beachState||

an

on-the-level-of-islands-on-an-ocean-of-dust

camp-cramping

distribution

of cramped camps

 

an

idol-turned-idle-turned-idol-of-the-idle

recital cycle

of the hour still going

of “a second coming”

 

look at this corrugated petal

pattern

and tell me

what happened to space between the spaces?

 

in lights

as torn

as re-questing

a Face

of faces

 

is this really the awaiting of a return

or the unfinished riddance of something

still not fully departed?

 

accusation tabulations strangulation

(with every move

I am in danger of

simply retreading

the crushed flowerhead,

but, i will say...)

 

we

have not yet

learnt

to take

the interstice

the end-less-ness

seriously

heads or tails

you win

or I win

 

head on collision at the

tail end of

a conflict-of-interest

interest

in not conflicting

 

not the sort to pay for itself

but accrediting an otherness

with an indebtedness

of the space

time

in between

 

coining a two-sidedness brought together

by a flip-flop

drawing of

coming-together

 

put-on-scales escalation

zeroed in

by a summative

summary of difference

 

“differences are the same as being incompatible”

which, suddenly, is a whole world of agreement

stated

on opposite fates

of an alloyed

mint plate

 

small enough ground to crown but single head

therefore big enough to stake a battlefield;

 

heads or tails

you lose

or I lose

 

“winner sets the terms of the future”

winner takes all

from head to tail

winner resets the whole currency

decides values

 

everything to follow is to their credit

so, please put it on their account

and tabulate

 

and then

of course

summing it all up

all that winner’s freedom to spend time at will

might it just end up

if that will

is to

free up

more than it freezes up

that is

to really give life

to its new world

might this just end up

adding up

to another impossible debt to handle?

 

maybe because the original was miscalculated

or just a miscalculation in itself

 

failure to tailor

a head-eating-tail movement

without the hedged sovereign

getting out of hand

 

some sort of proof that completely falling out

trying to set history squarely on such a fault-line

will do nothing but keep us landing on our heads.

All the hours

Wrapping

in a multiplication

of fear

Twisting empty

Doubling back on myself

Forking through

A trellis of anxiety

the breathlessness

Hugged senseless

by the fickle whims of

a rocky soil

an indivisible night

.

.

.

Was this just me

being seed

Making too much of the too soon

aphotic

damp

Coarse

Course

Between a winter sowing

And the spring springing of a body

would be

finally

ready for the light?

the effort that wants everything

but is itself not everything

but only something in everything

is itself not even all effort

 

the effort that wants something

but is itself already something

a distinct thing among things

is itself not anything else

 

the effort that must presume nothing

but itself at least presumes itself

motivated by nothing but this presumption

is itself contradicting the nothingness it presumes

 

the effort that is a thing among many

but itself is many a thing

concerts a difference within difference

is itself the manyness in certain ways

in to a thing go many people

people are made of things

because people make things

and a thing is not the same as a person

 

a thing is the same as many people:

just as long as

those people

are not the same as themselves;

 

before: you have people and their proto types of a future thing

and during: there are the people who absolutely in-stance with that thing

but after: all the people who post-thing make more things of it

 

making things is an art of people in a person

the art of a person being-become many people

the coming-together of a movement to a point

and its re-making beyond any single appointment

 

the first thing is as “senseless” as the first person

the first art as “senseless” as the first people

 

as soon as it makes sense

 

a thing is already many things, a person many people

there will be no dis-counts in the making of history.

we spit the water

and

piss the water

turning the water

to soup

 

and

when

we

spell the water

we

spill the water

which

rain caused by forecast

turns

the water

back to water

 

and

plus

we

sweat, profusely

and

jack, pitiably

the water

turning in water

making waves

 

and

also

take the water

and

also

give the water

 

like a river

the slippery stretch

of aligning

cloud-hugged peak

with sea-level trough

we

burn through water

 

we are the water

and not the water

we learn as water

 

keeping a buoyant world

from shipwreck

from weight-feeling

its way

all the way down to

a seasonless

trench

 

are the water

and not the water

we yearn as water

 

ocean

every side

of the light

I

as soon as life took that last-minute decision that made the first minute

and came into being with a very specific promise

accepting being on the condition

that

it would also come out of being

and never “just be” ever again

but given the freedom to die

to pass

to come and go

with a clear difference

that would not resolve itself in a clear way –

clear resolution being, after all, that which had just been voted against, –

death, as such, out of this, was always going to be

the live

in the moment

morning afternoon night trinity

favourable or flavourless weather

experience of

foregoing

absolute symmetry,

going to be

the burial days

un-plotted sequence of plots

of

foregoing the absolute cemetery

of undivided decomposition

 

II

the reason of the movement shares

in a movement of reason lost cause

 

III

up against one another

 

the drive of the alive shakes and breaks what shakes

waits between states by grating the fates

up

against

one

another

murder by suicide

and vice-versa

in this, death is no cancellation of life

but reinforcement

appendage

to the bondage

the grave made two-fold grave

having the impropriety of not being property

it will not be my burial

but that of life by life itself

assisted by the life of death

 

life and death euthanise each other

life holds death back from completion

by giving it a living-breathing meaning

death, on the other hand,

makes sure that the real-life experiment of life cannot become complacent in its

minimal encasement

the possibility of the movement coming to a stop

coming to some final core

is the very stand-up engine keeping it from self-arrest

(and if it does eventually find its total interest upon a single shore

then,

either

was betrayed by the bargain it made, left marooned, untaken on the coast of presence

or itself stood up poor metaphor on its part, never came to motion, never became ocean)

 

IV

trough after the crest comes death’s best chance of nesting things in a six-feet-under sent chest

but all the (com)motion of doing that is hardly the thing to bring things to a standstill

hardly a moment filled with nothing but the chill of absolutely nothing

–

although this is saying this

without saying that

an ice-forming sense of nothingness

does not take part in the overall heat of the graveyard experience,

it certainly does

but

–

warm teardrop

slow but sure six-foot drop

echoes of an asymmetric show-of-hands ceremony

the muscle-work of opening and closure

between rumours of a land mincing its self-eulogising sense of territory

hustle and bustle quirkiness of coping with composure

death lives on

and it takes its full moment here seeming the only thing that has any certainty

life waxes and wanes

mispels the moon at noon

the everyday far too soon deciding itself immune

to the cascade bloom and fade tune

of cocoon glory

 

life and death

basically

get their joy

out of

embarrassing each other

the people integrate in heat

in the half-light

of a handful

of gravel

moist and

inconcrete;

 

of a night

wherefore

with star sight

two lovers meet

the threshold bite, bit

a tented suite

and the drumbeat

extended,

people are sent stingers

singers

carried through

 

to make a winner

in the spinner

of love’s

winter

splinter

fleet

 

cocked

docked

shot

shell-shocked

all tail

a coil gait

tailgating

with toil

to foil

the eggspectations

of all but

one Royal eggsecution

victory in a majority of defeat

to be crowned

the one who found

the awaited

eggstention

better half

softer sail

plated head

to a half-blind trail

 

twogether burrowed

into borrowed water

same passage which at third quarter

tunnelled one-way

the opposite way

amid shouts, screams,

fudge-like broken water streams

and the silencing of summer’s first dreams

 

from the zeal that sealed that hot night

to the splitting of the lids to first light

the day breaks

the born body shakes

all to live, and love again

then leave, painted red

on the eve

of everything that stays instead

 

and successful at least if

the people outlive those who

in the of warmth of

that out-in-the-dark decision

made them swim,

older people

 

taking success literally: that

those who started a people East

find West before them,

building the ark of the day

such that

their own world dims

and their hymns

sung

before the progeny too hit the brim

flung

from the bed

that weds

root and soil

 

that the soupy embroil

of the productive heat

of the heated production

undertake its loopy seduction

in earnest

and go in some sort of direction

take time

and the things that make it look like something

into the furnace

with rhyme

and reason to the season of subduction

 

in such case

the child-like repetition

of children after children

people making people

might just be tolerated

without a disclaimer’s note of sedition

since populated with the experience

of a sequence

where love can love and lose

without necessarily having to love loss

but love something as uncertain as it might just curtain

the general requiting of that strength of passion

all in all exciting people into a popular action

sharp luck

dumbstruck

today it hurts again

 

last night, dreams of you

which now means

you in me, past the light

 

what does it?

cert sign that some untouched world

of togetherness

must together be brought?

or retrenchment of a spiral one

of me, with the shadows

stuck in me alone?

 

sharp luck

dumbstruck

the more it hurts again

 

vast insight

of you in me

beyond what might

keep within quiescent tone

 

what is desire?

truth that the old may well collapse

because already rising in its wake

are the first suns of the new?

or is fire more reckless, less controlled

issued oftenest one way, its yearning

spoiling the yield, the fruit of any return?

 

dumb struck

sharpluck

I am lit again

 

cast outright

into the battered sea

of you star side

whether or not it be

step____L_

steep_______L_

between________L_

the days____________L_

 

foot-printing an exchange

 

w____ ____.

e_________.

e_________.

p_________.

d_________.

e_________.

e_________.

p_________.

 

to impress the sweet distance

of a river-drawn route

_, _, _, _, _, _, _, _, _, _, _, _,

 

the day-in

day-out

day-again

reign of the rain

 

your tears, the mere re-salt of that

 

that which you are already stood in

 

taking a¹ turn

 

(the occasion of the occasions)

 

to “rewind” the jerks, the bends

the loopy way the pattern extends²

 

sweeping away at the water-log before you

 

over-stepping what was before you

 

as you go after you.

 

 

---

1 /an other

2 in essence, the old turns

The time it takes

the body

rooted

or wrapped

to embody

the body it is

is time

being taken away

from the body –

till sapped

till muted;

 

time empty

when the body full

and full

when the body empty;

 

TIME

 

or the body

of the body

 

di-stiller

of the moment

into

an, at once,

much fuller and emptier

movement.

a world taking time

 

to count time

 

is a sort of contradiction.

 

a souperstar, son-like

 

:reflection: back-turning

 

to turn back to.

 

floating a water

 

feeding and bathing

 

the water.

 

orbiculate spinner

 

sort of disembowelled

 

sort of cut in half and.

 

those halves

 

taken in hand.

 

(machine)

 

and detached and

 

turned around and

 

placed back pole.

 

to pole

 

hemisphere bowls

 

from a boundless slippery.

 

slope

 

turned-in-side-out

 

turned container.

The years are numbers that add up

by counting me down

 

the further I go on

the more I do

the longer it takes

to recall the beginning

the why of me doing this

why of that doing me

why of me, or anything, at all

 

the years I have been

have been

added up

through my subtraction

 

and so in myself I go divided –

not more or less, but more and less:

the half-way point (of life)

is the one and only point that gives over to a tentative perfection

when, where, choice is simplest

either continue thence and forget what has passed

use time in reserve, second-half, to push on

and never come back again

or do go back, but entirely, abandon the future

make time turn in-side-out, reverse

never look forward to anything again;

 

at half-half, a total appointment

no time to dither

indecision would only cancel life at both ends

neither future properly full-filled

nor past fully recollected

 

but yet however if – important equalisation –

the mid-way juncture

at any time unknown

because timing of the end unknown,

quest(ion) of middles cannot but be just one more multiplier:

another direction dithering

the medium cutter incising here and there

botching the exercise with the same problematic temporal blindness

and years adding up through that, as that

as me not knowing how to count them

where am I?

which way do I go?

simply exponentiating a fruitless equation.

because timing of the end unknown

 

The end disappeared

so, the beginning, too

 

all gone

along with any pretence to a middle

 

“chooseth thy midway points

with an incorrigible des-pair”

 

what is done

must, “unbecoming”, speak

of Being

as much

as supposed

to be

Being

speaking itself

 

the de-siding –

open-ness beyond the cubic paralyses of doubt –

undecided

the start too far out

as soon as the quest(ion)

curious enough about an end which

probably, for reason of that selfsame curiosity,

somewhere nearer

the un-de-sided is the texture of the in-decision

that every decision

takes on

 

the decision that really takes

becomes the “unbecoming” one

that decides/de-sides the un-de-side-able

in some possible way

in ways in which that decision makes a difference

because difference in that repeated by it, too (two)

without actually de-siding difference

without actually de-siding anything without re-siding in something

 

Being speaks

but only by speaking about Being

and just as often, if not more

by turning non-Being through Being

a Be-coming quite unbecoming

in-decision un-de-side-able

decisions de-side a manyness

a do(-)main

wander the world won, wonder the world wanted

to-and-throw taking time telling of time-taking

free from friction, free of fracture

form-fortunes that foresee the forsaken, foretell the forgetting

wife-life in the hive rife with ungroomed movement

[sic] (all the) Success of a sick soldier soldering

several centuries in seven seconds

 

or better yet

(9 or 2)

soldering

the severed seconds

of several centuries

in centuries severed as several

as seconds of seven.

and the one and one in person

a person getting to know another

is a person getting to know themselves

as would be to know all people

so, one and one until all people

 

trying

to meet

trying

to settle

trying

to count

 

to meet to settle the count

where count-settling with-holds the possibility of that meeting

and settlement the outcome of a count met

all in a roundabout way

with no way around it

 

dis-order

of one and one

again and again

trying to people

one by one, all in one

at once

as one:

-multiples of one

-and yet as fractions of one, too

 

in which adding up to one

by counting back down to one

 

looks like all people trying to reach “the person”

whilst person by person reaching “the people”

 

no one yet

back and forth, back to front, in neither nor fullness

 

overlapping numbers in a way that

just undercounts them

 

not only getting more holes than a whole might handle

but making a mockery of the process

and an X of the person

 

(...)

 

and to put this X on the scales, accounted:

like an arrow mirrored > <

or two arrows opposed

meeting head-on

dissolving the could-be romanticism of 10 in 1

as five in one and five in another

or, indeed,

ten in each

but then that greater number

flying sunset into the fully encircled horizon

twenty, not ten, instead

 

addition adds to the sense of splitting

comes something at one and the same time bigger and smaller than before

equalisation of a movement to fix

itself un-fixed by its own movement

 

X opens one in two

by marking just one out of two

bringing together parts in a movement

that mystifies their individuality

two now one, the ones now halves

all meeting in a zero space

which counts everything by thirds

 

one person out of every two people

is not one-and-not-the-other

but the meeting of a difference that takes a certain shape

makes a certain person

0 is that person’s possibility

 

one greater than > 0 < one greater than

 

zero, the headline point of the possibility of meeting.

not solely One but: en(|)ne

the emptiness full enough not to stay empty

empty enough never to fill up

a mirror with an inter-resting sort of content

like a di-vision

the one and only head that actually comes together

with no easy fix

boat of the world in a world of floating

in-between,:,: headache of a third showing up in the count of one and one

and gives a general equalness to the parts by missing the majority of them

coming down to a third that shows up

the splitting head of one and not-one which ends up the full skull of neither

aching

that is, only the third of it all taking the time to show up

the possibility of.

 

The

Person

Is,

__:A Boat;:

Humour me for a tiny instant

and Favour this with a full gaze,

turn away from the moment to

moment blunt force of events moving

in their quasi-magnetic fashion

towards some accidental trend.

 

Leap with me for a tidy instant

and Savour this beyond the days,

burn a way through the second by

second course of contents grouping

with a fierce enigmatic passion

to a cursed occidental end.

 

As dreams bloom in the still of sleep

I beg you steadied and whole,

As roots sprout after the skies weep

I speak to the Spring of your Soul:

 

So waterfall

head first down to

the ground of my

lost voice that calls

for the bright blue

of a day’s sky

for a light tall

painted star-hue

by Care’s warm dye.

 

Now give full ear to the call of my condition

steer near to hear clear the drum thumping

beat of heart humming a language

of silence, cacophonous strum

inside the violence of life staked

on a wry sense of the escaped.

I mean, come hither and glean this

reckless hammering within me

as deeply set as an oak tree

but of leaf, twig, branch, trunk, more empty:

There is no voice to voice absence

a candle is a waxed abstraction

reminder of the missing sun

light to show need, but not quell it.

 

So, fall like water and throw rays

at this weak image of an image

words shallow in gravity floating

like strays towards your cosmic influence,

soak them up in the punctuation

of your heat, gift them gift of life

bathe their stale rotation upon

the axis of their proofless meaning,

forgive them this moment of truth

which flies earth-bound into falseness

let their mute state sound out through you

for a moment, that all may drop quiet again

these fast oceans of unbound sentiment

vast continents of fated desire

sinking back to a spineless drift

bound one way of an unassailable rift

unto the vortical gale of the gyre.

 

Offer this that I cannot say

because it swims right down below

with the sharp-toothed sharks of the scar-

marking undertow of the unsayable

heark, give this soundless song of mine

the fairest of possible fair hearings

and in the soft minute of your

hot glance, strong forests will have sprung

a kingdom of life come and gone

horizons widened and then narrowed

and all that could have been could be:

released from the void of my worldless

dreams, broken out of the lame trenches

of a wordless shiver, burnt into

time by the force at the source of

your star-born eyes, your golden flame.

 

Yes, before I do float away

edge of your orbit, let me relay –

 

and inhale it as unbroken

as its meaning cannot be spoken:

 

“I think about you every day.”

see a thing

count it

one

 

see that thing counted,

two

 

see a thing being seen:

“counting”.

a third

now, here

bring a thing forward

 

pick something out

and bring it forward

 

bring yourself to something

having picked it out

at a distance

 

having started at one side of

that in-between space

pick something out, pack that space out

with a bringing-forward

 

bring these things together

you and it

(you do this)

close the space between

to open up a thing

you bring forward

you take yourself to

from a given distance

 

swap an opening (of space)

with a closure (of space)

to open something (a thing)

closed by the general openness (of space)

 

bring yourself together

(and) this thing

from a first distance

a call

to a closing in

to a bringing-together

you and it

 

close in

tease out

the light

in the significance

that extends between

you and

your pick –

a pickiness –

flesh it out

squeeze

the hydrophilic

sponge

of distance

 

then, there

the silence behind the call itself will start to drip out

the order of the pick

reversed

in the pecking order

of all the possible differences

 

why this thing?

what was it you went looking for?

why this thing?

what are you looking for?

why this thing?

 

was it a colour, the shape

or something between the two?

(and do not turn to me!

i am not the one who told you to do this

you were doing it already

so forget me

how else could you have found this poem

and the soundlessness of its so-called voice in the first place?

you were, have always already been, ears to a stronger call than mine

my voice, whatever presence it has, is but the shallow groan of a more consuming throat

)

 

and now, then

have those things

colours

shapes

that pricked your attention

in the picking out

lasted past the distance

from which first intentions sprout savage, untamed?

or did they

evaporate, clear out

along with the rest of the fog of the in-between?

(because

sometimes they do,

right?)

 

space which is cut

into these

attentive distances

centres

segments of you and it

again and again

in and yet apart from everything else;

a cut-out distance

which second-order invites a cutting-down of itself

a full movement into the force of the attraction

as you find yourself

with each approximation

given over to an ever more ambiguous

caller

 

there, then

meeting this

on the surface

surface

on the face of a thing

on the surface of surfaces

your “hello”

in the questioning that comes fire out of the focus of your gaze

is not just for the folded ears and arms of the brought-forward thing

but likewise rings loose noise to the possibility that you are not all there, either

as the echo of your half-dead, mute speech

surprises you

dies in front of you and yet survives you as well

welcomes you right back in turn

further confirming your some-sense absence

 

face-to-face

on the surface

suddenly this thing facing you holds more answers to the possibility of you

than you do in yourself,

and you in yourself, in turn

more answers to it

than it in itself.

The chance of moving, finally

for the first time

is probably going to be an effort reduced to something like

the chance to up-set something

something like something already

whose setting in turn turns out to be that

it is there

able to be re-set

and re-set by something like the possibility

the chance

of something as positive as

the in-setting of

consequences

shed

of a movement which is

both pre-set against yet same-time completely possibly pre-set in

the things

that came before it.

 

In all the contradiction that movement is

and presents

as routine

coming-together of things previously apart

and falling-apart of things previously together

surely

the most fatal contradictoriness

is the expectation, the position, of “a first time”

a seeking of a retrospective route to

the coming-together of a falling-apart

never previously together

always previously apart

a root whose sprout would be “a radical cutting”

a radical cutting of itself into a (temporarily?*) unresolved duality

which, previously, had been singularly undivided

having shown no prior signs of internal perturbation

no history

foetal development

up to

parturition.

 

*To this expectant position of “firsts”

the sense of movement as tending towards

some final

motionless

closed-off

end

plays complement

is saying the same thing

but about death rather than birth.

 

If starts and ends

firsts and lasts

make sense as anything

it is probably as something that does not reach as far down

nor as far across

as the contradiction of movement per se

but consists

in yet another “moment”

another ex-tension

of movement as the unclosable circle.

the wider the circle drawn

the less visible in a single viewing

 

the less visible a wide(ning) circle in a single viewing

the less will it look like a circle

the less will it look like anything

 

and the less the widest circles look like anything (at all)

the more have they to look like something that does not look like anything else;

the more of everywhere covered

stronger that likeness with nothing

 

______________________________________________

 

the greater a thing concentrated

the more is it not being drawn

 

the more a thing not being drawn

the more is it not being over time

the more is it not being over space

 

the more a thing is not being over other things

the less is it going to be a thing (at all)

less has it to part-take

and even less to give back