clear as vista


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                buildings of the skyline
                nonchalant and upright

                heave breath through season
                own skyline in years

                wave flags and storey
                benign and unquestioned

                to the wind and the space
                which is safe from view

                the impossible interface be
                tween Have and Open

                for space fits around
                and wind is just movement

                from nowhere to nowhere
                when seen in effect

                when seen in relief their
                built-in apocalypse

                of gathering obsolescence
                is clear as vista


this poem was found within the above image which was the most recent in a series of ‘Wordless Wednesday’s by Vanessa Foster in her blog, Unguarded Moments: have a look – – and ‘related’ back to her previous ones, too: they are beautiful




breath wormhole: breathing through hypnagogia
buildings & city wormhole: between
Have wormhole: is there anything to write?
openness wormhole: in the Java ‘n’ Jazz
skyline wormhole: the silent night of the Batman
space wormhole: I keep / waiting to be discovered and get lost in anticipation
time wormhole: circuitry
wind wormhole: step



‘God, who am I …?’


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picked over, cajoled, placed this way and that, gazed at the upper corner of the room, and eventually written from entry 33. of The Journals of Sylvia Plath, 1950-1962; Plath wrote this, I merely … Plath wrote this, but the failure is mine, all mine, I tellsya!

                God, who am I?
                I sit in the library tonight
                the lights whirring
                girls everywhere
                reading books

                And I sit here without identity
                There is history to comprehend
                before I sleep

                Yet back at the house
                there is my room
                full of my presence
                There is my date this weekend:
                believes I am human –
                only indication that I am whole
                not merely a knot
                without identity –

                I’m lost!
                Huxley would have laughed
                What a conditioning this is!
                Hundreds of faces
                beating time along the edge of thought

                a nightmare
                no sun
                only continual motion
                If I rest inward
                I go mad

                There is so much
                in different directions
                pulled thin
                against horizons too distant to reach

                To stop with the German tribes
                and rest awhile: but no!
                On, on, on, through ages of empires
                ceaseless pace
                Will I never rest in sunlight again?





20th century wormhole: 20th century
faces wormhole: jump start
history wormhole: tragic and archival
horizon wormhole: twilight / and parasols down / within minutes
identity wormhole: between
reading wormhole: reating & wriding
sitting wormhole: all the sandstone / reflections in the / marble-blue troughs
sun & Sylvia Plath wormhole: concordance
talking to myself wormhole: a nice grey woollen picnic blanket
thought wormhole: divergent // direction




, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

                above the edges of rooftop
                are ever silhouettes

                of taller building and watery tower
                by the light of the silvery moon

                sometimes hanging upside down
                will be the Batman

                cape hanging uselessly, otherwise
                he may stand on cornice

                and look down on a street lit by lamp
                and throw shadow

                over the whole façade – impasse between
                moon and lamp –

                the eternal dichotomy;
                outside the city the detail is in the sky

                between branch and leaf
                and as dawn approaches the cowl

                and the cape
                will come off





Batman wormhole: Infantino / district of Gotham
branches & shadow wormhole: such such potential
buildings wormhole: windows // and balconies
city & rooftops wormhole: ‘charcoal grey-slate sky …’
dawn wormhole: every step I take
identity wormhole: circuitry
leaves wormhole: walk from Castleton to Hope
light wormhole: the evening
moon wormhole: that comicbookshop … // … in dreams
silhouette wormhole: ‘avenue of wraggled gorse tops …’
silver wormhole: garden
sky wormhole: forgotten anything
streetlight wormhole: faintly apricot air?
streets wormhole: place




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                                                                    so much
                    unless there were                         overrule and overlay
             can not respond to                                   forming ad hoc
                my silent mind                                         circuitry
    gathering echoes that                                           both clipped
                 demands like                                             and split
 in a vacuous world that                                           through junction
             to make the play                                          and relay
             choice is bypassed                                    massed in
           so thick over time that                         cable over lead





being wormhole: holiday
career wormhole: breathing through hypnagogia
circular poem wormhole: in the / Citadel / Park / a leaf / new / ly fell
communication wormhole: just saying, is all VIII: keeping up toxic appearences
doing & thinking wormhole: place
echo & society wormhole: divergent // direction
identity wormhole: concordance
mind wormhole: jump start
silence wormhole: make your rickety / constructs strong with / unbending grids / of attention and wide- / open grates of let
time wormhole: lime crocs
world wormhole: I keep / waiting to be discovered and get lost in anticipation


duty free // chastened


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                I took no notice of the

                         duty free

                goods and gifts trolley
                making wheel-swivel
                progress down the aisle
                until I looked up and saw





                in letters bold-to-be-seen
                and yet smugly ignored
                for I do not smoke and
                felt nevertheless suitably






passing wormhole: is there anything to write?


is there anything to write?


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                I pick the book up again
                is there anything to write?

                but the mistake of looking around
                for the hook       on the beach

                and all I find is bait: peoples’ toes and
                scars of show the butts and tans of innocence

                the tattoos of belong and the passing music of trance
                the chest-walk of men the eyes-down of girl

                to the bottom of the page
                where I find I have written nothing





beach wormhole: all the sandstone / reflections in the / marble-blue troughs
eyes & Have & looking & music & writing wormhole: concordance
others wormhole: so pleased to see you again
passing wormhole: lime crocs
pojntlessness wormhole: this sodden land
walking wormhole: dear Lucy


lime crocs


, , , , , , , , , ,

                                pulled backwards over
                                the flat paviours
                of Mogan

                                asleep like a young
                                granddad in tiny
                lime crocs





child wormhole: place
lime wormhole: twilight / and parasols down / within minutes
passing wormhole: concordance
sleep wormhole: darkness
time wormhole: all the sandstone / reflections in the / marble-blue troughs




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                      not seeing
                      the energy
                      shift and wave

                      I flex in all the
                      wrong places to
                      ground my own
                      earth to stand

                      on, there, there
                      is the precision
                      but then I easily
                      despise my hope

                      and put on weight
                      far too quick to
                      judge and lurch
                      toward vindication

                      it’s just ‘thinking’
                      that makes it so
                      a toddler’s head
                      chatters by your side

                      just let them all be
                      let their bouncing hair
                      be gentleness to the
                      palm of the hand but

                      don’t take them by
                      the hand to lead them
                      through the streets
                      of London, there’s

                      nothing to find in found
                      and always there are
                      smiling deals to make,
                      letting go, in the market






capitalism wormhole: miss / ad / venture – poewieview #22
child wormhole: municipal garden
doing wormhole: holiday
groundlessness wormhole: the quiet whale
hair wormhole: and I lose sight of her into memory
hands wormhole: twilight / and parasols down / within minutes
letting go wormhole: woman / has worked in the gym / got a build
London wormhole: landscape of cloud over London / with differing depths of grey
seeing & thinking wormhole: time
sound wormhole: Tara mantras
streets wormhole: ‘charcoal grey-slate sky …’
vindication wormhole: the writing’s on the wall
waves wormhole: concordance


all the sandstone / reflections in the / marble-blue troughs


, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

                all the sandstone
                reflections in the
                marble-blue troughs

                when I was young
                I would fall in love
                with the children

                of families near to
                which we sat for
                hours on the beach





beach wormhole: twilight / and parasols down / within minutes
blue wormhole: forgotten anything
childhood wormhole: lost and city ground
family wormhole: to rescue something
love wormhole: too greedy
reflection wormhole: dream I // dream II
sitting wormhole: concordance
time wormhole: slightly / uphill
water wormhole: volcanic rock;




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                                                                                                how to be
                                                                                in a holiday resort
                                                                where the Have is strolled
                                                and swaggered and tattoo’d
                                catching glance like after-image
                when the eyes are closed?


                                why aren’t I writing?            Well
                                                                I am
                but I was expecting to see something else when I wrote
                                the flow of another holiday
                                                rather than the
                                                that I have still yet to discover
                                in my writing eyes wide


                                                the sun and skin keep me
                                                                lapping without gain
                                                                and replaying the chorus from the ‘Nightfly’                
                                                                                unsure if I ever got the verse


                                                                but nevertheless
                                                I still worry that I don’t write
                                                                as Plath and Salinger would lifefully so

                                                                I even know the answer
                                but I cannot sit at the moment,
                                                                I thought I had armour by the sea but it has

                                                                so quickly rusted
                                                and I’m overweight and 54 thinking
                                                                of illness and waste





eyes & Salinger wormhole: slightly / uphill
flow wormhole: happen//ing
Have wormhole: pass and / fro
holiday wormhole: holiday
identity wormhole: h’rk ‘eh ‘heh ‘hair ‘yeah ‘eh?
life wormhole: I turn to wake up
looking wormhole: Tara mantras
music wormhole: in the Java ‘n’ Jazz
passing wormhole: ‘someone …’
sea & sun & Sylvia Plath & waves & writing wormhole: jump start
sitting wormhole: woman / has worked in the gym / got a build