September 12th, 2013
Empty, almost empty,
less so in, more out,
all the liquids.
The shit, the blood, the piss,
the spit, the vomit, the drool.
All the liquids out,
Come last water
Off the virgin bridge
September 4th, 2013
The words she used to bind him the words he used to fuck her with. The words he could look into the eyes of his son the words she could smuggle her love with.
The words that could slit a throat, a wrist, cut the belly up. The words he used so he won’t have to beg. The words that made a day less clear, more dear.
The words that kept the night in check, never as black so as to swallow itself. The words that divided, united, transferred, put useless time in place.
The words he beat her for the first time with.
The words that should have lead her out. The words he could have used to fight his father with.
The words she made up, almost silent ones, to let it become what it had become.
The words that slowly abandoned the house, leaving it scream, moan, shriek, leaving it whisper.
The words that became inaudible, autophagous.
She, he, he, he abandoned to it. Becoming it. No words to reach it.
The blue is mad. The house is wordless.
August 29th, 2013
Out of nothing this black. Always, as black likes, out of the nothing. It does not matter whether it’s who or what that is carrying it. Who is what and every what can become who.
I can move by the black, thread it, matters only that I know how I don’t. through the door, the wall or the tiny window, come chance will be sure. In hunger, half-legged, forgotten and have forgiven, overcome, throughcome I the black. Keep saying, picking the bones off the chill floor. My child, my love, she will feign off the black, promise.
I do. Still.
July 30th, 2013
Always with food. No hunger. Since I a child. Like a father, almost. Not gentle, though not crude either. Would come with a kettle, say eat, read a book. Show a toilet. I would do. Then sit behind the house, in front of my hut, count the trees. To five, then five more, a lot of fives. Trees green most of the time. Birds, and beasts, say don’t go further, for the beasts. I would not. Rather read. Beasts there enough. And else. No need to go. Would eat, read, toilet. Count to fives and fall asleep. Dream of things I can’t tell clearly. Sometimes crying. Laughing. Would say – don’t cry, it’s just a dream. Give me a pancake. Be there. Just be there. And so for many times – more than fives I know about.
Then stopped coming. Would look for in the house, but nothing. Pick some grass, some leaves. Sleep so much more so as to lose the count of times. Then stop counting, for if fall asleep besides the hut – fear of a beast. Would stay inside. Mostly laying down. Not read. Not dream. Nothing to count. But the still. No beast here. It will come, father.
July 19th, 2013
Tired so as to remember almost nothing. A face, a short duration of a face in a dim light, if that. Then cold. Keep on running from cold. Sleep standing. Always sleep standing, can’t let them see you down. No! Won’t see me down. Won’t see me tell you anything. None of my youth, my fighting, none of what I know, of what I become. Can’t beat me, can’t beat me down. When cold over, sun upcoming and wake, when it dares, maybe.
July 3rd, 2013
Clothless. Black ink on its hardened muscles. Never a thing out of its mouth. Stands in a rain. Comes as it goes. Swings at times, when not scared enough to lay on the floor, looking at it slowly rocking. The feet scarred, may have come through the forest and the streets. From the mountains or the sea. Come to rock outside my hut. Dusk and dawn it is here. Might be a king or a queen for all I can tell, a glimpse. Never moves feet when seen. Nods and shakes big head. No eyes, can’t dare to know eyes. Yes, huge neck.
Whenever it wants, comes and stands rocking.
May 31st, 2013
Some days that pass as sand nights do, you’re so alone that you have no choice but look for a single thought. Or, if you consider thinking to be lonesome activity, for a line, not so much a words’ one, but an aural one. There must be one somewhere out, you assume. It can’t be that you are deserted and all one – if that were the case, you’d be with all gone ones, not knowing it. Having this as a sort of a beacon, you wander in the grey looking for a black or a white one to pulse out. So you can take its stead, cling yourself to it, have it sway you, even if violently – better in a pained chamber than the grey. You never pull up, mow the black or the white ones. You give yourself to it, give yourself up, let it have you, let it make you obsolete, a trashed one. At this line of miniscule proximity (as well as distance) you lay your bones so as to have the resonance pass through the tips of the nerves of the crossed body.
Something start flowing from the double wound, as you lose the memory grip of the day, the grey and the lone something that is neither white nor black.
You can’t name it, won’t spell it out, just have it bend you, stretch you out. You are becoming a line now, let the else one find, what colour it has become, what colour it will become.
May 20th, 2013
One can lose one’s dream. To find it empty. This is called a deep sleep. To have your dream withered away.
One can also dream someone else’s dream. Now this does not necessarily imply the existence of that someone else, only her dream.
I, having no horse, have dreamt the sorrow of a woman whose horse has hurt his leg. I, being that woman in a dream, have cried and felt deeply for the horse, who might not be able to run again since he was very old. (Now, I assume that the woman, whose dream I was dreaming, has lost a horse because of a vision of the same horse in a dream – laying on tall grass with his eyes slowly closing). I mourned and continued in tears after being woken up by the excessive blood pressure, rising precisely because of this sadness.
The one who dreams someone else’s dreams is, needless to say, a terrible sleeper, for not only he feels things someone else must feel, but also becomes worried about the existence of this someone. Where is she? Her objectivity, obviously, cannot be (without a doubt) inferred from a dream, but, going by the fact that it was her dream, she has to exist, she has to possess some – objectively ungrounded – subjectivity.
One could call this way of experiencing the world sobjective. And since it is pathetic in the purest sense of the word, the dreamer of someone else’s dreams tries to invent whole worlds for the people whose dreams he has taken away.
For without dreaming people lose their ability to exist, as horses put to sleep.
May 11th, 2013
I have adopted a mother. I love her voice, her tone, lawless and joyous in its errors.
My native, my original mother have long ago became too demanding, censorous, as if I owed her something. Even admitting that I did, I could not, I did not want to follow her lead, however gentle or poetic it might have been in her grace days. I ignored her, I deliberately translated things she wanted me to answer to my adopted mother.
A mongrel, my new mother, having come from Caribbean, France, Americas, Africa, Arabia and England – always not quite at home, always not good enough, not there enough.
My old mother comes to me at times, raging and mad: I cannot make sense of her, how vulgar she has become, how desperate to have me – her rhythm and emphasis escapes me, her wisdom makes the world shatter in pieces as if to say that there’s no longer a place for me.
I, the son of two mothers – one half dead, another still naked – persist between madness and childish desires.
Kissing the tongue of my young mother, listening to what’s leaving my first one.
Embracing a being of homeless ones, building a home for those, who will never come.
April 8th, 2013
By descending into spatial form (a place) we come to realise that space is essentially tied to the void. However small or big, space mirrors itself in composition – in this sense space does not change and should be finite. To do this we would have to obtain an atom of inspaceable place, sort of a wall.
But this would assume that at some point space becomes completely placed, that is – full in its presence, which is not the case, so the only possibility would be to assume that space is infinite or that space is void.
This is a troublesome point of desicion. For, assuming that space is void, we must posit something like primordial atom of matter which would be unspaceable. Would it then exist in space and be impenetrable to spacing? What would it then be if not some transcendental limit? Existing in space, but having no connection with it?
Second presupposition – that space is infinite – would yield endless regress and progress in spatial magnitude and place us as a part of it, but infinity is closer to a force than a quantity. It thus seems that space is neither void, albeit very similar to it, and not infinite.
In a certain sense space is radically finite. And while being so is unchanging in its compositional principle, it nevertheless does acquire different forms – precisely because it is acted upon by force of infinity. This being so, presents us with a point that is undecidable – namely: is space constructed of primal atoms (which as we saw leads to contradiction) or is it a form of a void and encounters some transcendent atoms as its limit? In either case an atom would be sort of known unknown and transcend any spacing whatsoever – from inside and outside altogether.
Should we leave this point undecided and still want to find how space becomes placed, we could assume that it happens so by it (space) being some curvature of infinity in a void. So space would be a result of a collision between void and infinity. And being the only finite thing space would necessarily be placed as a form of experience. Thus any experience is finite. We don’t have infinity experiencing itself, but finite things being a result of there existing unexperienced power of infinity and utter bottomless of void. Experience (placed space) is finite. Infinity and void can only be decided, axiomatically posited and accepted as necessary for existence of any place and its experience.
1) space can not be atomised and is not acting on atomised unknowable alterity.
2) space is always placed and idiosyncratic in its composition.
3) space, being a necessary form of experience, is finite and is the only finite thing.
4) its finitude is a a result of infinity coming into collision (or, should we better say, powerless pressure) with void.
5) thus finitude is only possible because of unexperiencable existence of infinity and void.
It seems now that some positions outlined in post scriptum of previous intermission are not valid, or don’t hold ground. Infinities don’t act on each other. That would most probably produce a disaster (a god) – infinity experiencing itself. In which case there would be infinite space and experience perfectly mapping with infinite time that is present and represented at the same time. Needless to say there would be a me or a you. No place. No time. No spacing and no thought.
I will try to grasp the logic of this possible disaster in next intermission.