though set in Jeju, i think this poem is something slightly other to what i have been posting over the previous months, perhaps you may think otherwise, if so, please comment below with your welcomed observations. O, & Mr Okaji, if you are reading, this poem was marginally inspired by a photograph, i suppose there is potential for poetry to be born out of photography.
water’s pace & scent
the sea roaches come out of hiding to lead me, a band of beetling pipers
who disappear into the cracks of the world when we reach
a dead bird, unidentifiable, looks like a daub of pepper paste,
its beak, an arrow directly aiming at a culvert.
with this constant velocity, with this constantly altered water poured
out this culvert, here, beside me, burrowing blindly through a ramshackle wall
of slap dash cement work, long taunted by the spindrift of the hankering surf & wind.
i’d guess the water has been filing down this ledge
& feeding the moss to the stodginess of a welcome mat a fair few decades now;
i’d also guess the pebbles in the shallows
that look like pot-pouri mingled with green flames of billowing sea weed,
have not been arranged thoughtlessly, but with an eye for thoughtless design.
it isn’t sewage gushing out, i know, because i smell only the sea.
way out a womb
in the complex grain of drift
wood i can plot a route
that leads all the way home,
away from this warm place, this womb.
it is a map & on the adverse
i can make out E.M. Forster’s
profile; he looks pleased with himself but doesn’t smile.
over by where the wagtails, wag their tails
there are hefty bundles of fishermen’s rope
folded like a placenta round a baby’s throat.
how far away ourselves are
i sip from a metal cup the dregs of makkoli & note
how it resembles semen, raise my head that has tip toed
further west without my knowing.
the sun is balanced on the head of a pin.
i am full & my lips are no longer dry.
i can taste salt & i am glad i know why.
i am furthest from the truth of myself when thoughts
pour with the same pace as the water spewing out the culvert
: my whole life i have been the other & now that
i am, i want to be like everybody else; i only just realized this.
i have borrowed myself, my persona, from characters i never met;
i am so many people & they do not know that we are them & they are us.
ideas full of rain
i’ve had my fallings out before, but never with ideas.
& now i’ve no ideas left, i’m left with nothing but ideas;
if ideas in this sentence was left blank you could fill it with anything.
i know Jack Shit about amorous love, the bolt of touch our skin conducts,
its orifices closed to me,
as if the culvert wall gave out to wind & wave
& toppled in crumpled curl like an old man rolled up in a ball.
it looks as if a bad turns brewing in the air: the sky’s collected faggots of cloud
& looks about ready to retaliate upon the refugees of photosynthesis;
you can learn so much from this analogy…
the one anchored boat out there has begun to look lonely & vulnerable.
how is it clouds so malleable & frail have so much influence?
i wish our politicians were more like cloud: choleric & pliable.
things i don’t want to forget
i can’t get Omran Daqneesh out my thoughts: his atomic hair,
his bloodied face, his astonishment; nor Aylan Kurdi’s lifeless body
carried in the arms of that Turkish police officer.
i try to picture them safe, but i just can’t tug the wool down anymore
: those New Age goons are just so full of crap.
i start to sob a pathetic sob, a cowardly sob
: as nobody is here to witness me sobbing so pathetically
i sob pathetically, & it doesn’t change anything, i am a useless, intolerable man,
letting my sobs seep out like water from this culvert i have had to become so dependent on.
i never knew you could become embarrassed to be seen with yourself.
i no longer have any esteem for oneness with anything or everything
: i couldn’t tolerate too long with all that cushioning & support: too much guilt.
the birth of death
i should masturbate & smear the cum on a well composed epithalamium,
wedge it in a bottle & post it to impregnate the sea.
then shoals of our children will drown the whole world.
& i’ll find contentment in my fluids being part of a single eschatological triumph.
i want to say this is just the beginning of something
but i have progressed too far forward in raising murmurs to roars.
i am one of time’s abductees,
let’s counsel each other before the tides shift over our cities
: we have lost too much time, being with time…