The Gospel According to St. Bastard

Not returing to LiveJournal but

Fri, 09 Jan 2009 04:40:03 GMT

I figured some of you might want to know that I'm back to writing a poem a day here and I intend to stick to it for the rest of the year. I'm taking part in a larger locked blog where a lot of people are writing 365 poems in 365 days but so far only me and a guy named Steve Subrizi (which I may or may not have met) are posting ours in an open forum.

Also, it's nearly 3 years ago to the day that i quit LiveJournal to write a novel. I handed the manuscript of that novel to a publisher in Reykjavík last January 6th, which happened to be 3 years to the day since I started seriously writing it. I had given myself 3 years to write it, so that was very good timing.

Tue, 10 Jan 2006 01:03:46 GMT

Dear Livejournal,

The time has come, we've had a long run, almost three years now, and it's been good. I don't regret a single moment, but alas, all good things must come to an indeterminate pause. I promise not to pull a Naveen Andrews and father a child while we are on a break. You see, the thing is, y'know, it's just... well... I have another love now, and that's my novel and while both of you share the letters L, O, V and E, novel has fewer extraneous vowels and consonants. I just feel that I need to strike out and explore this other option. I hope you don't think ill of me. I just don't have the time to juggle the two of you.

One day I might return, you won't have to take me back, you can whittle my friendslist down to zero, I understand, but if you can find it in your heart to keep the option open I would be ecstatic, like a little white pill with the Mitsubishi logo on it.

This is not a deletion, just a pause, a break. I love you still, but there is a greater love I must pursue.

xo,
Kári

P.S. As a parting gift, I give you this, the answer to a question that might have been turning itself in your mind, as it did in mine. Was it sheer coincidence that Durex set up shop in Knutsford or did the CEO have a puerile streak a mile wide? Turns out, it was just glorious, glorious coincidence.

poem

Wed, 04 Jan 2006 02:11:01 GMT

Dirge of the Rose

His be no seed that brack the stem
Wrap hands through grass that wafts
Catch full hands and strike at cort
Our are no wise to her that wilts
Rend and gash the bark of we
Fill with dreck the croft at lows
Bring a crown drench with bile
His be no rule that struck her down

Kæru Íslendingar

Thu, 08 Dec 2005 05:53:55 GMT

Draumur hefur orðið að veruleika... Draumur um straum :)

Ég, Hjalti Snær Ægisson og Aðalsteinn Hákonarson höfum stofnað og gangsett vefrit.

the muse only seduces me in the middle of the night

Mon, 28 Nov 2005 06:50:59 GMT

why inspiration seems only to strike in the middle of the night I can't quite account for

but it rends gashes and bleeding on my poor demented lack of sleep schedule

enough feeling sorry for myself

I rewrote two poems

which is good and awesome

I may finally getting the hang of this rewriting business

I did some changes to my recent Icelandic poem Ars Poetica for Dummies, deincomprehensibilizing its most incomprehensible line

klikkið á hlekkinn til að fara á öppdeitaða útgáfu, kommentum ávallt vel tekið

but I also finally rewrote Metaphors for Time, streamlining it, if not shortening it much

so yeah, here's the new version... comments always welcome, especially as I'm not used to writing poems of this length

[2:45 AM update - couldn't sleep, so rewrote Metaphors further, cutting a lot out]

Metaphors for Time

Q: "What do you believe is true even though you cannot prove it?"
A: "Time does not exist." -Carlo Rovelli

*

it was the Golden Age of Something or Another
surely
a Time built high
nothing to stumble over
but something to admire as background
a matte painting in an old movie

*

this ancient metaphor money was all piles
but now scattered
rhythmic
a wave
crashing
over the world as
it swivels on a wobbly axis when circling

*

what is this point
that exists in time
this vanishingly sharp end
a childerella death delay

*

in the rollercoaster
as I went in a loop
I thought
this is what time does
to the mind
as my mass pressed me
to my seat

*

the forward stream of personal time
split in two at that moment
I could have said
yes
but I said
no
I sometimes think of the other me
leading a different life
far away in space
but occupying the same point
in time
but you had said not long before
that thinking of such alternatives
leads to nothing
because we could never add up
the pluses and minuses
back then I studied math
though I devoted myself
to the study of you
more intensely
as I find myself emotionally
traveling back in time
when the memory bursts
fear mixed with love
concern blending with terror
saying goodbye for the last time
that it meant something final
it is peculiar that
kissing in airports
feels so
unfinal
like a vision
of your tears erupting
as you orgasmed
you told me
for the second time
as the drops entered your mouth
that when you came intensely
you cried
somehow that upset me more
than your howls and tears
when I helped you unravel
your mental constructions
placing you back in the now
extracting you from the embrace
of the time you spent
locked inside your brain
watching the actions of others
but unable to react
you'd return ever so briefly
much later
to that shuffling off
of the moment
as if it were
a happy memory
to be savoured
like the time we climbed an apple tree
eating fruits while seated
on different branches
enough time passed
to watch the sun set
we helped each other down
guiding each other to safe places
prefiguring my attempts to overcome
the feelings of rejection
when I would return to this memory
writing poems about apple trees
and fallen fruit
basing the structure
on the five stages of grief
don't judge me too harshly
I was young
and willing to throw myself
into lakes of experience
swimming in emotions
knowing full well
I'd never drown
I was in no danger
I've always known you love me
even when you chased me with a knife
it still has an air of menace
but I cherish that time
still
that time is still
seems obvious

*

the stretching of a rubber band
fraying and frays and such
the rubber coming apart in cleanliness
until it snaps
shooting in opposite directions
they used to think of strands of spun yarn
but I think of rubber bands
for I am of my time
and they of theirs
to them
raise your spirits and say
I am the spirit of my time

*

time follows
like that dog in that movie
no matter how many sticks and rocks
are hurled towards
it slinks after
in your wake

*

you never give me your time
only paper metaphors for it
there is no value in things
but what we say it comes to

*

the movie
you knew that eventually I'd return
to the movie
how can I not question
a length of time this
set
it's easy
I do it like this

*

narrative exists without time

*

the flight of an arrow
half the flight
is more than half the duration
because the missile
slows down
unless gravity compensates
I am not a physicist
I failed math doubly
though I love it
you fail the loves you one time two times

*

memory is the negation of time
memory is a celebration of time
memory is time
memory is an inexact science
memory is faulty
memory will never supercede film
memory is imagination
what memory is I can't tell
memory is an end of time
memory is the death of me
memory is time

*

time is spent right
like an issue forth
that or other likes
will be grown acres

*

I have been taught to manage time
yet time still riots
setting fire to machinery
soiling flesh with ash

*

I remember long links of equateds
graffitied on walls and bus shelters
starting with time
and ending in sex
going through permutations of money
power
and various other nouns

*

the roman candle erupted
and we watched it
for a while
light on snow
sparks melting individual snow crystals
the water froze again
forming ice
not snow

*

you grow taller in time
your skin ever closer to my eyes
pushed up like the Himalayas
as India slides ever further in

*

the river
an irresistable description of time
headwater to delta
birth to death
but I reject it
for it only really makes sense
if we think of the river as frozen
and us skating
on the surface

*

a spring stretched by my hands
held fast to the floor by my feet
this is a way to think of time
another way would be to say
that I am a statue
stretching a marble spring
some would say
that the sculptor was punning
on the nature of time
or rather the time of nature
that time begins with spring
and ends with winter
but I agree with my time
that if time could be thought of
as having a beginning and an end
both would be best placed
in winter

*

the rhythmic time
of seasons seems too slow
the four four beat
seems to slow
with each passing year
the rhythms of day and night
are better to dance to
spinning and spinning
moving in a circle
around a point that moves in a circle
around a point that's moving
away from the starting point

*

the order of letters
is a metaphor of time
a bee see
a metaphor in the wrong tense
the sentence with a full stop
metaphor
the book with closable covers
et cetera you get what I'm carrying on
and so on
until we come to the poem
with its lines
receding downwards
to a defined end
demarked by lack

WARNING: THIS POEM IS IN ICELANDIC

Tue, 22 Nov 2005 06:11:56 GMT

Ars Poetica for Dummies

      in memoriam Pisones og annarannarra hórurassa

bókstafir eru tól og stundum er skemmtilegra að taka borvél í sundur heldur en að boreikkað omeineikkað jájájájájájá éheyrikaððúertaseja

ljóð eigekkað meina heldur vera en Vera er tímarit sem byrjaði að komút löngul0n6ulöngeftirað Aðalsteinn var ell núll enn sex uuuuuuuuu daujurdaujur

ekki yrkja um dauðann þvíanner gígantískur og handan alls sem er og án hans væri lífið endalaust og yndislegt en rosalega rossalejamiggiða ódauðlegum rottumflómkakkakakkakakkalakkalakkalökkumökkum heilu mekkirnir af flugum og kónguköngukaunguköjngulómlómlóm vafnir inn í bilið milli eins punkts og næsta púnts við hliðinjájájöjdda veitéhva áekkimáekki

ekki fjalla um dauðann því eins dauði er þrjú hundruð gráar ljósmyndir af auðum sveitabæ í snævisvæfiþökktumdökkumökkum landslagsmálverkum máluðum eftir ljósmynd tekinni eikkurntíman og annars sjónvarpaður dauði er þrjú hundruð þúsundir turna hrynjandi inni í heilum hellumþasseméoþúerum rígbundin á líkama en höfuðin frjáls skynfærin fjögur eldur vatn loft og hatur hatur hatur

ekki yrkja um hatur því hatur er ljóttljóttljótt og leiðir til tilfinninga og tilfinningar eru vondar ekki sýna mér tilfinningar

sýndu mér hugsanir og pælingar og minningar um pál og reku þegar ég var lítill og hlustaði á kassettur af bídderðakasettureðaémanekkiskiftirengu kassetur af æfintýrum um kóngson og tíkarson og kolbít þá voru páll og reka altaf að hjálp æ djöflamergurégleymdieinuellíalltaf elli kelli ha ha hún hafði Þór undir en ekki mig ekki mig

ekki semja um forgengileikann hann er leiðinlegur og leiðinleg ljóð eru leiðinleg og enginn kaupir bjór fyrir leiðinleg skáld og engin vill sofa hjá leiðinlegu skáldi seminnirmijájásko eina ástæðanfyrirþíasemjaljóðsemeikkaðskiptirmáli er að þá vill kannski sexíosensetíft fólk næmtfólkmeðstinnarassa skríðumlíkamanðinosleikja tólin þámunu aukakílóin skoekkiskiptamáli neiþíhinnfullkomnilesandieðhlustandi lætur slíkt ekki skipta sig máli

aldreiskrifafyrirframtíðina þaðerekkertgamanaðríðaþegarþúrtlík

ojá líkingar erekkert sérstaklega merkilegar jabbvelþóttéhafi notað líkingar þegarðú gabbaðir mig tilðessatalum dauðann sem er ekkert gamanmál því dauðinn safnast saman um tákn sem vísa til hans og þá þarf að kveikja ljós og hjúfra sig að ódauðum líkömum og ekkilítaviðþí skuggarnir erá hreyfingu

og ekkireynað stofna hreyfingu þassorosa nítjándualdareikkað fyrirstríðeikkað

ogekkihaldað geðveiki sé dyggð geðveiki girðir fólk afog útlimirðínir eru skornir ef þú stígur innfyrir ohárðitt er brennt og augunðín límd opin þartilðau þodna þurrkastuppoheillsandkassafsandisabnastsamaní öjgntóttunumog

semdu fyrir augað mundað bókstafir eru tákn og tákn eru myndir og ljóðlist er myndlist og láttu A vera 4 og O ver4 0 0g G ver4 6 S 5 T 7 B 8 I 1 06 L 1 1'477u b'0k574f1 1ey5457 upp '1 1'1nur 06 pún74 un5 ekker7 er ef71r nem4 s7r1k 06 d0ppur 06 4uðn 06 ekker7 eð4 e177hv4ð 5em 1æ7ur næm4 f’01k1ð h4f4 fyr1r rétt1num 4ð r’1ð4ðér 06

   s    o     l    í   e     r    r  u   t
e     p e      y    ð   k  e    i  p  s
l    uu r k i     ava      n    d  i  e e k
  y t  p   k g   m    m   i g  n  k      í
        ð      e   þ    r     u  s   ð  þ

ogalokum ljóðerutalningá bókstöfum atkvæðum greinarmerkjum liðumorðumlínumversumhlutumbókum fimmsjöfimm og fimmsjöfimmsjösjö fimmliðaháttur sexliðaháttur þrjárlínurerutersínafjórarlínurferskeytlaáttaoktava og fjórtán sonneta og þá verðurað yrkjum ást því form er innihald eins og ást er það að vera í nánd við veruna sem maður elskar snertinglíkamaviðlíkamaímyrkrinu oþáerdauðinekkiskuggináveggnum oþáerenginhættáðíað snappa

Take 2

Mon, 07 Nov 2005 10:54:08 GMT

I've written more sections into Metaphors for Time. I wanted to ground it further in memory. So I added some memory sections to it. I usually don't write "personal poetry", but I felt Metaphors for Time was too damn impersonal and abstract, even for me. I also felt that I couldn't talk about time without devoting more space to personal time. As you can probably guess from this extended preamble, I'm not sure whether this was a good idea or not. That's where you come in, good people, that's where you come in: How does it compare?

Metaphors for Time

Q: "What do you believe is true even though you cannot prove it?"
A: "Time does not exist." -Carlo Rovelli

*

it was the Golden Age of Something or Another
surely
a Time built high
nothing to stumble over
but something to admire as background
a matte painting in an old movie

*

this ancient metaphor money was all piles
but now scattered
rhythmic
a said
sonnette
smaller than ever
these times of new form is less the point

*

what is this point
that exists in time
this vanishingly sharp end
a childerella death delay

*

they say TIME
as if they
know it is

*

I have given you
all my metaphors
and enough time
to mull it
wait
no

*

the stretching of a rubber band
fraying and frays and such
the rubber coming apart in cleanliness
until it snaps
shooting in opposite directions
they used to think of strands of spun yarn
but I think of rubber bands
for I am of my time
and they of theirs
to them
raise your spirits and say
I am the spirit of my time

*

it follows
like that dog in that movie
no matter how many sticks and rocks
are hurled towards
it slinks after
in your wake

*

helping you unravel
your mental constructions
placing you back in the now
extracting you from the embrace
of the time you spent
locked inside your brain
watching the actions of others
but unable to react
you'd return ever so briefly
much later
as if it were
a happy memory
to be savoured

*

you never give me your time
only paper metaphors for it
there is no value in things
but what we say it comes to

*

climbing apple trees
eating fruits while seated
on different branches
enough time passed
to watch the sun set
we helped each other down
guiding each other to safe places
in my attempts to overcome
the feelings of rejection
I would return to this memory
writing poems about apple trees
and fallen fruit
basing the structure
on the five stages of grief
don't judge me too harshly
I was young
and willing to throw myself
into lakes of experience
swimming in emotions
knowing full well
I'd never drown

*

how do we waste time
something that we've never
really established what is
we lack the vocabulary

*

the movie
you knew that eventually I'd return
to the movie
how can I not question
a length of time this
set
it's easy
I do it like this

*

narrative exists without time

*

the flight of an arrow
half the flight
is more than half the duration
because the missile
slows down
unless gravity compensates
I am not a physicist
I failed math doubly
though I love it
you fail the loves you one time two times

*

saying goodbye for the last time
that it meant something final
it is peculiar that
kissing in airports
feels so
unfinal

*

once you chased me with a knife
it still has an air of menace
I find myself emotionally
traveling back in time
when the memory bursts
fear mixed with love
concern blending with terror

*

memory is the negation of time
memory is a celebration of time
memory is time
memory is an inexact science
memory is faulty
memory will never supercede movies
memory is imagination
what memory is I can't tell
memory is the end of time
memory is a death of time
memory is time

*

I won't say which time
you came
I just wanted to confirm
that it could be said
that you are being

*

I have a vision
of your tears erupting
as you orgasmed
you told me
for the second time
as the drops entered your mouth
that when you came intensely
you cried

*

the only question that one needs to ponder
at this point in time
is whether you would want an eternity
of dull averageness
or a single moment of infinite pleasure
followed by an eternity of misery
no there are no other options
death is not an option

*

time is spent right
like an issue forth
that or other likes
will be grown acres

*

smoke curling upwards
dissipating time signals
hinting at conversation

*

time is never repeated
as we both learned
when we tried to
how arrogant of us

*

I remember long links of equateds
graffitied on walls and bus shelters
starting with time
and ending in sex
going through permutations of money
power
and other such nouns

*

I have been taught to manage time
yet time still riots
setting fire to machinery
soiling flesh with ash

*

the roman candle erupted
and we watched it
for a while
light on snow
sparks melting individual snow crystals
the water froze again
forming ice
instead of snow

*

you grow taller in time
your skin ever closer to my eyes
pushed up like the Himalayas
as India slides ever further in

*

the forward stream of time
split in two at that moment
I could have said
yes
but I said
no
I sometimes think of the other me
leading a different life
far away in space
but occupying the same point
in time
but you had said not long before
that thinking of such alternatives
leads to nothing
because we could never add up
the pluses and minuses
back then I studied math
though I devoted myself
to the study of you
more intensely

*

the river
an irresistable metaphor for time
headwater to delta
birth to death
but it only really makes sense to me
if we think of the river as frozen
and us skating
on the surface

*

a spring stretched by my hands
held fast to the floor by my feet
this is a way to think of time
another way would be to say
that I am a statue
stretching a marble spring
some would say
that the sculptor was punning
on the nature of time
or rather the time of nature
that time begins with spring
and ends with winter
but I agree with my time
that if time could be thought of
as having a beginning and an end
both would be best imagined
as winter

*

the rhythmic time
of seasons seems too slow
the four four beat
seems to slow
with each passing year
the rhythms of day and night
are better to dance to
spinning and spinning
moving in a circle
around a point that moves in a circle
around a point that's moving
away from the starting point

*

the order of letters
is a metaphor of time
a bee see
a metaphor in the wrong tense
the sentence with a full stop
metaphor
the book with closable covers
et cetera you get what I'm carrying on
and so on
until we come to the poem
with its lines
receding downwards
to a defined end
demarked by lack

Sun, 06 Nov 2005 10:21:22 GMT

Metaphors for Time

Q: "What do you believe is true even though you cannot prove it?"
A: "Time does not exist."

*

it was the Golden Age of Something or Another
surely
a Time built high
nothing to stumble over
but something to admire as background
a matte painting in an old movie

*

this ancient metaphor money was all piles
but now scattered
rhythmic
a said
sonnette
smaller than ever
these times of new form is less the point

*

what is this point
that exists in time
this vanishingly sharp end
a childerella death delay

*

they say TIME
as if they
know it is

*

I have given you
all my metaphors
and enough time
to mull it
wait
no

*

the stretching of a rubber band
fraying and frays and such
the rubber coming apart in cleanliness
until it snaps
shooting in opposite directions
they used to think of strands of spun yarn
but I think of rubber bands
for I am of my time
and they of theirs
to them
raise your spirits and say
I am the spirit of my time

*

it follows
like that dog in that movie
no matter how many sticks and rocks
are hurled towards
it slinks after
in your wake

*

you never give me your time
only paper metaphors for it
there is no value in things
but what we say it comes to

*

how do we waste time
something that we've never
really established what is
we lack the vocabulary

*

the movie
you knew that eventually I'd return
to the movie
how can I not question
a length of time this
set
it's easy
I do it like this

*

narrative exists without time

*

the flight of an arrow
half the flight
is more than half the duration
because the missile
slows down
unless gravity compensates
I am not a physicist
I failed math doubly
though I love it
you fail the loves you one time two times

*

memory is the negation of time
memory is a celebration of time
memory is time
memory is an inexact science
memory is faulty
memory will never supercede movies
memory is imagination
what memory is I can't tell
memory is the end of time
memory is a death of time
memory is time

*

I won't say which time
you came
I just wanted to confirm
that it could be said
that you are being

*

the only question that one needs to ponder
at this point in time
is whether you would want an eternity
of dull averageness
or a single moment of infinite pleasure
followed by an eternity of misery
no there are no other options
death is not an option

*

time is spent right
like an issue forth
that or other likes
will be grown acres

*

I remember long links of equateds
graffitied on walls and bus shelters
starting with time
and ending in sex
going through permutations of money
power
and other such nouns

*

I have been taught to manage time
yet time still riots
setting fire to machinery
soiling flesh with ash

*

the roman candle erupted
and we watched it
for a while
light on snow
sparks melting individual snow crystals
the water froze again
forming ice
instead of snow

*

you grow taller in time
your skin ever closer to my eyes
pushed up like the Himalayas
as India slides ever further

*

a spring stretched by my hands
held fast to the floor by my feet
this is a way to think of time
another way would be to say
that I am a statue
stretching a marble spring
some would say
that the sculptor was punning
on the nature of time
or rather the time of nature
that time begins with spring
and ends with winter
but I agree with my time
that if time could be thought of
as having a beginning and an end
both would be best imagined
as winter

*

the rhythmic time
of seasons seems too slow
the four four beat
seems to slow
with each passing year
the rhythms of day and night
are better to dance to
spinning and spinning
moving in a circle
around a point that moves in a circle
around a point that's moving
away from the starting point

*

the order of letters
is a metaphor of time
a bee see
a metaphor in the wrong tense
the sentence with a full stop
metaphor
the book with closable covers
et cetera you get what I'm carrying on
and so on
until we come to the poem
with its lines
receding downwards
to a defined end
demarked by lack

Fri, 04 Nov 2005 21:11:45 GMT

DJEE NEEH USSS IDEA

isay evry bodd eesa
djee neeh usun till
proo vunn inno sent
aprr insi plof lohw

only iddi otts cahn
beeh appy rite rite
rite rite thts whut
aivv lurn dbye rote

inna bank volt ther
issa stik with wich
ican mesj yuor your
innt elih djeh nnss

they will seej ohrr
inte lidj nsin your
skin your dres ahnd
thuh wayh yoos peak

Tue, 01 Nov 2005 09:07:54 GMT

REEP EETD SENT NSES

hyer thew ords that
isee ngin tool etrs
into mrks sgni fyin
some thin shur leeh

nowo ncan essk ayjp
says mees ezme when
thee swoh rrds komm
toos ente nsth wrld

aihd issl aikh puns
hate ambi gyoo itti
word sarr pres aiss
ther sbut onet ruth

ican stnd upan leev
beeh aind this home
weev cons truk tedd
outf line sand dots

Mon, 31 Oct 2005 01:46:03 GMT

This is How You Read; Can You Count?

The Age of Pisces is all of history and I am the history of the Jazz Age dancing on tables just me and Zelda charlestoning backwards away from Piscis Borealis into Piscis Occidentalis slippin slidin jumpin from table to table peeing on jeune Arthur peeing on everybody else swimming in literature beaching with the obese Eros wallowing on the sand with the crawling eye I crawling towards the head of the table past silent immobile legs suggesting that I will end my night like this

Sleep comes angry roaring bellows blowing heat into iron the hammer the hammer iron into steel a compound I will compound like an eye I refuse to resort to similes to explain my dreamy anger to you as we bop bop bopping along with the beat skipping when we feel like taking leave of gravity this was not not a simile as I grab your hand and twirl and do the twist again Chubby Eros checkering the dancefloor as we run along the table slipping on heaved plates tumbling towards the floor

The sun rises in Pisces but you and I know it's arbitrary like the order of letters in words or the selection of words to be sentenced by the eye I am led away by Lorca telling me not to come along or else I'll be an extra in the movie of his death that I saw as a child long before I danced with him in New York impersonating women impersonating boys bathing in showers of blood and numbered among the golden hurricanes lashing the belly of a new Age arriving in the 22nd Century

Trimalchio is waiting in a room for his party to result in me inserted into his life so that I can eulogize him into greatness but I will skip past his chair dragging Zelda into the guest room stabbing Eros ripping out his innards and interspersing sex with haruspicy as we read the lines we drew from his gut the entrails trailed by the eye I have learned how to read and I count myself as history lying on a tiled floor passing out furiously expelling the Age through the mouth

Sun, 30 Oct 2005 02:14:40 GMT

Immerocean

lapinnwatuhr
I
kanfeeelthwayvsssstraikinskinevenwhen
I
mmmoutoftheseeanlyininbed

I
willstrikethewave
I
willtrytobreakit
I
willfailikeolwayvs

thesesoundsareinsistentlystraikin
M
Y
eardrumsasiftheycannnnnwehrmeeedauwnnn

I
ameternal
I
amthestretchedrhythmoftimeriveringforthsilt
I
fyerdeth
I
needyuneedyutobeetherewhen
I
fyerthedark

Sun, 30 Oct 2005 01:42:21 GMT

KISS OHLL YOHR NOJS

face from very face
oris ihte very face
that weev seen here
issm ehrl eeth same

that wons drrr unkh
just like mely kmee
mayb eess omwo nput
alko hole inmy wine

ittw asnt soam utsj
acos tyoo mpah rtee
asan acks entp arty
pret ndin tobe forn

allj ooss ayis babl
bahb bull dont talk
doon noht sssp eekh
cant stah ndth vojs

3 poems

Sat, 29 Oct 2005 09:56:07 GMT

VOLK AYNO SLEE PINN

assl eepn otdr eemn
this figj uhrr ests
ntop ofso ftnn esss
proe ntoo sddn fits

reli djns hahv binn
theo loge ized frth
onsl immr grau ndss
onbr oken grah niht

laij yorr brih kxss
inor durr wono ntop
ofan othr then leht
them rest inst acks

ther ssno monn eein
poet reeh yoos juld
star tarr elid shun
good buck rite ther

Blackfriars

The fashioning of person
takes place

A purity sought
in sunken
flowing
mass

The chance lie
pouring material
into a new mold

I remove the face
crumpled
in my hand

A mask will be useful
yes yes

Spitalfields

A cord to be sliced
resembling the wrong set
of reproductive organs

Three hours earlier
I had to watch myself
explain to my wife
that I didn't have
the amount of tender
needed and required
to exchange for coffee
a bitter liquid
poured down the esophagus
for some reason or another

Five years ago
you chased me with a knife
I tripped you and held you
in a grip I later learned
is named a half Nelson

still on hiatus, but composed a poem anyway

Tue, 20 Sep 2005 19:16:43 GMT

Death Holds an Hourglass

Being from the sudden joy somewhat temporarily deranged
we sought company and indulged in fun and hilarity.
I am now the most cheerful man living.
If what I feel were equally distributed to the whole human family
there would be but one cheerful face on the earth.
Everyone comes in its precise shape or color,
these principles being an eternal antagonism
when brought into collision so fierce;
shocks and throes,
and convulsion must ceaseless follow.
My pace was slow and heavy, and my face gleaming
like a tired child, I threw myself upon a sofa
shading my eyes with my hands.
Our joys will be sanctified and made a blessing to our selves
and by and by
we shall have occasion to say with blended gratitude and rejoicing:
It is good for us to have been so afflicted.

rewrite of Above the Clouds: Table of Cebes

Thu, 15 Sep 2005 17:27:30 GMT

Table of Cebes

summit
summat
sumwat
somwat
somewat
somewhat
         it was somewhat unlikely to work
              a cliff resisting the ocean
                   rockface not crumbling
                     futility as metaphor
                       nothing so much as
                        dim inevitability
                       curving in control
                     a line like smirking
                   this will stand lastly
              love is thus an inevitabile
         something for anywhere to happen
anywhere
anywere
anywer
answer
answer
answer

I'm compiling a manuscript

Thu, 15 Sep 2005 16:44:39 GMT

I've started the process of compiling a manuscript, the core of which will be the poems I've been writing in this journal. Here's the list of poems that I'm happy enough with to start working on. You might see some of them pop up in revised form. The title I'm considering for the book is vojs

The poems I'm considering for inclusion in a book of poetry:

Ascension Morning Roses

Poem in dream English

Above the Clouds: Table of Cebes

LAST DAYS OFTH POET

Huffing Methane

Snatches Overheard in Sir Gavin Wordsworth-Pfenning's Wake

Like Jazz and Atlanta

The Silvery Solitude of a Railroad Platform

hole poem

horse fly haiku

The Etymology of Fucking

Jesus Christ Was Working Class

spider pattern haiku

The Thoughts of Clouds

8 Restored Fragments Rescued from the Fire of Julius Sanada's Archive

Imperial Iconography

TEARS 7/7

American Ornithology in a Time of Kudzu

Pony Tree

Journey Utterance

The Temptation of Saint Dwynwen

OTHR TIME ELSE WERE

What Do They Speak in Leningrad These Days?

The Ballad of the 21st Century Chinese Migrants and the Fantasy of the Pre-War Japanese Redlight District

As on Earth in the City of God There is Fucking & Crying

ROT HKO

We Can Wait Until Tomorrow (Let's Hold Each Other Tightly)

untitled

All the Suns Story

Can Even the Ever So Humble Cricket Be Considered as a Metaphor for the Human Condition? Surely Not!

Writing Process

Bob Dylan poem mk I and mk II

Zarathustra tanka

CRYFORATLANTIS

drawn curtain haiku

Description of a Burned Painting

No, the hiatus isn't over, I just had an idea I wanted to test out

Thu, 08 Sep 2005 06:52:55 GMT

Description of a Burned Painting

                    cynicalgreen
                    yetoddlyasky
   bluegrey                stars
  maybethepalm
    ofahand     redhair

closed wall
window bricks  neck
               vein

                       fewthings
cello?                 string
viola?                     pallet

              button
              yellow
              button
bluejeansleg
                           music
redground                  stand

    eyes
    nose      collaged
    lips      sister's
    chin      suicide note?

Restored by the Artist's Brother

hiatus

Wed, 07 Sep 2005 02:46:54 GMT

I'm going to be travelling again, for an indefinite period of time. I've therefore decided to take a hiatus from once-a-day poetry. I'll just start jotting down random thoughts into my notebook. I haven't had the energy for more than a haiku lately. I feel drained. Last night's haiku was the poorest poem I'd written in at least a month. I'll take the hint and let my mind rest for a while.

Tue, 06 Sep 2005 07:20:11 GMT

A curled length of stamps
snaking through a computer.
I've been up too long.

Mon, 05 Sep 2005 07:48:36 GMT

A disheveled bed,
empty. The moon seems all too
far away tonight.

Sun, 04 Sep 2005 06:25:35 GMT

A painted turtle's
empty shell. The stream runs through
and leaves a small pool.

Sun, 04 Sep 2005 03:12:01 GMT

Here's the Habitat for Humanity website. They will be the people who'll build houses for the refugees. You can donate through their website. More relief organization contact information can be found here.

Amazon has also set up a page to make it super easy to donate to the American Red Cross (thanks, Kris, for the heads up).

Meanwhile, to get a sense of the scale of the devastation, Google has put up satellite imagery of New Orleans taken post-Katrina

Sat, 03 Sep 2005 07:11:02 GMT

A drawn curtain can
keep the world out. The wind will
howl irregardless.

via Sonja and Sarah Wible

Fri, 02 Sep 2005 19:15:36 GMT

Go here and sign up. For every person that does sign up a dollar gets donated to the New Orleans Children's Hospital. This is not your money. There is no onus on you, nobody will send you stuff you don't want. They don't need your bank account information. Just your e-mail, your name and your zip code. Just sign up and a dollar will go to helping the youngest victims of this disaster.