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DIARIES
Paradox Paul presents: POETRY NIGHT
Paradox Paul presents: POETRY NIGHT
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Fish Fuck Game Rules Rib Cage Gob Smacked Precious Little Lay It Down What Use? (Prayer) |
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That Sticky Place These Arms I, your Bribe Nobby Tale Too Long Mirage Point of Impact! |
••
If my vision is true and I am doomed to be reincarnated as a fish in my next life, I shall journey to the nudist beach where you take your holidays and swim up into you, to live in your womb. When you sleep, while you dream, I will slip down to nibble and splash in the threshold cave that is your cunt. When in the silent hours you stir to waking, as you often will, I shall thrust once more deep to your womb, leaving you wretched and groping for the partner who is never and always there.
German version published in 'Gegner' magazine, 02/03
On my death-bed, I will choose upon your merits as I consider them, whether to return as an electrifying eel, a hoary stickleback or a shoal of quicksilver fish, adept at exploring new routes among the labyrinth passages within the flesh and bones of your torpefied body. Random ways will lead me to the spirals of your ears where I shall whisper maddening words, and to the tubes behind your eyes where I will gesture in rude silhouette. Through the bitter-sweet acid pools behind your tongue I shall dive, into the bleakness of your burgled brain, which I will feverishly fertilise. Passed the jagged coral networks beneath your breasts I shall plunge, into the cramped and vacant chapel of your heart, which I will naturally desecrate. Down the yellow cables of your arcing spine I shall slither; and out to the frantic extremities of your restless, restless limbs. I shall wade amongst kidney and gut, your most intimate bowel, before reaching, spent and spluttering, the wine filled chamber of your stomach from which I will drink.
Should you dare leave before me your body, all lifeless and stranded upon that sunless Beach of Souls, I shall have you return to your place among my bed sheets as a gold-green slug, with glittered lips and tendrils, and more slow time for journeying than there ever was. You will leave a pungent gluey trail upon the white flesh of my body, a river in the starving dunes, to glisten in the quiet morning light - and cause me to half remember sticky dreams.
••
••That Sticky Place
Butterfly came landing
She bent to kiss a branch
And dug herself a home there
(Rest now).
Erupted soon a moth
Of better, badder beauty
Which leapt across the flood
Below and pranced about
The yawning vale where
Petals pour down spinningly
On ants who do not care -
For toil here is light enough
But lighter yet the head
Which wags in fever to deny
That, YES, His Storm is blown aside
But, NO, it failed to cure the Wound
It only rapped upon the crust
Without that sticky zone of reckoning
That Glory Place I made my own
That sullied place methinks now CURSED!
An ant pit DAMNED and QUEENLESS!
(Breathe now).
Gushing 'neath the bark!
Ahoy!
Burning at the knot!
A-Splicing lower limb from
Little Butterfly - yet digging!
(Fly now!)
And Ye did sow the rhythm
That I did catch the rhythm
Till Ye escaped the rhythm
Lest I should CRUSH the rhythm
And THEE!
••
mirage
There, far off,
But closer than they suspect,
Is a shovel of people caught in a landscape.
They do not know one another;
They see one another, but do not speak.
A shiver is shared among them.
Large faces framed in a pond-oval sky,
Beneath glass clouds.
Soon they will peer through funnel-shaped windows.
Birds fly in rock as fish swim in sand.
Hard fruit is prized.
Claws are deep buried.
There is then, no fear;
For nothing shifts in the turquoise sea overhead.
Yet all eyes are raised.
Hollow sounds erupt from the crack.
The earth is split,
Her eggs must hatch!
Supple bodies bend, but all expect
The silvered moon, sharp as fangs,
Shall drop, and swoop to grab...
New hopes die from desert thirst.
The earth glows orange red;
Her covers worn too thin.
The old sun burned upon the chapel wall.
That same wall fell upon our saint,
Around that dawn of impatience.
Lo! Eyes and shadows alight upon us;
Blind to our own reflections,
Trapped in reverse, within funnel-shaped basins!
A last living throat is open,
Fast in the grip of the scaly judge:
The one-eyed fish, which cannot breath the air it steals.
A worm is coddled among feathers.
A soft knight clutches passed a rib.
The pump he snatches becomes his own.
There are no demons, the witches are frazzled.
Every bladder in the house runs dry.
(The chapel, at least, is water tight.)
Madness throws up roots in reality;
Wet leaves and freedom are fleeting.
Still, no place for greed, here in the cold oasis.
But this noise, gurgled up through the crack,
Of a sudden, rare and deafening,
Twists into bad, bad sleep!
All chains corrode, however; and it never never does to despair...
For the trees and the pools, the silver ice-falls, and the hot-bed wild-flower meadows;
The vanishing stars with their fire-tail wars, the stamping spirits and cowering ghosts;
The brimming vessels, bright brow-soothers, mopping maids and Hoaxing Joes;
The songs, the forest, the rapid rush; this quiet and dissolving shore;
The unstoppable fathers of cactus stance;
The ageless mothers on grassy path;
A million artless creatures, too:
And all our embryos;
All our embryos...
Doze in the warmth,
And hum in the cool,
Of the real oasis...
The real oasis...
Beyond this real mirage.
I, your Bribe.
Long leggy ornaments, matey
Hung from the wall, these walls
Windows carved out, suns away
Strokes the yellowed plaster.
So much, so much, glistening oil
Slowly soaks the lung, these lungs
Seams like black things, dark things, wet things
Dancing on my palette.
Feels the parted matting, here, like hair?
Does the fruit grow green, down there; her green?
Turns the light off, off! No light-shine
See the grass, there, glass green eyes?
Bells now! Shouts now! Slips back in here.
Ringings halt, and, hit the boards!
Listen at the old man, bounce with a ball,
Plays with a ball, next door.
Beyond this greasy dampness done,
The urge to breath clean air, wet hair,
And tang of wind; and taste that smell:
Sea salt, and rot, and sand, and salt...
And skin, and salt, and shells, and skin,
(Through walls, perhaps, through brick),
And bubble flesh, and gobble lips;
And all for a time, a good old time...
Parents of a babe once lived, upon this shore, upon that peace.
A man with words; a woman, weak, courageous yet.
The other woman, too - she pulled them down, down and down:
The animals killed them all.
The child, then lost, then hoisted high,
'Mong flies and skulls, now cast up high.
And evermore kids on a trip, they play, and dart,
And play... IN SILENCE!
"When it snows upon sand, Sir, are there two earths?
When it flows under ice, Sir, two seas, no shores?"
Through walls, there are many lands, Boys,
There are homes, and there are wars.
See in my face, these wars, those homes?
Journeys postponed, Boys; bend now and learn.
Plenty of people, too, there are,
Eager to learn, lazy to change.
Some refuse sleep, play game, climb walls,
Beneath falsehood roofs, falsehood clouds!
Her white rose dies, yes died, is dying.
This is a sad thing, Lads: romance be hell!
So bow, bow down your heads, and snivel like queens,
Till its dawn: till its drained off, right off!
Tell me what follows silence, sir, suddenly?
Friend? Something comes, something comes?
What happened to my music, Man?
I heard it through my veins, not for decades.
It will grow dark, quick?
I shall a face see, a face in the snow?
A dancing one; just a one, just to look at?
I shall laugh, then? How loud? When best?
They will lead me by the wrist, by the ear-lug?
I will clean be, and healthy, yet? Yet fit to touch?
Will my bones go buried and my mouth go death?
With the ground so near, is it better to be dumb?
Throws me off this rubble, now! YES! YES! Gives it up, writes it off!
Take what you will, YOU! and all that's left - it's yours anyhow, yours anyhow.
It never was mine, all mine, this STUFF; never was mine, not mine.
Myself? No, I never needed myself; never was mine, all mine.
Grateful and yours, (squatting here now), ever be yours,
To be of use, or madly used,
To feel a part, a fleshy part,
Or play a part, a passive part...
I, your Bribe.
(Better passive. Much better, much better, passive.)
••
What use be a flower
held up against thee,
If that flower be more subtle
yet opened up to me?
••
(prayer)
gold FAR thread CATCH weak cover alone voice touch open
find clutch keep between hot BREATHE all care stroke hum
thin ride fall longish WALK naked field loud no word hush drop
TROUBLE sleep ravish dig deeply bones daylight FISH! laugh HEART
SKIP shrink prick go sea STORM cliff bird grin wall
(prayer) hold scribble draw curtain protect forget NOT EAT defy
purple blanket PIANO soothe tight hair skirt NAME (lay beneath)
tomorrow away against look come fruit slowly silent stone cometh
violet ROOM twig wait late play window MOUTH give
••
Let's say there are no precious objects anywhere in the world at all
THERE ARE NO PRECIOUS OBJECTS ANYWHERE AT ALL
It cannot be possible there are no precious objects anywhere at all
THERE ARE NO PRECIOUS OBJECTS ANYWHERE AT ALL
Is there a hidden place where the precious objects might be found?
THERE ARE NO PRECIOUS OBJECTS ANYWHERE AT ALL
Be so good as to list all the precious objects which are now missing
THERE ARE NO PRECIOUS OBJECTS ANYWHERE AT ALL
If thats the truth then what manner of objects are left in the world?
THERE ARE NO PRECIOUS OBJECTS ANYWHERE AT ALL
Must there actually be any precious objects anywhere in any case?
THERE ARE NO PRECIOUS OBJECTS ANYWHERE AT ALL
I will start to replace the precious objects, beginning with a square.
The spiral is a sticky one
You slide down it flapping yer limp wrist and yer angry tongue
Stuck to it like a zit on the fast unravelling landscape
Losing consciousness for starters
Balance, focus, dignity, dosh
Capacity for consuming quantities of beer
Ability to camouflage the reek of deformity
Ridiculous, unquenchable hope
Face, gratitude, vision, tact
The great thumb-worried map of hiding places...
Comes realisation
Hardly noticed
Like the after-taste of dishonest truth
The lazy pains of works undone
Unreasonable hatreds, shallow buried
Suspicions of trust undeserving
Sick and delicious
Like sex without touching
Then, FIGHT or BLEAT as you may
The spiral straightens out and you drop fast
Till yer standing in the middle of the road
Fully undressed in the path of a lorry
And - BOOM! - in the awful wake of its load...
(What happens then?
You know what happens then!
What happens then?
Ya hit the spiral again!
Again?
Again! Again! Again!)
••
LAY IT DOWN
FANCY WET FINGERS SMELL OF SWEAT AND SMOKED FISH GUT SWILLED WITH BEER FLOWS BACH FEASTS BACON FLIES BRAZIL BULLETS AND POTTERY TOOLS BURNT RUBBER MOULD PAINT SPLASHED INTO RADIO FAT WIRES FELT PENS VOODOO SPUN CASSETTE LABELLED DELIVER US FROM BIKE CREAM BROKEN FURNISHINGS DAUBED WITH CRIMSON TOILET LENGTH ROLLED UP PARTY INVITATION WHO KNOWS NEIL DOWN STAIRS TURNS LIGHT BULB STONE PLASTER PHOTOGRAPHS AND BROWN SEALED ENVELOPES MARKED PRIVATE PIANO LESSONS CRUMPLED EXHIBITION LEAFLET FOUND SLAIN IN KITCHEN ON THURSDAY ONE HUNDRED MARKS LAUGH AND OTHER COPPERS BANK BOOKS COUNTER CARD SPIKED DRINKING SCISSORS IN DICTIONARY OF SOAKED NAKED TOES MADONNA OVER ROWS OF OTHER CLOTHED MADONNAS SHIRT FLOPPED OVER GRAVEYARD FENCE AFTER RENAISSANCE LOVE SWINDLED AWAY FROM JOINTS SHARED SMOKED ONLY HEARD OVER LEGLESS FESTIVAL VISIT CRIES FOR POKEY BATHROOM OR SULLEN PHONE CALL SURPRISING TROUSERS STAINED ALAS NEVER TO RETURN... OH WHERE IS MY KRISZTINA?
TIME UP HOLIDAY PAST SUMMER SQUANDERED TALENTS IGNORED KIDDIES WAITING FRIENDSHIP LOST LETTER UNWRITTEN WORD UNSENT TALE UNFINISHED LANGUAGE UNSPOKEN SCORE UNSETTLED CARPET UNVACUUMED FILM UNDEVELOPED DUTIES UNATTENDED HEADACHE UNTREATED NURSEY UNRAVELLED CLOCK UNWINDING SHOES UNPAID FOR SCENT UNSNIFFED AT BOOZE UNTASTED ZIPPER UNDONE HOME UNLIVED-IN STRANGER UNLOVED BEDS UNSLEPT-IN SHEETS UNIRONED CANDLES UNLIT PAINTINGS UNHUNG BALLAD UNSUNG SCREECHING MONKEY TERMINALLY TERMINALLY TERMINALLY AUTHOR UN...CONSCIOUS
The heavy young soldier is cast from his velvet land, built upon metal. No arms has he, and headless he stands guard there, blurred before images of citadels, stapled to the wall beneath layers of fluffy grey fabric. He regards, as mother did, the curvy yellowed spout, broken; and the last peacock feather. All dusty and balding, he feels, is the faithless snake, who once swept through lands, and lighted plumes, over oil-drenched chain-smoking townships. Enough to make your teeth jar, he reckons loudly with himself. But now, before the inky passport rots: must run, must run must he! Fast out of time with the train ticket, he scarpers; whilst, with jagged sentiment, the poison-pen love letter is stolen back from that horrid woman, from the basement of that grubby junk-shop. Boast upon boast! What a goat! Still, minus head and arms, too expensive to fix, too suffersome to look upon; all spread-eagled out across that unwashed tablecloth: Find these arms! orders that tiresome wife at a stroke...
These arms are coming out of their sockets
for the hell of it
I wont let them win
they are my arms, under my control
I teach them again to behave
to hang straight, to hang loose
in certain attitudes at all times
mostly defensive, they protect my ribs and balls
occasionally caressing the holes and ribs and pockets of others
they are slight, and prone to weeping under light burdens
they are spoilt, and even now
dislocated daily in the playground
I keep them alive, they keep me safe
all things considered.
(my legs, they do as they please.)
••
TOO LONG.
Not if one is patient.
WHY IS IT TAKING SO LONG?
Quiet yourself and sit.
WHY MUST I WAIT SO LONG, AND WHY HERE?
You can wait outside again if you wish. Do you wish to wait outside?
NO.
Wait outside if it suits you.
NO!
Then be quiet, be patient, and wait your turn.
WHAT TURN? THERE'S NO-ONE ELSE HERE. WHAT TURN?
I am here. (Hello, I am here).
WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?
I'm waiting as you are. Do you think I'm here for the thrill of it?
GO ON, TELL ME WHAT YOU'RE WAITING FOR!
You know what we're waiting for. Now sit down and be quiet. It's difficult enough as it is.
WHAT IS?
Sit down.
WHAT'S DIFFICULT ENOUGH AS IT IS? EH? WHAT ARE WE BLOODY WAITING FOR?
Sit down and behave!
I'LL BLOODY BEHAVE AS I PLEASE!
Exactly.
TELL ME WHAT'S IN THERE? AND WHAT THAT NOISE IS ABOUT?
(pause)
Be seated, and I will tell you.
RIGHT!
Right! That's my call.
HOLD ON! WAIT A MINUTE!
(pause)
Right! That's mine.
WAIT A MINUTE! HOLD ON!
(pause)
HOLD ON! WAIT A MINUTE..!
POINT OF IMPACT!
tik tik tik tik tik tik tik!
Two ancient typewriters, a black Optima and a blacker Mercades, collide to result in the following recipe:
The south facing wall of a dust filled cathedral topples outwards to crush a dozen plastic flowers deep into the earth from whence they long ago sprang. The earth, therefore, is flat. These conditions met, tubes of acrylic paint are boiled and squeezed onto a map of foreign parts. Ash is sprinkled over. Typewriters with dice for keys (red) are buried in ash. Pompeii is buried next in typewriters. (Who has not written of Pompeii? Of bony strangled sex and corroded keys?) One key fits the metal box, which is filled with Hungarian foot powder, or better still, fine gold pigment powder. Turn the key. Open the box.
wak wak wak wak wak wak wak!
Pee in the box. Mix a paste and spread the contents, like gold icing, over the length of the Earth. The shell will harden. Use the meat grinder. Turn its handle to churn postcards from the Fantastic Isle into postcard dust. Scatter thousands of leaflets across any old map, to the farthest borders of the new homeland. At the Black Sea, take the image, faded by now to grey, of a babe bobbing like a sponge on waves; and let it go. Just let it drift. Light twelve Tibetan incense sticks, each for a saint, fragrant and inexpensive, hand made in silence by Nepalese children. Consider your personal inventory of worldly goods. Smoke a cigarette and steal a potter's wheel. Climb onto a balcony. Dunk lilac flowers in Trendfrisur hair gel (wet look) or marmite. Before exhaustion takes a grip, dip your bendy plastic ribcage in Best London Vinegar, one rib at a time. Roll them in the flakes of gold. Push the resulting mass deep, deep, deep into the garden earth at the rear of the cathedral. Leave them as long as you are able. Do not pick at them.
tik tik tik tik tik tik tik!
A third typewriter (remains anonymous) inscribes the following:
Here shall be discovered the bendy bones of a fake ribcage, the torso of an earthenware boy, the splinter of a hand-carved boomerang, the head of a ceramic fox, various stone flower fragments, a crippled tree stump, the dice of sixes, a key to the damaged box and all its dirty contents; the marmite, the gel, the grinder and the babe: bound together in brittle ribbons, buried beneath a crust-like skin, found among the foundations of an ash-filled chapel, at the foot of a resting volcano, on a life-sized map of a foreign land, not too far from the sea.
The warm blue, clean blue, life blue sea.
kee kee kee kee kee kee kee!
* Centuries later. A little boy hurls a broken boomerang which splits the head of a fox from its neck. Tubes of cheap oils and a pot of best gold pigment are thus released from a locked wooden chest, now broken. The pieces land on a 1:30,000 scale map of Budapest, turning it into a 1:1 scale map of the POINT OF IMPACT. The evidence lies here under glass for all to see.
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