Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Spots and bother

So, I was on a plane, Sunday evening, and found myself resorting to the one activity that always leaves me more content on long journeys, namely writing stuff, and I ended up writing something completely random and pretty absurd; far into the underworlds of the unknowable, and all subconsciously distracting; blah blah buh; echoing the tone of the modernist plays I'm reading at the moment; which had the drunken lady nearby me commenting on "that writer there whatever she's rambling on about look at that writing lots of written things" and I'm sure she would have been better off at home, in bed, but she was sitting just behind me and she was quite annoying, albeit she quitened down after a while, fortunately, whilst I - myself - was delving deep into the forests of poetic growth and lingered there, to shut out all the noisiness of late night airplane space.

in care, caring
by Scaramouche, the Po(t)et, delivering poem ramblings, and this time around: quite possibly the most disturbing poem I've ever written, lately, I have no idea where this came from, and it's pretty strange; so, be warned; but I was reading "4.48 Pscychosis" two minutes before, and it might just have something to do with it - which, by the byway, reminds me that Sarah Kane is absolutely brilliant, and shocking, and slightly disgusting, in her overly vivid imagery, but at the same time so incredibly sore and heartwrenching, and heartwarming, and she hates punctuation, just like me, and she's managed this one line, this one exceptionally memorable line, amongst many others; "You don't need a friend you need a Doctor"; which is such a representative saying for me, as well, I can't help loving that play (psychosis or not); not only because of that, however, but because it is - well - brilliant, and it's beautiul, and she's the best there is, in the strange world of drama, and I wish she would have known; I wish she was still around; "as still as my heart when you're gone", with love and dedication to miss Kane, the tormented genius that I admire more than I ought to.

ending the world as we know it, a trigger to tell

I have spinach 'tween my
teeth - sand, stones, in my
hair - spots of mud upon my
shoes - and I don't budge
careless carefree cutoff
I hear the roar of this world
those noted allegations
people screaming orders head
to toe, outer, inner, anny rims
your skin - spotted - blemished
you are - impeccable and shifting
twisted, you, sinister, dirty whore
based on first impressions solely
holding keys to mine,
my own attributes
NOT in your analysis, you stay
and I am scared intimidations
by your skills, singular, I am so
completely bare absorbed
within your cloak that leaves me
naked - spotted - spoilt, dirty
no resemblance nowhere not
to you, delusion, danger crept
at me, and this is you, you are
NOT of mine, in my

1 comment:

Randi said...

Vi kan kjenne oss hengende fast i vårt eget mudder av elendighet når vi møter vår "overmakt" gjennomanalyserende, arrogant i sin analyse av vår avmakt og vi blir rasende....poetens ord river litt i meg i sin inderlighet.