!

Tags

2013, 4*, bingo, eyebrow, eyes, face, hyperbole, lips, posture, speech, teeth

                                !

                hy!         – browraise
                purr       – lippurse sharp
                bowl      – ohm eye god
                leee       – alltheteeth clickety click

 

 

 

^{————w}(O)rmholes_________________________________|—–

eyes wormhole: AT-tennnnnnnn – waitfrit waitfrit – SHUN!
posture wormhole: and smile / like a bud
speech wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J Redford – Safe Home

 

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new year’s eve 2014; train up to London to / walk the bridges across the Thames, and / listen to the voices say it is, and was, like, / but get back home before the fireworks / obliterate it all in the emptying twilight

Tags

2014, anxiety, architecture, being, bench, birch, blue, Bob Hoskins, bridge, buddleia, buildings, Carol, change, crane, dark, doing, education, emptiness, experience, faces, field, fireworks, frost, glass, glasses, green, grey, Have, horizontal, houses, hyperbole, identity, impermanence, journey, life, lifetimes, light, listening, London, love, mouth, not knowing, openness, orange, others, passing, pastel, phone, pink, poetry, pointlessness, politics, red, scaffolding, silver, sky, speech, St. Paul's, station, staying, study, sun, table, talking to myself, Thames, thinking, thought, time, tired, train, travelling, trees, twilight, Uckfield-London line, voices, walking, white, windows, work

                                   new year’s eve 2014; train up to London to
                                   walk the bridges across the Thames, and
                                   listen to the voices say it is, and was, like,
                                   but get back home before the fireworks
                                   obliterate it all in the emptying twilight

                                   look out for the throwing up of hands and
                                   the want-only doing it anyway without thought
                                   or fibre thinking you deserve the better after
                                   all the point and anxiety of thinking; rather
                                   stay with the pastel openness of not knowing

                                   what to do; “it’s like they’re doing this to wind
                                   me up” all the mouth-open listening and loud
                                   hyperbole of their being, all app’d and down-
                                   loaded they, obbviously haven’t finished studying
                                   or whatever it is they’ve been bought into

                                   college to do these days; their time’ll come;
                                   frost covers the passing fields and trees, equally;
                                   “t’b’fair-r-rr, I’m not gen–you–in–lee concerned;
                                   I think, if you always stay in the same en–vie–
                                   rhon–meant …” gaze-mouth open … “I think,

                                   you need to have new ex–peer–re:–NCs
                                   nyoopeople nyooplaces” stopping waiting
                                   starting ten-ta-tively slow gliding, while another
                                   train shifts approaching the same station priority
                                   passes for a long time; then on another train,

                                   “it’s like we’re on another train”; frost thawing
                                   equally on the waste grounds between lines,
                                   green and horizontals return, except for the
                                   bare silver birch; so they no longer store parcels
                                   at London stations look how much they’ve

                                   brightly opened them up no more dingy offices
                                   and partitions where people lived their long
                                   and working life; on the stepped bench by the
                                   river across from the Poetry Library somewhere
                                   in the Southbank Centre I struggle with the

                                   vacuous way things have to change but forget
                                   the dark silt accumulated in unused yards
                                   where not even the buddleia grow, as St. Paul’s
                                   becomes dwarfed by glass and leaning building;
                                   all the sun across the riverside architecture –

                                   depth from finial cupola and scaffolding except
                                   the red cranes up into the grey-blue-blue-grey
                                   sky concrete counter-weight and lifting-hods
                                   catching light despite orange lights clean atop each
                                   arm and elbow; crowds walking the bridge under

                                   suspension ties leaning towards the last pillar; tired
                                   now we travel home under neon light on exasperated
                                   faces with no expression past turning houses and
                                   raised embankments, a passenger stands suddenly
                                   to leave, “oh, he’s dropped a tooth” quips Carol out

                                   loud, “I’m joking; it was a mint imperial” rolled
                                   under the table, look, the man with pink-frame
                                   glasses chuckles into his phone like Bob Hoskins,
                                   love him; “this is coach number five of twelve”
                                   we need to make sure we are travelling in the

                                   correct part of the train otherwise we cannot alight;
                                   “please mind the gap”; I cannot retain things that
                                   have passed (I can’t help it: “that are past”) no matter
                                   how much they may chime with the time in
                                   retrospect, during the last leg of “whatever” journey

                                   home looking for more to add to the poem greedy
                                   through the darkening windows, ah, but it’s too late
                                   now, the arc has already formed the spine, all the
                                   particulars falling in fitted pattern like feathers giving
                                   the illusion of lift and flight amid pervasive dissolution

 

 

 

^{————w}(O)rmholes_________________________________|—–

anxiety & identity & time wormhole: re lax // me
architecture & bench & buddleia & glasses wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich 121114
being & doing & houses & openness & sky & sun & windows wormhole: lobby
birch wormhole: Eridge Station
blue & glass & green wormhole: the silent night of the Batman
bridge & trees wormhole: Kirby’s landscapes
buildings & Have & speech wormhole: great underbelly to the rooftops
Carol & pink & politics wormhole: Luisenplatz
change wormhole: the Last Day of Morecambe Illuminations
crane & grey & light & London & mouth & red & walking wormhole: Plumstead – Woolwich – Plumstead 290508 – / the breath of London
education wormhole: poessay IX – … just saying, is all II
emptiness & pontlessness wormhole: never there
faces wormhole: – sigh! –
field wormhole: tag cloud poem VII – form new freedom:
life & others wormhole: career came to naught …
lifetimes wormhole: transition
listening wormhole: there are patient listeners
love & poetry wormhole: sometimes
orange wormhole: Christmas
passing & travelling wormhole: dawn
silver wormhole: across the room / through the patio doors / through the conservatory windows / at the bottom of the garden / the still bifurcated trunk of / the oak / before the let-grown hair and fringes / of the fir tree / blown every lifetime in a while by the winter sun // actually
study wormhole: letters to Mum I – a walk / and talk
talking to myself wormhole: yet another sprain / of ‘Jingle Bells’ straining / to propagate yet another / tired Christmas spirit – … / ‘sanner clawsis coming t’ taunn – yeah’ in a / coffee shop with condensation / running off the snowflake transfers / and the iphone at the next table / talking how 50 means 900 a month – not worth / the drive (left his scarf behind – / collateral) … about my age
Thames wormhole: 1967
thinking wormhole: thinking wide enough
thought wormhole: breathe it all / in
train wormhole: is she / looking at me?
twilight wormhole: dream / 301197 // home
Uckfield-London line wormhole: Hever
voices wormhole: ‘green post …’
white wormhole: letters to Mum V – carrying on in duty and love
work wormhole: corroboration

 

tag cloud poem IV – C

Tags

2014, being, birds, blue, career, Carol, cars, Castleton, cat, child, childhood, city, clouds, coffee shop, combe end, comics, communication, compassion, compromise, conservatory, crane, Crowborough, curtains, doing, evening, Germany, hills, house, hyperbole, Jon, life, mauve, olive, purple, sound, Spring, stone, streets, summer, sun, tag cloud poem, time, town, traffic

 

 

 

C is gridlocked in a
career of her own driving
stuck like so many cars winding their way through small hill-town high streets
            (Castleton in the summer where
             everybody wants their Blue John stone
             to remember that they have seen the hills)

                                                      … but a cat
            is always a pet and will search for the warmest spot in a house
and a pet is always a child searching for the evidence that they exist
                           and a child can only belong to a childhood
                                          already passed

                                          the city
            stays where it is – high and low – the
            clouds pass behind – fast and slow – the
            coffee shop ‘chinks’ and clutters all day
the curtains are drawn all up combe end in the evening in the suburbs

                           even in the city of comics
            the streets are mauve and purple (where the traffic makes the facades dirty oliveblue)
            where communication is declarative and desperate and
            compassion is hyperbolic and demonstrable
but the compromise must ever be invisible and unnoticed otherwise
            everything grinds to the self-conscious stop
                                          that ‘we built this city …’ to escape

            here in the conservatory
she lays in her favourite place and looks for a message from the son that moved to Germany
            the first of the Spring sun brings the reply like a silent crane
                           birds busily network all over Crowborough
                                         we have no curtains to draw here

 

 

 

^{————w}(O)rmholes_________________________________|—–

being wormhole: no quota too empty / no fate to fulfil
birds wormhole: tag cloud poem III – the journey to BEING and back again
blue & childhood & life & time wormhole: time
C wormhole: dream 040198 / Eglinton Hill
career wormhole: that’s me / in the corner that’s me in the spot light / losing my religion*
cars wormhole: 1963
Castleton wormhole: let
cat wormhole: existence
child wormhole: Beresford Square: // it’s alright it’s alright
city wormhole: Knapps
clouds wormhole: red net curtains / with appliqué blooms
coffee shop wormhole: tired
combe end & evening & house wormhole: star / through the kitchen / window
comics & sound wormhole: the sounds the difficulty and the long long strands of liquorice
communication wormhole: the Lamp
compassion wormhole: tag cloud poem II – acceptance
compromise wormhole: The Future of Teaching: performance or capability (‘oh, not ‘teaching’ then?’)
conservatory wormhole: across the room / through the patio doors / through the conservatory windows / at the bottom of the garden / the still bifurcated trunk of / the oak / before the let-grown hair and fringes / of the fir tree / blown every lifetime in a while by the winter sun // actually
crane wormhole: 1996 dream
Crowborough wormhole: the sun / in a clean / industrial / sky
curtains wormhole: rear attic / bedroom
doing & hills & streets wormhole: the edges of my reach
Jon wormhole: losing the anxiety
mauve wormhole: mlewisredford introductory complete life audit confessional
olive wormhole: still there?
purple wormhole: the strange mauve relief of / this burgundy-gritty encounter
Spring wormhole: coffee shop
stone wormhole: all the while / the flagpole rope / occasionally flaps / the breeze
sun wormhole: 25% scaffolding & rope
tag cloud poem wormhole: tag cloud poem III – the journey to BEING and back again

 

kids these days

Tags

2010, 4*, Have, hyperbole, identity, language, portrait, society, speech

 

 

 

                                                              kids these days

kids say “…seriously, I…” “…it really is…” “it was literally…” “it was like…” “I was like…” “…I’m not even joking”.   The references are often hyperbolic – or meant to convey hyperbole – because there is a great need to be heard (which normal formal language isn’t) hence the attention-grabbing distinction of the language.   But it is also a means of stating – exclaiming! – their identity (“I was like…wha’!!”).   And therein is the disempowerment of their own speech – self-declamatory statements become the currency, they become overused, hyperbole mounts up – “it really, literally, actually was…” – hyperbolic inflation sets in, runs out of control and leaves its citizens with no means to express themselves sincerely – bankruptcy, ‘whatever’!

Why such an over-consumed drive to declaratively state oneself?   Because in con-sciety (society based on the value and moral of consumerism) you are nothing (you are outside) if you are not defined by Have.   As soon as children become self-aware they are required to have – a priori – their self defined.   How to define one-self?   Panic, look around, how does it happen?   Self is defined by Have – you have things.   But adults do that with money, ‘can’t do that yet, but you can also Have statement.   Truth is declarative – not scientific not rational – I state therefore I am.   ‘It’s my opinion and I’ve got a right to it.   You can’t say I’m wrong’.   Young people have little linguistic reference or capital to declare so they universalise their local personal experience just as TV soaps are universal in their locality – their reference is exponential to the broadcast story, it is locally declarative but watched by, like, everyone.   What they see and learn in their own back living room they practise at school and measure how tall they are growing by the attention they get with their declarations (or wilful bankruptcy).   There are winners and losers: the winners ultimately (literally) appear on TV (the pub the party the gossip the paper) the losers listen and copy…

 

 

 

^{————w}(O)rmholes_________________________________|—–

Have & society wormhole: Have
identity wormhole: and
speech wormhole: sit