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acatalepsy Â

(n.) the incomprehensibility ​

of things


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- - - - X 

In the shadow of the meteorite, we can only blink and breathe, cradling our anxieties, humming along with what we believe. It doesn’t seem to be coming today, but mark my words, it’s coming soon, the astral and the angry, the acataleptic and those cast away. .

- - - - X Four men, none of whom had ridden a horse before, gather outside the headquarters in silence, their hands are calloused and lips sore. One man spits and flicks his cigarette butt to the floor, “Let’s end it then,” he says. Four clumsy men on horseback, out to tell the world that it is no more. There will be no more.


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vibrancy // translucence we lay horizon-angle along aisles of the city, its veneers bore the clouds as they idle awhile in copper-bordered cobweb bundles and rain is language, language is rain, loosened from the tips of wine-stain tongues, knuckle being blown or kissed by lip lines; we trip over them all the time or shoe-laces of feillemort-freckled boys, never an umbrella, washed-out old news. listen to the not-words we aren't speaking in a shake of salt, a game of conkers, or get out of the city and to the woodlands where, in a haze of petrichor, you'll hear it all around on bark and leaf and then the tinnitus of every caravan or shed. A tin home with an iron lid to live in, corrugated skin, city life is wilderness but I know there is more and wilder such, but I only half-dream of trees carrying curses, stolen idols or heirlooms arising in the anatomy of snakes wearing war-hoods purely for the purpose of poetry. the storms that come can rattle the trees round the courtyard into an epilepsy unflagging and then sometimes in my mind, flowers spit out embers petal-tooth and lava spills onto tarmac streets. the night knocks on the closely matched blocks of paving stones. fireflies are out but it looks like they'll die, their translucent wings bring to mind an undressed volcano. the cathartic outbreak of spiders that that spread into a multiplication of landmines.


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i.

The part of our brain that holds our memories,

experiences, perceptions and therefore expectations, is called the hippocampus; a word that originally was a name given to the seahorse. Having learnt this, when I think of dreams, I picture an area hidden among the folds and layers of our cortices, half-curled up in its shape within our neurological architecture, and that area is implicated in the manufacturing of dreams. In simpler terms, it’s the place where dreams are made.

ii.

I invent small mercies that don’t exist elsewhere

in the cities I build in dreaming. They wouldn't be measuredit is just mercy and it invariably loses its popularity contest against justice. The monster who had good intentions but whose pathways were limited, obstructed; who hung around with other monstrosities, a bad crowd giving out bad advice; poor decisions; no compass, no bible, no father figure; maybe he just never had anyone to help him out of that monster suit.


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​ a Pagan ​

Poem, violence in nature

You were high as the hill you climbed in the night up to the dog that's a tree, all bark. The birds bitethere's a murder of crows- don't stop to stare Take and make bows from those that billow in my hair. Do you know the question marks that follow all you say can be bent into arrows? You fire away. You never meant to be kind but your eyes shot stars out into the skies. We both are shooting blind, The answers we find were never ours. There's been a murder of crows- feather as blade. We put away the arrows for I was afraid I can't say for sure whether birds died in the dark but the pure Green Man's song was in the dog tree's bark. As the trees protect you, Green Man folds in your arm. The birds respect you. They sing, 'do no harm'.


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Here Be Dragons When I was a small dragon, winters ago, it was always winter. I spat fire and ash, my skin sagged like a coat on a cold blue hanger. It was summer's ending when the voices came, in clinic bathrooms, a coyote hungry stare, the silence of September. For thousands of days I had not felt my body. I did not even photosynthesise, and in my mouth grew ulcers, and teeth died. When I looked at the sun reflected in the mirror, as I stared at the skull-head there, it looked less and less like a dragon’s head everyday. Slowly becoming human, a mouth still charred. I began to drink water again. There are the bones of a dragon gravely buried inside me. There are phantom limbs attached too, but they are not mine. They belong to soldiers who shared beers in Vietnamese hideouts. They belong to the widows who lost their wedding rings down the garbage disposal.


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They used to say, if you want something badly enough, if you believe in something hard enough, it will happen, you will have what you want, eventually. Now I think I've tiredly learnt that carrying something around with you in your pocket for a long enough time and someone will try to take it from you, because the probability of this happening increases,the longer you try and keep it your own. You'll probably never understand why, just that there are some nasty people out there who you can give a lot to but who you can't ever really do anything for because they'll never see you. Maybe you're meant to be invisible. Maybe, but not meant to be this quiet. I may be too quiet for my own voice, for my own body, but in the place of a commanding voice I've found I can pick up the very high-frequency supersonic screams that other people don't know that they're screaming. I can hear them piercingly. A Monday night miracle, an understanding stranger smiles, a bus conductor doesn't need a ticket, waving a hand, it's okay, it's okay, and I sit and breathe ​ it's okay. ​ People do things I don't do. They clean up promptly after themselves and they regulate the way they spill, they make plans and follow through with them, they work alongside clocks and open mail and play music really loudly when they want to relax. They turn on televisions, open magazines, clean the tops of their stoves and put their lotion and slippers on at seven. I think I'm in a life I never really learnt to live in, and I'm lucky, lucky, lucky, and I'm happy, happy, happy, and I don't feel disappointed anymore when things don't turn out the way I think they will, when people don't turn out to be the people I thought they were. I don't think about things turning out, just watch it play out day by day, inwardly, and there is the curse of sentimentality. My belongings become indecipherable, one item from another, and my bones hang like strings waiting to be snapped loose, limbs like pipes instead of bones and skin, and heavy like the way old lace smells in old cupboards, the way people's goodbyes sound when you know they're never coming back. This is a bitterness and sweetness that goes on forever and ever. Trees waiting to be cut down. I start to think then about the tree that died on its own, the heart transplant, the broken mould, the forest that survives centuries and the myths surrounding the pyramids and one life trading itself for another. I wonder if trees can grieve.


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Profile for Daisy King

acatalepsy- a literary anthology  

a small collection of my more recent writings, and the inclusion of some photographs i have taken

acatalepsy- a literary anthology  

a small collection of my more recent writings, and the inclusion of some photographs i have taken

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