aborigine looking out over the desert. But it is wrong, sometimes he thinks for one man to pretend to be another. We are all manifestations of the one soul, the old man had said and he relaxed and looked back over his shoulder. She is asleep, curled up as though hugging the radiant warmth from the core of the planet.

He had to admit he was lost and he hoped that when she awoke she will have dreamt them somewhere new. Ari was off again, chasing horses the silly bugger. Sunonhead had resigned himself to the inexplicable madness of his son and the permanent impresence of his errant father. He was lucky though he thinks as he attempts to light the fire with damp flints again that he occasionally overheard her conversations with the old man and had managed to translate some of them into a language of simple symbols easiest remembered when rhymed. I am such a monobrained and hairy old Caliban he thinks.

Ari has heard the jingle of hips and is off, fleeing into mad pursuit of some wild maned creature who uses stars for camouflage and who has a secret spell, when she smiles it means other people are happy,

Contentment

June 10, 2008 at 6:56 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 11 Comments
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Beyond the light of the fire
spirits and riders pass followed and following
in a mad decadent parade
spinning gracious histories
like soft desert whirligig constellations.
With a heavy sigh he turns on his side
curls his arm round her waist
and buries his face in her hair.

In the absence of memory, of stability in time
the coarse mechanics of grammar collapse
into a scrapyard of conjunctions and gears,
verbs asking where Machiavelli went
with his velvet inducements to intent.
There sunonhead dreams of
Venetian palace intrigues
to be conducted like impossible waltzes.

sunonhead is lazy

December 27, 2007 at 1:05 pm | Posted in writing | 3 Comments
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Sunonhead and his wife find a shady spot, perfect, whispers sunonhead and then cast with doubt looks to her and she returns his moment with a tiny smile first star from her eye. He settles then and stares into the dark still waters of the night sky glittering with stars,
spirits and riders pass,
followed and following
in a mad decadent parade,
ebbyish shades of all languages
in one, spinning gracious histories like mimis
of balance and poise and passion,
soft desert eric whirligig constellations
just beyond the light of the fire perhaps
one poet man arm around his son,
his sun, that’s two,
sunonhead hears the sparkling waters rushing past,
amuirin, he hears conjuring a smile merely saying
her name amuirin,
he turns from the landscape back to his wife,
who is smiling a silver moon
so soon sunonhead is snoring,
nighty night, sunonhead, she whispers,
rubbing his tummy,
tomorrow, the desert,

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