[Ex Tempore XII]
Evening descends on the bustling earth;
extending darkness mutes clamouring colour.
Our worlds dim and defer for once to silence;
pace is gratefully held for a while.
M.M. — Februarius MMXII
29 February 2012
27 February 2012
Emilie Autumn - "How to Break a Heart"
How to break a heart
It is not difficult
Anyone can do it
So could you, if you tried
Just find a light
And switch it off
As easy as blinking
That's what I was taught
When I was too young to ask
By ladies in white nightgowns
In dripping weeds and black ribbons
A girl's best friend is a small handgun
The question was useless
For I could say yes
But you've got to ask my army
And they are not inclined to grant favours just now
It is not difficult
Anyone can do it
So could you, if you tried
Just find a light
And switch it off
As easy as blinking
That's what I was taught
When I was too young to ask
By ladies in white nightgowns
In dripping weeds and black ribbons
A girl's best friend is a small handgun
The question was useless
For I could say yes
But you've got to ask my army
And they are not inclined to grant favours just now
26 February 2012
Grotesquerie
[Metapoem III / Experimental II]
Variations on a theme; experimentation on technique.
I can
feel Him
in my mind
I can hear Him scratch at the doors
picking at the walls
Don't
let the lights go out! never the silence!
Why is it
when I
shatter the
mirror and
try
to rearrange
the shards
does the reflection remain the same?
"Perhaps if I just sever our left hand we
You know we won't ever stop; we like this"
"won't have to worry about doing it again?
too much. Now stop your nonsense and pay"
"Because, we've only done it a few times...
attention: there's another one for us."
As I lie in bed in my room, I notice them: edges—where wall meets wall, meeting ceiling.
"Hmm... no, that won't do; the edges are much too crass, and too boring!" Better that they
were more rounded, concave. "—There! Much better." The window shutters as well
leave much to be desired; cascading as a waterfall is more their wont. The ceiling again:
"Surely that's beginning to crack", and crack it does. First slowly, then quickening—"fissures,
at last!". The fragments of this enclosure fall away, are discarded as insignificant bits of
rubbish to the nothingness. Opens the void, and I stream, tip of my mind first, into a—
Desert moonshine
—scorch me!—scorch me!—scorch me!—
Moon shines in the desert
—bless me!—bless me!—bless me!—
Shine deserts the moon
—save me!—save me!—save me!—
I watched crippled boy, hobbling street,
and to the hardened ground—
And did care.
raped a woman just the night;
I hurt way imaginable—
And I did not .
I killed a man with my
Because he looked at wrong —
I .
stole girl her bedroom;
I tortured and her with a finesse—
And not care.
M.M. — December MMXI; Februarius MMXII
Variations on a theme; experimentation on technique.
I can
feel Him
in my mind
I can hear Him scratch at the doors
picking at the walls
Don't
let the lights go out! never the silence!
Why is it
when I
shatter the
mirror and
try
to rearrange
the shards
does the reflection remain the same?
"Perhaps if I just sever our left hand we
You know we won't ever stop; we like this"
"won't have to worry about doing it again?
too much. Now stop your nonsense and pay"
"Because, we've only done it a few times...
attention: there's another one for us."
As I lie in bed in my room, I notice them: edges—where wall meets wall, meeting ceiling.
"Hmm... no, that won't do; the edges are much too crass, and too boring!" Better that they
were more rounded, concave. "—There! Much better." The window shutters as well
leave much to be desired; cascading as a waterfall is more their wont. The ceiling again:
"Surely that's beginning to crack", and crack it does. First slowly, then quickening—"fissures,
at last!". The fragments of this enclosure fall away, are discarded as insignificant bits of
rubbish to the nothingness. Opens the void, and I stream, tip of my mind first, into a—
Desert moonshine
—scorch me!—scorch me!—scorch me!—
Moon shines in the desert
—bless me!—bless me!—bless me!—
Shine deserts the moon
—save me!—save me!—save me!—
I watched crippled boy, hobbling street,
and to the hardened ground—
And did care.
raped a woman just the night;
I hurt way imaginable—
And I did not .
I killed a man with my
Because he looked at wrong —
I .
stole girl her bedroom;
I tortured and her with a finesse—
And not care.
M.M. — December MMXI; Februarius MMXII
25 February 2012
Phantasmagoria
[Poem XXVI]
Come to me, sweet Sleep,
Hand-in-hand with thy brother dearest Dream.
Wings aflutter as I steal up the keep,
The stair stepped seeping at the seams.
Take me from my brick bed,
Rending the fibres of the clinging coil;
Transfigure loathsome lead
Into capricious mercury till my breast boils.
Thus unto haunted hollows,
Where Beauty waits as silken sylph;
There to faithfully follow
Her face, bedecked with gilded glyphs.
Come to me, benighted Belladonna,
With deathly, livid lips.
By thy misty waist thy fell fauna;
My life soon to slip.
Guided by the mighty moon
I will saunter through the forest full,
Which is lit by rampant runes,
Where fantasies rage and rule.
Journeys through time
Upon star-capped seas,
Experiencing sights sublime
That are mine solely to see.
My name will drop into the Deep
And will be forgotten forever.
Thus I will take a last lasting leap,
Unlashing my tautened tether.
When I drift into dream
I am welcomed well
By these themes:
Sleep's most surreal spell.
M.M. — November MMIX; Februarius, Maius, September, November MMX; Februarius MMXII
Come to me, sweet Sleep,
Hand-in-hand with thy brother dearest Dream.
Wings aflutter as I steal up the keep,
The stair stepped seeping at the seams.
Take me from my brick bed,
Rending the fibres of the clinging coil;
Transfigure loathsome lead
Into capricious mercury till my breast boils.
Thus unto haunted hollows,
Where Beauty waits as silken sylph;
There to faithfully follow
Her face, bedecked with gilded glyphs.
Come to me, benighted Belladonna,
With deathly, livid lips.
By thy misty waist thy fell fauna;
My life soon to slip.
Guided by the mighty moon
I will saunter through the forest full,
Which is lit by rampant runes,
Where fantasies rage and rule.
Journeys through time
Upon star-capped seas,
Experiencing sights sublime
That are mine solely to see.
My name will drop into the Deep
And will be forgotten forever.
Thus I will take a last lasting leap,
Unlashing my tautened tether.
When I drift into dream
I am welcomed well
By these themes:
Sleep's most surreal spell.
M.M. — November MMIX; Februarius, Maius, September, November MMX; Februarius MMXII
21 February 2012
Poem IV - "Of the present frivolous regard of love" [Back catalogue]
Of the present frivolous regard of love
I seek to extol and rhapsodise here in no way:
I leave that trifle to those who are deaf to
The clarions of the true, blissful empyrean anthem.
And O! how that elevated of melodies has been
Chorused again and again, and always, in me.
It is the lilt of cherubim descended and embodied;
Yet twofold, and is the tenor of tyrannous torment,
That chides more than brings agony—if the paltry
Difference can e'en be distinguished in this respect!
And affliction of this song of songs feeds from naught
But my own timorousness, the most inferior of things.
What am I to do in the face of such warranted onslaught?
Shun the anthem, shut my ears? Or share in the song?
M.M. — December MMVII
I seek to extol and rhapsodise here in no way:
I leave that trifle to those who are deaf to
The clarions of the true, blissful empyrean anthem.
And O! how that elevated of melodies has been
Chorused again and again, and always, in me.
It is the lilt of cherubim descended and embodied;
Yet twofold, and is the tenor of tyrannous torment,
That chides more than brings agony—if the paltry
Difference can e'en be distinguished in this respect!
And affliction of this song of songs feeds from naught
But my own timorousness, the most inferior of things.
What am I to do in the face of such warranted onslaught?
Shun the anthem, shut my ears? Or share in the song?
M.M. — December MMVII
13 February 2012
Words for a Picture VII
To be read alongside "open your eyes" by Ewa Brzozowska (bubble-gum-heart).
The hold weakens
as the lights of the hard-defined world begin to blur and dim;
till the nebulous line is crossed without awareness,
a crossing millennial in distance
and quantum in duration.
M.M. — Februarius MMXII
The hold weakens
as the lights of the hard-defined world begin to blur and dim;
till the nebulous line is crossed without awareness,
a crossing millennial in distance
and quantum in duration.
M.M. — Februarius MMXII
A Bee
[Poem XXV]
I.
Woe to she that meets
the tip of my sword;
woe to he that greets
his bane in my horde.
Dare not provoke
or bear the stoked
brunt of an irate swarm
that bequeaths a
relentless harm.
II.
Beware! beware!
My wrath, my stare!
Though I be small in size
and the sight of me
scoffed at so carelessly,
my resolve is rare,
and my voice will deafen
when loudly it blares.
And when I strike—
and I strike with might!—
my enemies will know,
before the height
of their misery
and that of my rage,
that what I promised
and meant was true:
I bring a thing that
has been since the
dawn of the first age,
before men knew
what they know—
or could even know
at all. This thing
I bring, in my sting,
shall be yours, even
if but for a while;
a thing that reason
cannot dispel
nor attempt to repel.
So beware! beware!
I bring you a hell,
to remind you of
just what you are.
M.M. — Februarius MMXII
I.
Woe to she that meets
the tip of my sword;
woe to he that greets
his bane in my horde.
Dare not provoke
or bear the stoked
brunt of an irate swarm
that bequeaths a
relentless harm.
II.
Beware! beware!
My wrath, my stare!
Though I be small in size
and the sight of me
scoffed at so carelessly,
my resolve is rare,
and my voice will deafen
when loudly it blares.
And when I strike—
and I strike with might!—
my enemies will know,
before the height
of their misery
and that of my rage,
that what I promised
and meant was true:
I bring a thing that
has been since the
dawn of the first age,
before men knew
what they know—
or could even know
at all. This thing
I bring, in my sting,
shall be yours, even
if but for a while;
a thing that reason
cannot dispel
nor attempt to repel.
So beware! beware!
I bring you a hell,
to remind you of
just what you are.
M.M. — Februarius MMXII
08 February 2012
Two pieces (II)
[See foreword for "Pieces (I)"]
M.M. — *Written some years ago; ªDecember MMXI; Ianuarius MMXII
"Eyes, The Truth-Tellers"*
(Of a girl glimpsed on Buchanan Street, Glasgow)
Her eyes were unworldly—a blue almost luminescent—
piercing as the bite of a frigid winter morning.
"Man, The Master"ª
By one willed movement of my hand I swept the dust off the tabletop:
I changed the universe, and foresaw the end of existence.
M.M. — *Written some years ago; ªDecember MMXI; Ianuarius MMXII
05 February 2012
Any New Day
[Poem XXIV]
A dirge.
The tink–tink–tinkle of the piano keys: the softest song of
sorrow that dolefully sounds each note of this unwavering
line, a bottom-dwelling progression—the nadir that cannot
be overcome, as the exultant sun overcomes every new day. But
each rising... I would not know what the fire below the horizon,
the first gleaming ray or the final triumph really were. Perhaps the
gloaming's loss, its inevitable defeat—perhaps these know more
of me (and yet, no more would I know even of them). My hands
once were children that played with the wind at the times when
the world was to me most alive and lively. When they combed
through the locks of another they used to guide the hero on
odysseys so fantastic, and helped me understand comfort and
contentment when comfort and contentment were mine. Now
they slog through mire and push past thornbush. Nowhere's the
destination on a road to nowhere. A coldness walks with me,
a heaviness holding on, a weariness upon my brow—and yet I
walk alone. I see a withered man standing before me, covered
in a greying ash that accentuates cavernous eyes; cinders fall
away at a brush of his worn face, but as hard as he tries he
cannot simply wipe himself clean, cleanse himself anew. Over
time I have fashioned myself a mask: it too can be the strong
one—feign strength; it too can smile—front a smile. But left on
my own, confined to the prison in my mind, and all I can think
is that tomorrow is yet another day—
M.M. — December MMXI; Februarius MMXII
A dirge.
The tink–tink–tinkle of the piano keys: the softest song of
sorrow that dolefully sounds each note of this unwavering
line, a bottom-dwelling progression—the nadir that cannot
be overcome, as the exultant sun overcomes every new day. But
each rising... I would not know what the fire below the horizon,
the first gleaming ray or the final triumph really were. Perhaps the
gloaming's loss, its inevitable defeat—perhaps these know more
of me (and yet, no more would I know even of them). My hands
once were children that played with the wind at the times when
the world was to me most alive and lively. When they combed
through the locks of another they used to guide the hero on
odysseys so fantastic, and helped me understand comfort and
contentment when comfort and contentment were mine. Now
they slog through mire and push past thornbush. Nowhere's the
destination on a road to nowhere. A coldness walks with me,
a heaviness holding on, a weariness upon my brow—and yet I
walk alone. I see a withered man standing before me, covered
in a greying ash that accentuates cavernous eyes; cinders fall
away at a brush of his worn face, but as hard as he tries he
cannot simply wipe himself clean, cleanse himself anew. Over
time I have fashioned myself a mask: it too can be the strong
one—feign strength; it too can smile—front a smile. But left on
my own, confined to the prison in my mind, and all I can think
is that tomorrow is yet another day—
M.M. — December MMXI; Februarius MMXII
01 February 2012
On words
(See also "Poet's Folly")
Written extemporaneously at 1 a.m. on 2 February 2012.
To me, words are like water: fluid and free-flowing. Place your partially cupped hand in a basin and water will run through your fingers—run away from you—with such ease; try to contain what you scoop out and you are left with but a paltry amount of what you original wished to extract. And like this words flow freely in my mind. Trying to capture and lay them down into a more enduring existence—to tame them, as it were—is sure foolishness, or at least, a naïve endeavour.
Words are the intricate veins that comprise the arabesque that is my Reality. They are at once undefinable and redefinable, arbitrary and protean. My words are the medium through which my experiences can be imparted—to others and even to myself. One word is enough to damn or exult a man—and one word is not. A person's entire lexicon could describe the feeling of listening to a most moving piece of music—and an entire lexicon could not.
My Word takes me to places and brings places to me, places that are vast in meaning and yet escape meaning all together. It is into my Word that I compact what I know and wish to know. I create, demolish and transmute by my Word. Were my Word and I juxtaposed, the difference between the two could not be conceived, for it is inconceivable: I am my Word and my Word is I.
Written extemporaneously at 1 a.m. on 2 February 2012.
To me, words are like water: fluid and free-flowing. Place your partially cupped hand in a basin and water will run through your fingers—run away from you—with such ease; try to contain what you scoop out and you are left with but a paltry amount of what you original wished to extract. And like this words flow freely in my mind. Trying to capture and lay them down into a more enduring existence—to tame them, as it were—is sure foolishness, or at least, a naïve endeavour.
Words are the intricate veins that comprise the arabesque that is my Reality. They are at once undefinable and redefinable, arbitrary and protean. My words are the medium through which my experiences can be imparted—to others and even to myself. One word is enough to damn or exult a man—and one word is not. A person's entire lexicon could describe the feeling of listening to a most moving piece of music—and an entire lexicon could not.
My Word takes me to places and brings places to me, places that are vast in meaning and yet escape meaning all together. It is into my Word that I compact what I know and wish to know. I create, demolish and transmute by my Word. Were my Word and I juxtaposed, the difference between the two could not be conceived, for it is inconceivable: I am my Word and my Word is I.
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