pok ka dots and ab ucu sses
Mar 31, 2016
pokkadots
and
abucu
sses
words
i never knew what words were til i met one
all bottled up and confused and i coexed itmade it open up to mei remember how at first she was afraid,
reluctant and acquiasent saying you have got me all wrong
i am prenounced si-clic-cal not sick-li-cal
i’m not linear, i don’t make senserole of your tonguei am out of context
there is nothing essential about me
i only make meaning in contextit is just about the way that you use me
situate me, without a user i am usless
i am just a word sisterdon’t be fooled
write now
if i can follow (or endure) the random dreaming strands of thinking
there are points which wasn’t where the linear streams were intending to fall
those delicious tangents filling my gob with spit
sugary like lemon squash a bitter sickly loss of meaning
lubricated in succulent disjointed rhythmscomforting and homely
pure oceanic intense but lackingcertainty which bumps
jumps jolts on every rock of the roadon a long unrecorded journey
move me as quick as it becomesa handful of honey, dropping into stops
so lost stomachs are synchronisedby ruptures invited
by shared imprecise humourmaking us alone unable to believe
hunted by motionless repetitions of answersleading us to ideas mapped in consumerable satisfaction like a film that documents us
as subversive angels of other worlds
transgression
the self-reflex makes luminosity loop in talk shifts to continue among playful competitions
that adumbrate alterity by the tongue we chose after it decided us
for speech is a trap and a nooseupon which
identity acts like tax
for the symptoms of freedomcollapsed into symbols resisting and provoking compositions like a book
with new tales on every pageas if a narrative dropped
leaving lack of order without indication toward ideas imprisoning repetitions reconstructed by a readers rhetoric
misinterpreting irony swollen simplicityfor desire to communicate in clarity
like a lung full of lost breathless speech
we are so lucky
to have time that tells us what we should do that we have feelings that guide us
instincts that help shape us in this culture that moulds us
into the likeness of the other
who is strange to me, as i look to them
or even myself, when i stare in a mirrorthey told me i must become one
with the grand body of the languageto be in tune with the feelings, the sensations,and where i was confident i became doubtfulwhere there was motivation, i was bored and i slipped through every happy discourse realising now that everything i knew
doesn’t make sense to me, or to you,
i cant float like a balloon and i will not popbut i must squeeze into the space there is for me
i am so lucky because i have to create a way to be yet i never know whether i am good or bad
i don’t even know what these words meani cannot become the body of words
even if i try, i may never even please them,for i am not discourse, i cannot speak, i lack punctuation, focus and postulation
i am only a body flirting perverted by silence
aesthetics
marked in quotations by a letter left unopened speaking of internal transformations
that cannot be fixedaltering circles as if they persistfor coreless apple decaying in the soilsare now fertilising the roots of new crops
peeled by the fingers of peopleabsorbed on their deliberations
born, inspired and identified in a state of fluxlike a harbour of verses shifting in stops
deforming clarity before it reaches the climaxfor her ink is drying in the waiting time
while tones imitate the echoes of pretext- with a chorus of vibrating suds to draw on your imagination as they are singing in a language translated yet unheard
drift
themes are colliding in my mindchanges are closing in finding timelike truths in eyes searching
without resolve to evolve and capitalise
on words as they bleed
and become
the expression
that seeps out of mythto encapsulate
a pastiche of soundamongst
this
dynamic
dialogic Drift
this
so much is certain and so much is there to be described there are so many relations and associations to discern
only with a can of paint and a fresh wall could i showwhat i would do without the freedom to take apart the rules
i compete against my silence, challenge my need to talk,
and precisions mark penetrates into this uneaseas its complications define and break in a wave
heavy and weighted like the sea crashing into its own mass,unlike feathers, with their details, that fall light and enchanting.
inelegantly, i long for the absence of myself: to knowhow to not be missed or missing -or miss- for i detest
the menial straightness that undermines my love of clarity yet obstinately
i don’t want to change, conform or be configured
as i reject this principle: while i crave and desire cleanness
like a broken lock on a vacated house offers shelter for a door which is hinged and swings without a catch, is open - as is choice - without
singularity of reason
leaving ideology
i rebooked the appointment,but then suddenly
i had something to do –i cant remember what now,
but i am sure it was important. so i am still unemployed
going down to the bottoms lines of over drafts looking forward to the glimpses, the opportunities not substantial
enough to put on a cv which blinks blankness
recording my non reliable ness as i have never done anything
that counts for a job no monotony, no stagnation, no routine,
time keeps goingall juxtaposed and composed
and released into boxeswith their sticky tapes and paper
bags and collections in categories,important for being
slow and having quickness in momentary organisation thats playing futures as it reiterates
itself into the memories that suddenly incomplete me
self
that there was someone who thought what they said was not often what they felt
and what they felt was not what they thought they ought to feel,and so it goes on.
i felt some time that what i do is not what i thought i ought to do
what i ought to do did not seem right.
every time i said somethingwhat i felt was
its not what they wanted to hear.
and sometimes i feel thati’m not true to myself
yet i always seem to do what i wantand i read somewhere aboutself-improvement
on how to do every-thing rightbut i though what they said
was just be yourselfbut i think what that is, is to just carry onnot knowing whom it is i am.and i continue to be not what i ought to be
redefining all the time what it means to become the other
to normals
viewing
parked in front of me was somethingi reconsidered, not much before i started
back at what it was
that got me there.i paused for breath, calm with the heartbeat
putting a hold on the gasp on the backof my throat that came, as i looked,
and as i stared, lost at what it was that
i was facing, as the background becamesome sort of film flat, as it was sheer.
music in my headphone projected me onto another place were my breathing was somethingi listened to, and the scenery became weird.
smiling reassuringly, to myself, at the
same time it was people looking at me, and i had to try not to be.
my muscles relaxing and the smiletaking over me and seeing the cars move in the traffic and the dog defecation,
the sun moving into the cloud, and startingto be real, beat harmony and givethe time that homogenous empty feel.
so silently, out of the darkness that camethis pain; a haunting that would never
be believed in isolation; like the same. where we pass through and sum up, in a
less depleted way, that while poetry cannotcorrect it self; the message will not get through
frameworks
different frameworks interposes how it exists
in my many me.
you said before something approaches
the third dimension that we see,
ah! but yes, looking back, looking over
is the third and final three!
what i read becomes the perspectiveof over all angles.
connoted correction balancing
the lines connecting between making up
all in the being words
last you’ve seen.
dyslexia
searching for the story to write you better
looking for that sentence that in reach becomes
part of you concluded adding up
knowledge as full as well that without partdisarray is in bid as in
shackled made order.towards making the completion within the assertion
the message procrastinated
in hope of teaching
standing behind words to say
they speak me i am the lesson learned
to give and
let give
everything that you handle spokento be beside as you
look onwards
lost of learning
in the face of mirror void of voice and writing
is your lesson.
art
it all started with a little bit of french
linguistically replaced humour:
from the outset we never determined the time to insure positive forward progression,
it was primarily more a moveable, a syllable of choices:
so ‘dada’ darling! this world of illusion brought to a head,
strung up – quite literally, seeing her face blank with immoveable expression, all that relishes.
what a pretentious preposition! it is
not about autonomics (they said).
for
with every word i say to you
comes a little painevery line that
i’m not understood there’s a formula,
that says i should find joy…
whenever instances are the feelings that i embrace
you think i have found a protruding dismissive grain,
i am speaking found lost, the hula that says to my face
conflictingly against me,
your not allowed that voice.try to look within me to find some strengthfor those that know me best to deny that length who now knows
i find i’m lost again,and within me i find pain.
mimesis
i have on my wall tacked up so i can readwords for when i lose my own,should it be that in that place
where i lose myself, between the pages,
between, the wake, of what is,
exactly, i project
from wall to page for its sake, i’m kept
i need of what it is when there is nothing
where i can see
the illusion of myself when i forget and look, suddenly
there is release an escape, essence: i feel free of what it is
to be me, to go back home
to the words which is there on my wall to see
locution
the word expresses itself
inaudible knowledge in front of meas taught as the trees stand
demonstrating velocity holding bagplastic lounging itself on the vision
sealed silver bark rapes itself around matterand i stand in the pathway
with shaded green carpetingallowing a blanket of green amass
with the world unbecoming lettersin the park
without enunciationbenches to rest the locution
the statue placates without
a notice:
what should
this mean?
corrected
my body is expanding
all i can hold on to is hopeas i feel
the pain grow the sickness swell
in a kind of boredom a physical decorum
without the stops that make me happy
there has to be some strength that makes me love them
you understand that?you don’t hear right!
rightly misunderstood against the norm:
every-one must carry on reading through the lines
fixated by the write and
wrong
message
there standsthe crest of the theme
that rejects me
that without i can stand
homogonous and unprotected
under its symbol
i become the traitor
if you’re the sign i am the disintegrator
under the hazel synopsisthe drunken metaphoric thesis
modality is servitude to the amoraltrinity of simple ellipsis.
visualization
there is a balance of a swiftby some discrete drive of balances,
flicking pencil line metricallypast the air of his wings spread,
charcoal marks out his reach behind escape of silence
the pinnacle of the golden needleflattered by the swift departure
uneasy flight that takes miles
beneath division, without balance
off that statue faction
line marks of an artist’s
visualization.
pre-chora
it is the grammar of dyslexia, the speakingunusually said, repeating, confusing
the words are not quite well saidonly understanding what is being
speaking by the way they understand.chora speaks beyond the barrier
the word in-between what was saidsignified: literal mistake, you think i’m kidding?
i’m not i’m seriously misunderstood.when you read the point, which was never there
do you suppose i should have said it other?other in which case, and all the others, is wrong
i was told at school,
you must try harderthey never supposed
to be wrong might actually to be right,being
misunderstoodwas just difference between i and them.
continuous
there are no years without decease
no honesty in slow luminosity without dim what is it that we begin with when are to search,
for when seeking, what ultimately will finish;
every-thing in the dark, foresees the shadow of light
to feel the echo of the day before which become traceswhich collapse into something knowable,
something do-able, where we can't exhaust words.can your end be
without a cautious beginning?
and what is so secure about
free knowing?the end or the continuous
it is hard to know which.
momentary
there was a momentary break from the bizarre,
confusion clear. understanding replaced as before.placed like inspiration, in an empty mind,a key to the lock, to the insight we are all trying to find.
if only explanations were as easy to comprehend:i hate these words,
for which i feel i represent-the mirrored words within.
and from where do i gain-the words, which explain,the complexities that i see,in this world in which i’m in?
will god never let me in?or have i committed a sin?do i have a religion?will i ever fit in?
‘loosing my identity’seems to be the song of the century.
for which i would now like to sing
Windows
i see myself as always looking out windows just as i might see myself looking out by not looking through.
and this is a strange reflection looking at myself not looking outand you are saying i am always looking out windows, not lookingback but looking through and i see you behind me looking at me
not looking through. a multiplicity of spectrums allured through this conception or misconception by you. and i'm always looking out windows,
wondering weather if directly you'd stop complaining if i looked through: maybe i like the window; i like the pane and pain of glass reflection
like looking at you looking at me and the diversity of looking discreet intellection, and we thought it would always be plain sailing direct talk by sailing the mast
same suit same language that occurs, which i see fractured, diverse in mask: you'd never know that i see you and me
subjection and not ordered write too much time, wrong letters and we are always compiling language, which might
but does not quite, suit us and yet who is to complain that i see through us?
domestic
how come you can’t read a bookof back cover to front,
it is ridiculous
childish fantasy versus
the wise,face to reverse.
the real winner, why either or both,
but
when did i choose not to be
precisions wise?
pause
in the pause i took it completedand fell;
intermission neglected the edge
that is touched by confronted
which was when i lostevery-thing that i saw as patience
like the endurance we watchedbecome a
prediction slowly
peeling of the freshlypainted wall;
the periphery interluing the ending
that i missed, which i reduce against
withdraw, to make peace
interpretation
everything separates itself into its own formalities and it is defined by the lesson it is teaching.
reading through every line is the bleeding
energy that creates itself, like the symbol that bares meaning,
there is everything to be interpreted but our teachers are always ourselvesand so we are searching, looking for direction
by our own discretion and these are the complications of voicescrying out on the one hand, for its own formulation
and on the other, the rejection, rejuvenation by the denial of what it is that will bring forward
out of the darkness,our own minds to appear as well as paper
that can share us, sets us down and make a mark
which we can trace, back through into credencevalue and acceptation the pieces which together make us able
to work in some sense and contrive for us our teachersyour reflection, my mirror, the distortion and hallucination
which flows forward and down through
like multiple directions that always summate at a point, which is discourse
contrived through a stipulation; a lesson we learnt speaking, power and its meaningthe sentiment not yet displaced drowned by my own needing security which is only made in breaking
that, as we stand outside from, we can look backand establish ourselves by the bodilythe whole, and the other, the anotherwhich we desire, in our own ways, to control.
pokkadots and abacuses is copylefted imaginased by nim folb
and published by rebelling against spelling press
2007
more info on RASPcan be found at
http://www.r-a-s-p.co.uk