"Riding seaward on the waves"

"And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.


(...)


I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas."

                                                      T.S ELIOT - The Love-Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Field Rotation - Acoustic Tale 2 by FluidAudio

* 

The Uncompromising Cruelty

(The Cruel Birefringence )

Time cracked and

fell with a clatter

like a

spoon

upon the platter

in an empty

dinning-room

Bite it!

in the plumbing

voices

drip dripping

(how it haunted you the plumbing!)

shatter of

teeth, gritted

[and then Prufrock took a deep breath, and you went pale]

The

orphaned flowerpots

cigarette butts

among the gravel

tossed

ashen leaves

(like your skin was!)

bleaching

in the wind

Across the window

the curtain was always

drawn.

and you stood in the doorway

In the doorway

you stood.

- 

Clock cracks out the hours

"Wind and storm colored July. Also, in the middle, cadaverous, awful, lay the grey puddle in the courtyard, when holding an envelope in my hand, I carried a message. I came to the puddle. I could not cross it. Identity failed me. We are nothing, I said, and fell. I was blown like a feather. I was wafted down tunnels. Then very gingerly, I pushed my foot across. I laid my hand against a brick wall. I returned very painfully, drawing myself back into my body over the grey, cadaverous space of the puddle.

This is life then to which I am committed."

             
                                                                 WOOLF, VIRGINIA -  The Waves -

(Photograph: Desmond Donnellan)



Antonymes - Lost In Waves Of Light by Fluid Radio

D r i p dripping of a long forgotten tap

your ghost it dwells

along the mildew

among the empty

oyster shells

B e a t beating of a long leaking heart

your echo swells

along the stained

among the damp

alcoholic smells

(watered down nauseous waves become)

Pinpointed

in loose fingered

crumpling pages

yellowed lines

hooked

to your delirious

mazes

(and our breath sweeping along the clock cracks and the spider silk maps, stops.
Teeters over the edge, caught at the blades' tip of such an absolute. )

Smaller hours

"Writing as distraction

writing as a work

routine takes away freedom

freedom takes away restraint

restraint takes away fear

fear takes away hope

hope takes away past

past present future all in a day"

                                         Donnellan, Desmond

- Every day

one bottle

half a pint of milk:

two days

Teabags, unnumbered

your demise, steady

Every day, grocery shop

a gentleman! they said

(dead dead dead)

one packet of cakes

“loose fruit”

cigarettes

bread, sliced.

Working Dog

And in the hidden corner

of your most secret terror

your most blatant surrender

life dragged on like

a spectre

and the rotting peels dripped

and the stained tissues

festered -

 
                             

****

Small Hours

 

“I Lost my bottle

when you are

you threw your arms around me

sending you back to her

although I could never keep you

caught in the impossibility

of choice

of love

of freedom

of loss

and arms your love

feels around me”

                         Donnellan, Desmond

***

The bog that was the sink

and the leeching

brown gurgling

of days

stretching

and piling

Among the cracks

dripping

time drags

the leaking of

moldy teabags

congealed

drains, echoes

plummeting

Heavy in the air

wine only

got thicker as

sluggish, the words

tumbled

crawling

from your pen

“you lost your bottle”

****

The radical

merciless perspective

the angular change in vision

that death forces

upon the living

****

                      

****

Bedtime in the sunlight

Spring crawls towards the Arctic
like some
s l o w
lumbering
BEAR

He grumbles, sometimes
burdened as he is
by trails of birds
fluttering
heavy with song
They burst over you
fireworks
in the townlight
if you aren't

careful.

His head
does ache
with the bobbing
incessant
of pregnant buds
sowed in print
unfurling!
as he trudges along
sniffing
the thawing snow
out
and
away!

***

Per a Annia... And for you too