words i never knew what words were til i met one all bottled up and confused and i coexed it made it open up to me i remember how at first she was afraid, reluctant and acquiasent saying you have got me all wrong i am prenounced si-clic-cal not sick-li-cal i’m not linear
, i don’t make sense role of your tongue i am out of context there is nothing essential about me
i only make meaning in context situate me, without a user i am usless i am just a word sister don’t be fooled
it is just about the way that you use me
write now if i can follow (or endure) the random dreaming strands of thinking there are points which wasnâ€™t where the linear streams were intending to fall those delicious tangents filling my gob with spit sugary like lemon squash a bitter sickly loss of meaning
lubricated in succulent disjointed rhythms comforting and homely pure oceanic intense but lacking
certainty which bumps jumps jolts on every rock of the road on a long unrecorded journey move me as quick as it becomes a handful of honey, dropping into stops so lost stomachs are synchronised by ruptures invited by shared imprecise humour making us alone unable to believe hunted by motionless repetitions of answers leading us to ideas mapped in consumerable satisfaction like a film that documents us
as subversive angels of other worlds
the self-reflex makes luminosity loop in talk shifts to continue among playful competitions
that adumbrate alterity by the tongue we chose after it decided us
for speech is a trap and a noose upon which identity acts like tax for the symptoms of freedom collapsed into symbols resisting and provoking compositions like a book
with new tales on every page as if a narrative dropped
leaving lack of order without indication toward ideas imprisoning repetitions reconstructed by a readers rhetoric
misinterpreting irony swollen simplicity for desire to communicate in clarity like a lung full of lost breathless speech
we are so lucky to have time that tells us what we should do that we have feelings that guide us instincts that help shape us in this culture that moulds us into the likeness of the other
who is strange to me,
as i look to them or even myself, when i stare in a mirror they told me i must become one with the grand body of the language
to be in tune with the feelings, the sensations, and where i was confident i became doubtful where there was motivation, i was bored and i slipped through every happy discourse realising now that everything i knew doesnâ€™t make sense to me, or to you,
i cant float like a balloon and i will not pop but i must squeeze into the space there is for me i am so lucky because i have to create a way to be yet i never know whether i am good or bad i donâ€™t even know what these words mean i cannot become the body of words
even if i try, i may never even please them, for i am not discourse, i cannot speak, i lack punctuation, focus and postulation
i am only a body flirting perverted by silence
aesthetics marked in quotations by a letter left unopened speaking of internal transformations that cannot
be fixed altering circles as if they persist for coreless apple decaying in the soils are now fertilising the roots of new crops peeled by the fingers of people absorbed on their deliberations born, inspired and identified in a state of flux like a harbour of verses shifting in stops deforming clarity before it reaches the climax for her ink is drying in the waiting time while tones imitate the echoes of pretext-
with a chorus of vibrating suds to draw on your imagination as they are singing in a language translated yet unheard
drift themes are colliding in my mind changes are closing in finding time like truths in eyes searching
without resolve to evolve and capitalise on words as they bleed and become the expression that seeps out of myth to encapsulate a pastiche of sound amongst this dynamic dialogic Drift
this so much is certain and so much is there to be described there are so many
relations and associations to discern only with a can of paint and a fresh wall could i show what i would do without the freedom to take apart the rules i compete against my silence, challenge my need to talk, and precisions mark penetrates into this unease as its complications define and break in a wave heavy and weighted like the sea crashing into its own mass, unlike feathers, with their details, that fall light and enchanting. inelegantly, i long for the absence of myself: to know how to not be missed or missing -or miss- for i detest the menial straightness that undermines my love of clarity yet obstinately
i donâ€™t want to change,
conform or be configured as i reject this principle: while i crave and desire cleanness
like a broken lock on a
for a door which is hinged and swings without a catch, is open - as is choice - without singularity of reason
vacated house offers shelter
leaving ideology i rebooked the appointment, but then suddenly i had something to do â€“ i cant remember what now, but i am sure it was important. so i am still unemployed going down to the bottoms lines of over drafts looking forward to the glimpses, the opportunities not substantial
enough to put on a cv which blinks blankness recording my non reliable ness as i have never done anything
that counts for a job
no monotony, no stagnation, no routine, time keeps going all juxtaposed and composed and released into boxes
with their sticky tapes and paper bags and collections in categories, important for being
slow and having quickness in momentary organisation thats playing futures as it reiterates itself into the memories that suddenly incomplete me
self that there was someone who thought what they said was not often what they felt and what they felt was not what they thought they ought to feel, and so it goes on. i felt some time that what i do is not what i thought i ought to do what i ought to do did not seem right. every time i said something what i felt was
its not what they wanted to hear. and sometimes i feel that iâ€™m not true to myself yet i always seem to do what i want and i read somewhere about self-improvement on how to do every-thing right but i though what they said
just be yourself
was but i think what that is, is to just carry on not knowing whom it is i am. and i continue to be not what i ought to be redefining all the time what
to become the other to normals
viewing parked in front of me was something i reconsidered, not much before i started back at what it was that got me there. i paused for breath, calm with the heartbeat putting a hold on the gasp on the back of my throat that came, as i looked, and as i stared,
lost at what it was that
i was facing as the background became some sort of film flat, as it was sheer. music in my headphone projected me onto another place were my breathing was something i listened to, and the scenery became weird. smiling reassuringly, to myself, at the same time it was people looking at me, and i had to try not to be. my muscles relaxing and the smile taking over me and seeing the cars move in the traffic and the dog defecation, the sun moving into the cloud, and starting to be real, beat harmony and give the time that homogenous empty feel. so silently, out of the darkness that came this pain; a haunting that would never be believed in isolation;
like the same. where we pass through and sum up, in a less depleted way, that while poetry cannot correct it self; the message will not get through
frameworks different frameworks interposes how it exists in my many me. you said before something approaches
the third dimension that we see, ah! but yes, looking back, looking over is the third and final three!
what i read becomes the perspective of over all angles. connoted correction balancing the lines connecting between
making up all in the being words
last youâ€™ve seen.
searching for the story to write you better looking for that sentence
that in reach becomes part of you concluded adding up knowledge as full as well that without part disarray is in bid as in
shackled made order.
towards making the completion within the assertion the message procrastinated
in hope of teaching
standing behind words to
they speak me
i am the lesson learned to give and let
give everything that you handle spoken
to be beside as you
look onwards lost of learning in the face of mirror
void of voice
is your lesson.
art it all started with a little bit of french linguistically replaced humour:
we never determined the time
so â€˜dadaâ€™ darling! this world of illusion brought to a head, strung up â€“ quite literally, seeing her face blank with immoveable expression, all that relishes.
what a pretentious preposition! it is not about autonomics (they said).
from the outset to insure positive forward progression,
it was primarily more a moveable, a syllable of choices:
for with every word i say to you comes a little pain every line that
i’m not understood
there’s a formula, that says i should
whenever instances are the feelings that i embrace you think i have found a protruding dismissive grain, i am speaking found lost, the hula that says to my face conflictingly against me,
your not allowed that voice. try to look within me to find some strength for those that know me best to deny that length who now knows i find i’m lost again, and within me i find pain.
mimesis i have on my wall tacked up so i can read words for when i lose my own, should it be that in that place where i
lose myself, between the pages,
between, the wake, of what is, exactly, i project from wall to page for its sake, iâ€™m kept i need of what it is when there is nothing where i can see
the illusion of myself
to go back home to the words which is there on my wall to see
when i forget and look, suddenly there is release an escape, essence: i feel free of what it is to be me,
locution the word expresses itself
inaudible knowledge in front of me
as taught as the trees stand demonstrating velocity holding bag plastic lounging itself on the vision sealed silver bark rapes itself around matter and i stand in the pathway
with shaded green carpeting allowing a blanket of green amass with the
world unbecoming letters in the park without enunciation
benches to rest the locution the statue placates without a notice:
what should this mean?
corrected my body is expanding
all i can hold on to is hope as i feel the pain grow the sickness swell
in a kind of boredom a physical decorum
without the stops that make me happy there has to be some strength that makes me love them you understand that? you donâ€™t hear right!
rightly misunderstood against the norm:
every-one must carry on reading through the lines fixated by the
write and wrong
there stands the crest of the theme that rejects me that without i can stand homogonous and unprotected under its symbol i become the traitor
if youâ€™re the sign i am the disintegrator under the hazel synopsis the drunken metaphoric thesis modality is servitude to the amoral trinity of simple ellipsis.
visualization there is a balance of a swift by some discrete drive of balances, flicking pencil line metrically past the air of his wings spread, charcoal marks out his reach behind escape of silence the pinnacle of the golden needle flattered by the swift departure
uneasy flight that takes miles beneath division, without balance off that statue faction line marks of an artistâ€™s visualization.
pre-chora it is the grammar of dyslexia, the speaking unusually said, repeating, confusing the words are not quite well said only understanding what is being speaking by the way they understand. chora speaks beyond the barrier the word in-between what was said signified: literal mistake, you think i’m kidding? i’m not i’m seriously misunderstood. when you read the point, which was never there do you suppose i should have said it other? other in which case, and all the others, is wrong i was told at school,
you must try harder they never supposed
to be wrong might actually to be right,
being misunderstood was
just difference between i and them.
continuous there are no years without decease no honesty in slow luminosity without dim what is it that we begin with when are to search, for when seeking, what ultimately will finish; every-thing in the dark, foresees the shadow of light
traces which collapse into something knowable, something do-able, where we can't exhaust words. to feel the echo of the day before which become
can your end be without a cautious beginning? and
what is so secure about free knowing?
the end or the continuous it is hard to know which.
momentary there was a momentary break from the bizarre, confusion clear. understanding replaced as before. placed like inspiration, in an empty mind, a key to the lock, to the insight we are all trying to find. if only explanations were as easy to comprehend: i hate these words, for which i feel i representthe mirrored words within. and from where do i gainthe words, which explain, the complexities that i see, in this world in which iâ€™m in? will god never let me in? or have i committed a sin? do i have a religion? will i ever fit in? â€˜loosing my identityâ€™ seems to be the song of the century. for which i would now like to sing
Windows i see myself as always looking out windows just as i might see myself looking out by not looking through. and this is a strange reflection looking at myself not looking out and you are saying i am always looking out windows, not looking back but looking through and i see you behind me looking at me not looking through. a multiplicity of spectrums allured through this conception or misconception by you. and i'm always looking out windows, wondering weather if directly you'd stop complaining if i looked through: maybe i like the window; i like the pane and pain of glass reflection like looking at you looking at me and the diversity of looking discreet intellection, and we thought it would always be plain sailing direct talk by sailing the mast same suit same language that occurs, which i see fractured, diverse in mask: you'd never know that i see you and me subjection and not ordered write too much time, wrong letters and we are always compiling language, which might but does not quite, suit us and yet who is to complain that i see through us?
how come you canâ€™t read a book of back cover to front, it is
childish fantasy versus the wise, face to reverse. the real winner, why either or both, but
when did i choose not to be precisions wise?
pause in the pause i took it completed and fell; intermission neglected the edge that is touched by confronted which was when i lost every-thing that i saw as patience like the endurance we watched become a
peeling of the freshly painted wall; the periphery interluing the ending that
i missed, which i reduce against
withdraw, to make
interpretation everything separates itself into its own formalities and it is defined by the lesson it is teaching. reading through every line is the bleeding
energy that creates itself, like the symbol that bares meaning,
there is everything to be interpreted but our teachers are always ourselves and so we are searching, looking for direction
by our own discretion and
these are the complications of voices
crying out on the one hand, for its own formulation and on the other, the rejection, rejuvenation by the denial of what it is that will bring forward out of the darkness, our own minds to appear as well as paper that can share us, sets us down and make a mark
which we can trace, back through into credence value and acceptation the pieces which together make us able
to work in some sense and contrive for us our teachers your reflection, my mirror, the distortion and hallucination which flows forward and down through
like multiple directions that always summate at a point, which is discourse contrived through a stipulation; a lesson we learnt speaking, power and its meaning the sentiment not yet displaced drowned by my own needing security which is only made in breaking
that, as we stand outside from, we can look back and establish ourselves by the bodily the whole, and the other, the another which we desire, in our own ways, to control.
pokkadots and abacuses is copylefted imaginased by nim folb and published by rebelling against spelling press 2007 more info on RASP can be found at http://www.r-a-s-p.co.uk
You can't have one pokkadot, or one dyslexic. These poems enable duality, as part of the text, to illustrate this Otherness as part of 'we'.
Published on Sep 16, 2011
You can't have one pokkadot, or one dyslexic. These poems enable duality, as part of the text, to illustrate this Otherness as part of 'we'.