dimanche 29 novembre 2009

he died in venice (rewrite)

he died in venice

the obituary said
an overdose at the age of 40

he died in venice

and all the critics said
he had written some imaginative poetry

they could not have been speaking of these images

a smooth muscled body
hair dyed blond
unconscious in the shower

the ripped pages of a cum stained copy of Thomas Mann's Death in Venice

a cold hand clutching his final words
trying to thrust them far from his dying body
maybe hoping
that his final scratches would not be obliterated by the blood

he died in venice

in some city he grew up
fought with friends and parents
in some city or another
he made love and had sex with men and women
he took classes and jobs of little or no interest
in one place or another
he read books and wrote poetry

but he died in venice

he put all his notes in the corner
and his lover in the shower
but he couldn't keep the blood from staining the covers
and drying on the erection of his undressed body

an infinite caress

an infinite caress
a caress which never ends
and has no beginning

flowing from one body to another
over one shoulder blade
then down the rhythmic spine

over hard barrel of hairy belly
past sweet skin of perfect ass
the bones of pelvis jutting out and asking to be touched

caressing myself and others

this hand of mine which finds no end to all the flesh beneath it
running over all the limbs of every body
touching all the faces
circling all the eyes within its grasp

amongst this multitude of breasts and legs and dicks
with neverending plain of skin stretching out
I search

a nook of muscle
a nest of hair
the duvet of her sex against my cheek
the weight of his head resting in the valley above my rounded ass

i would hug myself but there is one arm too many
one hand ill at ease
one glance which has not found its home

dimanche 4 octobre 2009

Fragment from November 2007

slow walking round the ponds
sunbeams mixing with the pealed out church bells
rippling out along with the ponds at a steady beat
the geese are on their toes digging on the jazz
that whiffs like smoke from a nearby café

Between Two Glances

a little more time between two glances
a few more words between the lines

a scrap of conversation,
an unsweet nothing whispered in my ear
everything can come tumbling back down

the note of her voice is enough
that she is sad rips me apart
my fingers knotted
... to take her in my arms

my own weakness

if i were to leave it all behind
to drop everything

these words are mine
these words
formed by no more than an inability to communicate
these words have no meaning
these words are not mine

how can anything belong
when we can’t even keep the words within our grasp
all of it disappearing
all things going back to their original

to see her eyes shine i would tear out my own
to caress i would cut off my hands

today is not the day that i was looking for
not for what i hadn't lost, but simply had never had
everything getting in my way
a fog hanging over my coffee chilling it to bitter drizzle before it could reach my lips
dirty drainpipe
filthy in my electric blue silk boxers
ready to give in at any moment
my mouth working for the enemy
blocking all forms of oral communication
my room wrinkled with fatigue

metro was cold and empty
everyone was sick of the whole damn thing
lets just get the holidays over with
lets just flush it all down the toilet and say that we ate the cake

still keep her ring on my finger
can't stop touching it and turning it around on my finger

every time a door slams it must be her getting out of her car coming here to lie in my arms

no one is there to pick me up from the ashes
no one is there to scoop my soul from the ground
to send it flying on its course to another world

Posting the old poems ...

As I can't seem to get it together to write anything new for the moment, I am going to start moving through all of the old stuff I wrote. It's all sitting on my computer. Been there for years. I'll start putting it up and giving a quite edit and comment. Maybe I'll be inspired. Maybe you will be. At least it will then be be safe in the cloud.

vendredi 24 avril 2009

Cloud Atlas book review ?? Well not really ...

So my first review. First of all, I will not give star ratings, but I find it just too hokey to impose such a simplistic system on something as complicated as a novel. Also, I'm not so interested in writing a review as opening a discussion with some of my FB friends. This has turned out a bit longer than expected so I am putting up on my blog instead.
Let's start with this: for the last six months I have had reader's block. Besides reading the news, I have been unable/unwilling to sink my mind into a good novel. This is something which normally comes quite naturally to me. I began quite late. I didn't much like reading until I was about 11. But since I discovered the Chronicles of Narnia (which I recently reread and found rather awful) in 6th grade I have become a voracious reader.
My main source of pulp as an adolescent was SciFi and Fantasy. So I have at the same time a weakness and a highly critical eye of Literature parading as either. Dorris Lessing and Margaret Atwood have been doing this for years and they do it oh so well. One could argue that Pynchon's novels are a form of fantasy. But there are others who seem to have no grasp of the idea of creating a world apart. Philip K Dick once defined Science Fiction as any story based on some precept which is not true in our world. I like that definition. It gives a great amount of leeway, but I would add that writing good SF&F requires being consistent with those precepts which you have changed. If you are talking about some post-apocalyptic world two thousands years in the future, there should not be any working guns and cans of food just lying around (I'm thinking of Houellebecq). Or if there are, there had better damn well be a reason for it. Of course this is not just true of SF&F, it is true of any story. But for me, these inconsistencies become even more jarring in the context of SF&F. When you are writing about so called reality, there is already a certain cadre which you are constrained to write within. Outside that cadre where anything is possible, those aspects different from reality will stick out. If one then contradicts that change on the next page or chapter, the reader will be more conscious of that change. That makes for unpleasant reading. Also, it doesn't take much craft to change the rules whenever it pleases the author, s/he might as well be one of Borges' monkeys whacking randomly at a typewriter.
A good SFF author has craft. S/he creates a world where there are rules which define how things happen. The rules do not have to be stated obviously (often the case in mediocre SFF); they simply become apparent as the story unfolds. I think that craft is the right word, because on top of any beautiful language (which we can argue is another kind of craft) or great ideas, the craft of story telling is what get to us. The story may be long or short, fragmented or convoluted, new or riffed; but without the story there is no story. That's just my opinion. I love everything post-modern, contemporary, or just plain whacked. But when I put a book down without finishing it, which does not happen often, its usually because I can't find any story worth following.
Many SciFi/Fantasy writers have taken the opposite path going from Pulp to Lit. This is what took me in that direction. There is no artificial line and it's exact location can be difficult to define but the passage does exist. If you look at Moorcock's early books, some them really are crap. I mean crap in terms of writing style. They are Heroic Fantasy novels, and as Heroic Fantasy they are excellent if you're an adolescent who wants to escape from the world of concrete and shopping malls. They are not badly written (like the ultra lame Da Vinci Code which continuously made me want to vomit all over it), but there is nothing in the writing which makes you sit back and take a deep breath and say oh wow to yourself. But as his career continued, there is more and more construction in his writing, until you get to something like Byzantium Endures which just blew me away.
Ok so, enough of all of that. What about The Cloud Atlas? Well I think I'll have to get to that in the next installment. If anyone has any comments about what I said as related to Cloud Atlas or as related to anything else, please feel free ...

lundi 19 janvier 2009

And we begin again ...

Been a while, but little by little the fever is growing again. The sound of my fingers on the keyboard. I can hear the clicking and it is sweet to my ears. The honey on my morning toast and the bandstand buskers in my ears. With all the imperfections for all of us to see and hear. The notes are not distorted by the sound of the wind and the seagulls nor the overhead airplanes. Each sound has a part.
What perfect performance? Anyone can play the right notes, strike the right cord. I take a thousand photos with my digital camera and one will be the perfect picture. Who cares !! Are we to become no more than monkeys striking on the keys. Where is the texture? Where is the depth ? Where can we feel the grit of the art we are living? Where is the soul behind that picture?
Where does the meaning come from?
I am thinking of Heidegger and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I think we are in age where Quality is tending to disappear. Where is the Craft and Intent? There is nothing wrong with the technology itself (thanks Mr Pirsig). I am not a Luddite. But Pirsig spoke of accepting technology at a time when it had not yet completely surrounded so much of our daily lives. I can accept that as well, but it is not because I am writing on this Blog and making my thought available to all and sundry across the world, that the quality of what I am writing is any better. The quality of my work can only be brought on through the quality of my spirit which is engendering this work.
Plastic surgery and body improvements. The perfectly sculpted master-piece that some surgeon has created kept in shape by personal trainers, high energy proteins, weeks at the spa ...