Might be something by Eno, might be music, really waves drawing back along stones, the wet revealing unpolished fragments and razor clam shells exposed, slicing Jagged foot paths - curved, aimless, unEnglish-garden-style, the fog covering the means and ways, that cut and bruise, draw sacrificial blood with each step Lost, alone in weird thoughts, a … Continue reading Any Moment Now
Tag: Writing
Whether Committal
Do you want me? Every time the wind shifts How much is every? It's weather - it's always shifting
SCIENTIA TEMPORIS
And there is bark beneath your fingers. Readable, the way Braille is readable - as long as you have a mirrored codex living under your skin. And in a forest, with book upon book, a formed library, perhaps cathedral - in various states of growth and decay. They are one thing, they are another, mirrored … Continue reading SCIENTIA TEMPORIS
the echoing shore
Then there will be a sound,the thunder across the water,the cracking of the ice,the cackle of the clairvoyant -the whistle in a dark alleyAnd the sudden stopof ticking clocksBunin’s rageat marital order,Nin’s heatalong a geographic border -But, where does it begin?Whose voice is that, callingout along the river?What footsteps drag and dredge,quiver and disorderordered stones … Continue reading the echoing shore
a river in my hands
Rattling around…rattling around…somewhere in my head thissound is rattling,breathing, likea living thing…. This sound, breathingmurmuring…living river,which tumbles rocks,carries white, rising foamand eager swimmers This river full,life, verdant, green rootsgrasses on the bank,the slippering, long, thickfishwriggling into the muck,riding the curves, the… Water flowing, veinsof blood, of water,coursing through wantonbeating, ragingheart,this primal ride,the murmur risingto screamraging, … Continue reading a river in my hands
Deva Victrix, Oral-Aural Riffing
Horse Hair Skier
Your nails still refuse to drag along my skin. Snow leopard. You... Your nails retracted, tongue curled, folded. Padding away into a mountains dark crevices. Where I, kokburu player, goat tosser extraordinaire, mad skier across Tuvan skies, lasso in hand and elk before me... am still not allowed to pursue. My rope whipping out, unanswered, quivering, inept.
Attic. Dusty Boxes.
I do not know which is worse. Finding a personal, loving letter from someone you cannot seem to remember. Or Finding a personal, loving letter from someone you cannot seem to forget.
We Are in Manic House, Operational and Compromised
Boom, then sounds like shattering glass, fragments of glass, plinking sounds carried on the wind. Boom. Agitated, the city, men with guns rummaging around yards, snipers on rooftop, jumbles of green, black, blue. Shooting. Shooting past walls, reason resistance. Men are hunters, men are chaos shooting. Bombing. Shattering glass. Helicopters split the air, float and … Continue reading We Are in Manic House, Operational and Compromised
The Nasturtium Leaving the Suburban Cineraria, Silently
Horus on the beach, bank of the Nile. Chatting up a slumming Sumerian spring spirit. Summer no time for vengeance, just seeding. Tony making time with Cleo, Bob drunk, beating Alice again. The old postman moaning "howdy". Passing secrets on the side-streets of the small town we all tear down daily, in our good-time daydreams.
Writer Moe 