[Zero]

A clock ticks.

I fall apart.

a mess is made.

in the aftertock,

I try to put myself back together.

Clockwork

[One]

short of second-hand instruction,

keeping timely, time-keeping

I rewind,

from memory

think back to the beginning

identify the old motives

retrace the reason of my route

[Two]

But then

between what each other memory

can be to the one before it

another just-as-open gap starts to yawn

and, messiness like the rest of them,

is there to dis-close

A person will not be down to the things they remember about themselves.

[Three]

Ticked again

falling more apart, which makes a bigger mess.

waste of effort trying to contain the collapse,

It fails, it shows the failure

Efforts extensive of mess.

[Four]

Surrounded by pieces

I try to draw myself together.

Without first-hand support, a shape is outlined

it is inspired on the nearest fullest person

and I fill myself back in compact with the accordance

[Five]

soon though

the mould stagnates against the greater containment

the ex-machina stitchwork dys-functions

The emptied suit flies like loose flag

from messy corner to messy corner

in a pirate’s ship seediness that assails

A person will not be the space that keeps them to themselves.

[Six]

ticking

fall apart and mess.

waste effort upon effort, no containment

with each less contained, Each one fails

In efforts extending: mess.

[Seven]

Divided in pieces, reset someone together.

Without better counting, question the self

set my eyes on two people having their conversation

And listen to their differences and watch for their differences

[Eight]

But the back and forth does not relent

they joke all the same

and the distance expected but not found

measures the flaw-floor of my own gap in the approach,

floor-flaw messiness which spills out

A person is more together in a people than is a person by a person’s self.

[Nine]

apart-falling mess-making.

waste effort upon effort trying to uncollapse,

Each one fails, with each made failed

efforts and more mess.

[Ten]

Plane of pieces, what about just leaving myself alone.

Without better distraction, overlook the denuding

focus on fragments of speeches and unused promises beyond my site

consider how things look if mess be left to itself alone

[Eleven]

And in that perfect stillness

the total disparateness

suddenly looks like net-work

The distances taken place in me

and the disorganisation they mean

plead:

Surely the messiest proliferation has relied on nothing but attempts at its clean and clear avoidance?

[Twelve][Zero]

(A tock clock has been ticking around itself.)

Fallen apart that much further

To the size of a mess that is now claiming every future;

stubbornly concerted in time, emerges through its opposite:

[Thirteen][One]

in new vision make last effort to see everything back together

but it does too much, & fails again

And so fulfil it

Gives it its future

a mess of a mess and so finally the only right answer left:

Could this be the person, after all?

If the general movement of time does disjunction, the human Moment could only be disjunctive of that

Humans would put together

Time, which does not oppose this in principle, takes apart in fact

That is not to say that the temporal cannot run through the Human

Nor that humans do not work along with time

Of course, there are and they do

But the human moment, in time, could only go anti-clockwise

Give time more work to be done

And this way extend time

More disjunction yet;

The human moment, in time, would be clock-work

Give work more time to be done

And so extract time

More conjunction yet;

And the human moment, in time, would complement time

Exact time under a binding vision

And thus construct time

All Time yet;

But for a time that a moment could never capture

These would only be more things for it to disjoin

And it will, it does

But also for a moment that time could never stop

It's something that a human can find time to say

Without much trouble

And perhaps the way that time will damage all work regardless

Our work can likewise at times briefly force time to disappear

For a short moment, a contradiction – given the scale of its impossibility – nearing eternity

Even if, under the unrelenting grip of time, a moment could never really be so timeless

-------- NEEDS AN ANNEX ABOUT ARTIFICIAL LIGHT -------

Decorative layer

of the movement of existence

absent –

blanket of light and its shady effects –

attribution to what's left un-covered instead –

Night –

a cold, irreducible,

but mainly ideal,

beauty.

Turning of the day of the day nocturnal,

totality buried to a softly stilling tone,

a reality of negations oftentimes misconceived in both origin and purpose,

fullness of a vision of a world that cannot be fully seen

coming on.

Forward all the disappearance that daylight leaves unseen;

Forward the incongruous impression of something that cannot make an impression but lingers in continuousness

all the same.

This,

enjoyed,

so often –

time taken taking in presence at its least defined –

misrepresented by the daybreak alarm of summerfilled tradition

as some wanton suppression of the real,

darkness called out from the frontlight : Instrument of Hiding –

belief goes: light is truth or,

at the very least, the undeposable conveyor of the true,

and its opposite, in turn, the shutting down of the true programme of the True.

BUT

In languid quiet,

monumental beyond sizeable

disappearance comes out

to linger in the heavy pull

apart from the flowable of things:

reach for a pocket-watch see Time finally

(though never quite).

The nocturnal opening into the closure,

head towards a space of existence with fewer places to go,

to an existing always more abbreviated because away from the successions of time as immediate history

away from time dimming the ongoing consciousness of a long-term project:

permeating absence offers presence stripped of its most distractive capacities

In the hours of dead light,

life shorter not in the sense of years,

but in the experience of the moment,

which is only at most half of what time turns out to be –

a vision enlightened by movement;

a movement blinded by light.

supposing all that covers and reveals,

night shines down most powerfully –

the one that almost covers everything

and therefore almost reveals everything.

Darkness,

shows everything happening, again.

more peaceful than sleep,

very different,

almost incompatible, meaning to the Day.

Years 1 and 2 (09-10)

Things come by the earliest feeling

Lived at the first sight of love, left

Before the sunset of a full day, saved in a half-

Light fed of their own Truth.

Year 3 and 4 (11-12)

The evidence behind a dream interprets its daily limit.

There goes a night and day difference in a proper habit.

Daylight needs to uncover the name behind the dream

An eye aroused by the bigger dream of the Name.

Year 5 and 6 (13-14)

We begin, as always begun, from non-end

The end is not what makes the beginning

But its absence since the beginning and also before that.

The end is everything being unready – and this is what we Touch.

Years 7 and 8 (15-16)

The earth laid back over the buried lowered to the depth of their eternal rest does not repeat the surface up to the even footing of the previous formulation. The grave is its own country; there are no crossings.

Years 9 and 10 (17-18)

Does life reach a simple balance at half-and-half?

For example, half the time the best of feelings

And then two the worst ideas?

Or are these halves tyrannies incompatibly spelling Difference?

We stood in the corridor speaking of dreams still had

Semi-closed to the doors before that opened otherwise;

Whether or not it could be started again, the lights were half-lit so half-bright,

We stood in it giving it a distance for the time not yet done.

We laughed because we knew and, again, did not

Easier to knock on that way, especially funny because it wasn't at all

now we might know how much we did not know

Reminiscent, how wrong it had been, how right we could still become.

Stood there unhappy, tired but tipped with half-impressions of a greater unknown

Two unfinished dream states correlated in a post-bedtime corridor

so close to being amused, but louder than the mere comedy of it

Standing there, putting all suspicion of being fully awake behind us.

There are 10 people more than before

Other others with the endless years born between them

Ten more than ever and the X life into that

Another to an other, decades at every X years

person I speak to is older than the last time I wanted to speak

10 dates of dating the last ten times I said anything at all

And if anyone speaks to me, there are 9 people I cannot know at any one time

And they speak to me all the time

They X-emplify everything I do not know

and X-amplify all the things I do

at least ten ways to hear every fact whether or not counting listening as just one fact in itself

I am spoken to ten years at a time

And find a century in the mix of two decades spilling over each other in the same breath

There are more years than people, therefore too many years for every person

Decades on decades overlapping in a time that separates X at a time

For 10 years a day I live for 10 people every year

Every one tenth year of another lost decade

a lot of it

from early mourning to very late even-ing

There is a migratory quality to all my qualities,

They jump north to south back and forth in and out of a seasonal

of their own hemi-spheric making

They transit hot and cold in analogous differences

Pulling sword at the temperature fronts proportionally

Dragging me either side of a dislocated equator.

There is a temporary quality to all my qualities

They time-difference east to west either side of a diurnal

of their own mean-time making

They transfer night and day in analogous differences

Pulling cord on the contrast curtains accordingly

Throwing me either side of a timeless meridian.

These qualities of my quality tell me

What time of the year I am in

What time of the day it is

In a worldplace of their own staking;

qualities that rain down a forecast

anti-climatic

qualities that fork a historicising

anti-clockwork;

There is this quality to my qualities

Might first storm in the morning

Late evening South in the sunshine.

Sadness could be the break

I take as

the unknown

smiles at me:

averting my gaze

because

it unsettles

because

of the things I know

there's myself, too well:

and at the centre of this knowledge

and because of the central plane it assumes

there's this, well known:

cheek-raising plans no territory.

A smile is a simple lie

not only stares sides of an unknown

but at the sight of it

If it could meet itself - all sites of itself met - would flat out altogether

because to know is to know that the smile does not exist:

at least not more than its inexistence, anyway

no smiling matter

there is

not more to smile about

than less;

or even less again, when it finally finds the ground to cite me alone

its U-shape just as soon bent straight

and if thus floored still tries to lift off, flower up

i will have to distrust its capacity for any East to West at all.

Sadness

comes as much

from what is

as from not

so much that does exist

cuts against existence per se

sadness because I do not know what I want

because there is not enough world for all of my want

my want

scores this world

too small

and me

even

smaller within it

a smile looks happy with that

because it does not know

or because it does not want more

does not know more

and would not want that

it invites me

under those terms

every time

across its own senselessness

wants to tell me this is enough...

now,

how

would I

ever

give in

to that much distance?

Sadness then

could be

the break taken

trying to see through things,

and madness

the only way back

when it leads to nothing, anyway.