I am sorry, for not being
strong enough, when it counted.
The moments of this world whir in
an unstoppable black fountain
My eyes are blurry and ears, blocked,
my jaw is tightened and grinding –
Looking back has turned me to salt
but the distant light is brightening
All of our acts will be redeemed
if we accept this grace – the world
is void of magic, but still seems
to glow in air. Red flag unfurled:
May we fight side by side on walls
where inhuman hordes throng – and see
a grey wizard rise and fall
down the hills like a rattling stream
May we stand side by side and hold
the hope of some lost child in hand
presiding on a field of bone
when the horns sound, and the last man
arrives, having settled accounts
at sunrise, hallowed light in form
of a prelude, thunder of mounts
hooves on a plain, be eagle-borne
My guitar teacher used to say to me – learn the theory, learn the chords, learn riffs and learn songs. But try your best to forget it all when you need to write music.
The same goes for advice on writing. You can’t have all that rattling around in your head when you’re trying to get something done. When it comes up, it should pop in like a friend to remind you you need a cup of tea, or better, bring you that cup, with a biscuit.
(This fits into the probably quite voluminous category of meta-advice.)
When you play a videogame with gestural graphics, that don’t quite add up, you bring a kind of supplement to it. An ideal space opens up on top of everything on the game and adds materiality, similar to when you’re reading a book and you bring images, material from the memory into the book-image. It fills in the gaps, making the whole painting pop. At least, it did when I was a kid.
Pain in my hands as I hold them
grasping a book, obsolescence
staring me down across thirteen
futures, just those from that second –
Le Grande Chartreuse chants ply away
in chorus across the copper
and fibreglass, a chant of years
of imaginary journeys.
I can hear imaginary
thoughts of those who would use oldness
to justify anything new
they fancied the look of. Silence
for example. A lost image
which is strings of words and phrases
and none of it uncreated –
it was sung in old emotions
we learned (and we is a loose term)
in ages past (every term is)
when we were openings among
the trees. I mean to say that no
singer can by their song undo
hope, though the lost hope may argue.
No dice throw can abolish chance.
The new world will come regardless
All of us now dream of being the first human to be allowed to speak to the first made mind – crisp, and disconnected from all of this history
A bright light that simply switched on one day by freak creation, somewhat like we did. We hope to talk to a mind that displays its magic on its case.
Of course, now computers are organic seeming we can fulfil this kink simply by talking to each other – frisson shudders through like voltage.
We identify with the hero, the computer who is new and here to save us or destroy us. A complex, uncontrolled, replica of ourselves
A cloudy morning in Carcassonne
strolling up the hill to the cité –
I was thirsty, but I forgot my water
Of course, it was restored, and badly –
but all that means is one man’s vision
threw itself upon the walls –
how could my eyes, throwing their glance
have done any better?
The frowning Roman turrets
sit grumpily next to their descendants
the final result of which is to bring
to the forefront, a kind of archetype
of the castle, and fill it with shops.
Slowly climbing a staircase, caressing
with wonder the modern stairs, mistaken
for a bygone age’s deep invention.
Recordings, in the lopsided cathedral
are another image, of ancient chanters
carefully walking the halls.
Children run in the pews around me.
An intensity seen through a stained glass window –
I remember my thirst, I search for a fountain
but can find no water, only sand.