I could drink a case of you

“We must kill the false woman who is preventing the live one from breathing.” 

“The more I anoint the more my mind adheres physically to the mysterious fabric of love.
I am decutie. Worn thin. You know that word?”
― Hélène Cixoux

“An old cardboard box: you think it but you don't say it.
Leftovers, that are swept up and glued together.
I am your alipte, I say, I am your personal trainer and masseuse. I oil you.
But there's no ointment against the bad thoughts and phantasms.”
― Hélène Cixous

“It is essential to exchange the invisible ring for all that we call survival, survive, survivor.”
― Hélène Cixous

Yesterdays field notes

On writing

Obsessive innerness-

thing-that-writes is in a sense the thing-that-is-being-written

the method is often associatorial as with psychoanalysis. The meanings dormant in etymologies, sounds, permutations of letters, slips of the tongue are given creative importance.
SELF, LANGUAGE, MEANINGS, RELATIONS

It is because of this woven structure that Neutre has been referred to as a "chaosmos" The 'uni'verse that it encompasses has two earth and seas of many colours and textures. It is seemingly disorganized clutter of real and non-real beings in complete anachronism.

Neuter derived from the Latin ne-uter, means 'neither one nor the other' but must be understood to mean 'one is not without the other'
This translation rejects the idea of a neuter which would rise above sexual difference towards an undifferentiated totality towards a conception of sexual difference as a clear cut difference.

Reading as a participatory act
decode

soil-growing

If you skip anything, be it a step or a barrier, you're repressing

Skin is more precious than paper

Reading list
Kafka
Stendhal - the characterisation of Parma
Balzac - the girl with the golden eyes
Nathalie Saurraute
Maguerite Duras
Conrad - the heart of darkness


Kafka---- writing should win & so I lose my life

the value of life and the value of writing

throws out words like bait

cultivated like a piece of land

do I have the right to deprive the world of my embrace and to burden it with my writing or scraps???

Advancing in incomprehension

The book of revelations

Everything takes place as if a man had to achieve a precise goal and said to himself "Here is how I must arrange my weapons, my reserves, my supply, considering the resource at my disposal"

You touched me as if I wasn't there. You looked through me. You didn't answer me. You stayed staring.

Which is the greater gift?

Philosophical blind alleys

anxiety is the dizziness of freedom
infinite possibility despite the sinfulness of the world

oh the malaise of being the world!

In our relationship I built you and you built me.

anxiety stems from the subjects constant need to recreate himself, his responsibility to post a future self in the contingency and disorder of his freedom.

trace of the phantoms that might have been precarious

a school of thought which inspires irrelevance

Derrida in Exile

In or out (Cixous)

Lytords Algeria

Displacing Barthes

Estrangete (Kristeva)

Spivaks echo

La chambre Claire

The Motherland

pre-condition without home

YOUR DEATH is going to happen TO ME

Magic House

I want the world of pulses before destiny

realisation

You turn the dust into diamonds
I turn the diamonds into dust...

Please. Speak./ I will die if you don't speak.

At the height of which
Those vowels entangle me
Caressing, cradling, long letters
Warps and wefts, black threads
A minimalist embroiders dream.
And the soothing oval of his opening
closing mouth
Remedies my holes with speech
those worthy of only kindliness,
that fill me with a ringing ease

your own capacity to home me

peering back
the lethargic letter rests,
lay your head!
on the inside of a hip
an elegant line -
the crisp of the middletone
whom makes the soft heart notes
go sensuously through,
the cutting dark consonants,
thick ink fishtail
the curves and kinks

and, as he blinks, subtly,
its like his lashes were feathers,
of twilight chicks half asleep
and he utters casual letters,
of a God sung script.

Oh how I wake in me wakeful sleep
I need the letters to breath, I need the letters to swim!
Are you still with me?
I can't live without your twigs,
your grammar nest and your breath blanket
branching out into little nerve endings,
a b-boat, a c-cot, a d-dorm, and an egg.

These syllables, these sounds

They are protecting me from the never ending loss of the centre.

Oh man who plays, the men who sing! Words, losses

Full of ease, at pleasure, at yours - open door, 
bleeding speech, bending over... keep going
my little hut... your a boat and a parasol, 

and I collapse, sitting lowly, underneath 
the caverns of your speech.

I will die if you don't speak.

“I’M THE VESTAL PRIESTESS of a secret I’ve forgotten”  
Clarice Lispector

I know a woman

'I know a woman who is at second glance an ensemble of five little boys and one little girl. As for the following glances...'

Cixous

One day, when I am a woman and you are a man
or, when you are woman and I am a man
we will make babies.
And, If we be the planets; 
rounded edged cores of impenetrable substance
spun on layers of other worldy fibres
they will be our little solar systems,
shes and hes and hes and shes, 
and she-hes like us. 
extra terrestrial, superhuman, 
sexless, definitive beings.
Roaming - we'll make a 'roaming'
and we'll circle our centres in legendary love.

grey days, forever days

Greyness covers every page
Of a heart
Splattered with black and white ink
A dedication
to black and white
now
to the script of my mourning
and you, I hope,
my eventual destiny.
Now its for making the thing liveable
do-able
under a grey sky
far-far away from home
Untangle the body and live in simplicity
or, some sort
for
the diving day will come
and you will be
truly prepared

you should hope my dear
that the thing you love
should stay alive
or else, you would regret this patience.
Living now on a land run by system
working
stand up and ride the tube land
arrive at destination safely land,
know where your going
and what time your coming home
land
Well
I only have one home now
so
my desexualised body will walk this strange place
and stop, and ponder
the things around
its environmens
its paths

Deep down in its depth though
it will long,
and her real existence will be laying on daggers.
On the surface, dull days and bright days will make grey years
And I shall wait and wait and wait and wait
I should tell you, I'll be waiting in a coma til you come to get me
And then my real life shall begin again
And I shall roam my love, with you, forever.

That's where I belong

"I am only interested in my eyes when they're looking at you."

Parturition, Mina Loy

I am the centre
Of a circle of pain
Exceeding its boundaries in every direction

The business of the bland sun
Has no affair with me
In my congested cosmos of agony
On infinitely prolonged nerve-vibrations
Or in contradiction
To the pin-point nucleus being

Locate an irritation               without
It is                                       within
                                             Within
It is without
The sensitized area
Is identical               with the extensity
Of intension

I am the false quantity
In the harmony of physiological potentiality
To which
Gaining self-control
I should be consonant
In time

Pain is no stronger than the resisting force
Pain calls up in me
The struggle is equal

Isadora Duncan and Sergei Esenin both possess a "superhuman" quality. They rapidly became legendary characters in their own right, defied by some and reviled by others. Their lives may appear enviably heroic or painfully absurd; their complex personal relationship seems to combine elements of epic and tragic.

D O you think I'll dO Okay BABY.
D O you think I'll dO OKAY?

The Socialist

You give your 'love yous' out 
and pour them like potpourri
over the likes of every thorn you ever met
nestle heads and wishes and dreams of exotic days ahead
amoungst the swept up dried up, cuttled, salted heads
and take your florist apron around the town 
and fill it up with bitty pieces and crumpled ends
and by the part of day you may or may not be, 
delighted by your new friends
and harass the dogs and bleach the sacks
be about, you one and only fly
and make a map, of your truce
with whoever it was that put you here
and starved you with your own concoctions
and bled you from your own devotion
to the fleet of bodies all mixed up together
lost in an orgy of 'never coming to get mes'
the muted version of a tale long lost
and a meal long wasted
on a man who won't discriminate
but who too can't distinguish the flavours

BIG LOA CANNOT RIDE little horses

We wear sweaters, together, we wear sweaters. 
We are casual, manifestations of black rimmed plainness, and we love it. We love eachothers faces. Forces, to reckon with. 
And boyish and golden, lets set up base.
A home, a house, without any furniture.
Holding hands, without a care, light as the air.
And sweaters, black sweaters, to move around the town.

Dungarees dungarees,
Dungarees as you please
If you'll be wanting plaited sheath
I'll be wearing dungarees, dungarees

Oh Mina Loy, F word Manifesto

Mina Loy, Feminist Manifesto

Women if you want to realize yourselves-you are on the eve of a devastating psychological upheaval-all your pet illusions must be unmasked—the lies of centuries have got to go—are you prepared for the Wrench–? There is no half-measure—NO scratching on the surface of the rubbish heap of tradition, will bring about Reform, the only method is Absolute Demolition

Cease to place your confidence in economic legislation, vise-crusades & uniform education-you are glossing over Reality.

Professional & commercial careers are opening up for you—
Is that all you want?

And if you honestly desire to find your level without prejudice—be Brave & deny at the outset—that pathetic clap-trap war cry Woman is the equal of man-
For
She is NOT

The man who lives a life in which his activities conform to a social code which is protectorate of the feminine element—–is no longer masculine

The women who adapt themselves to a theoretical valuation of their sex as a relative impersonality, are not yet Feminine

Leave off looking to men to find out what you are not —–seek within yourselves to find out what you are

As conditions are at present constituted—you have the choice between Parasitism, & Prostitution —-or Negation

Men & women are enemies, with the enmity of the exploited for the parasite, the parasite for the exploited—at present they re at the mercy of the advantage that each can take the others sexual dependence—-. The only point at which the interests of the sexes merge—is the sexual embrace.

The first illusion it is to your interest to demolish of women into two classes the mistress, & the mother every well-balanced & developed woman knows that is not true. Nature has endowed the complete functions—-there are no restrictions on the woman who is so incompletely evolved as to be un-self-conscious in sex, will prove a restrictive influence on the temperamental expansion of the next generation; the woman who is a poor mistress will be an incompetent mother—an inferior mentality—& will enjoy an inadequate apprehension of Life.

To obtain results you must make sacrifices & the first and greatest sacrifice you have to make is of your ”virtue”

The fictitious value of a woman as identified with her physical purity—is too easy to stand-by—rendering her lethargic in the acquisition of intrinsic merits of character by which she could obtain a concrete value—-therefore, the fist self-enforced law for the female sex, as a protection of the man made bogey of virtue—which is the principal instrument of her subjection, would be the unconditional surgical destruction of virginity through-out the female population at puberty—-.

The value of man is assessed entirely according to his use or interest to the community, the value of woman depends entirely on chance, her success or in success in maneuvering a man into taking the life-long responsibility of her—

The advantages of marriage are too ridiculously ample—
Compared to all other trades—for under modern conditions a woman can accept preposterously luxurious support from a man (with-out the return of an sort—even offspring)—as a thank offering for her virginity.

The woman who has not succeeded in striking that advantageous bargin—-is prohibited from any but surreptitious re-action to Life-stimuli—-&entirely debarred maternity.
Every woman has a right to maternity—-

Every woman of superior intelligence should realize her race-responsibility, in producing children in adequate proportion to the unfit or degenerate members of her sex—-

Each child of a superior woman should be the result f a definite period of psychic development in her life—-& and not necessarily of a possible irksome & outworn continuance of an alliance—spontaneously adapted for vital creation n the beginning but not necessarily harmoniously balanced as evolution.

For the harmony of race, each individual should be the expression of an easy & ample interpenetration of th male & female temperaments—free of stress
Woman must become more responsible for the child than man—-
Woman must destroy in themselves, the desire to be loved—

The feeling that it is a personal insult when a man transfers his attention from her to another woman

The desire for comfortable protection instead of an intelligent curiosity & courage in meeting & resisting the pressure of life sex or so called love must be reduced to its initial element, honour, grief, sentimentality, pride and & consequently jealousy must be detached from it.
Woman for her happiness must retain her deceptive fragility of appearance, combined with indomitable will, irreducible courage, & abundant health the outcome of sound nerves—
Another great illusion is that woman must use all her introspective and clear-sightedness & unbiased bravery to destroy—for the sake of her self respect is the impurity of sex the realization in defiance of superstition that there is nothing impure in sex—except in the mental attitude to it—will constitute an incalculable & wider social regeneration than it is possible for our generation to imagine.

I'll make it, I'll make it back alright.
My limbs aren't lank but they seem to be failing me now.
Thighs that were made for bolting,
Columns full of thunder and might.
But, I'm gathering food from this fight
Enough to pressurise the flight

Food for thought

Your voice girl, is like a body

Dancing, dissolving worries, erasing sorrow,

And your body, my pretty one, is like words,

Words of philosophers who got drunk and forgot time.

How strange!

S O S

Lunar Baedeker

A silver Lucifer

serves
cocaine in cornucopia

To some somnambulists
of adolescent thighs
draped
in satirical draperies

Peris in livery
prepare
Lethe
for posthumous parvenues

Delirious Avenues
lit
with the chandelier souls
of infusoria
from Pharoah's tombstones

lead
to mercurial doomsdays
Odious oasis
in furrowed phosphorous---

the eye-white sky-light
white-light district
of lunar lusts

---Stellectric signs
"Wing shows on Starway"
"Zodiac carrousel"

Cyclones
of ecstatic dust
and ashes whirl
crusaders
from hallucinatory citadels
of shattered glass
into evacuate craters

A flock of dreams
browse on Necropolis

From the shores
of oval oceans
in the oxidized Orient
Onyx-eyed Odalisques
and ornithologists
observe
the flight
of Eros obsolete

And "Immortality"
mildews...
in the museums of the moon

"Nocturnal cyclops"
"Crystal concubine"
-------
Pocked with personification
the fossil virgin of the skies
waxes and wanes---- 

Mina Loy

Mr Rochester.
& the Forgotten Prince

You know that cliche scene where she run run runs, straight into his arms?
Like he was the only man who ever lived and she was the most beautiful woman in the world?

the forgotten prince

"While lying next to you I was thinking how I should've responded earlier. I recalled what you brought out in me last summer and the refuge you provided. I can't answer whether or not there's a 'person' inside but I can say with certainty there is some light in you drawing in all us lowly moths..."

Nourbo

Saubode

abode

Noleebode

bambode

Rania El Hakim

Review: Kamal Khalifa Gallery, Monoprints, Rania El Hakim

A new show by Rania El-Hakim opens at Kamal Khalifa Gallery, Gezira Arts Centre. Simply entitled 'Monoprints' the new works try to capture the 'melange of relationships' encapsulated in the City, relationships that create the energy and vibrancy one may feel simply by walking down a street. El-Hakims Monoprints in this sense share themes with her previous works and exhibits, where by we see her effort to reveal the living being or soul not as a separate entity but as interconnected with the world it inhabits and the people with whom it shares its space.

If the show seeks to capture the contradictory dialogues of city, living; between the moving and the static, the visible and the invisible it does this so softly, so delicately, that each little pocket of colour, on its small square of off white paper makes for its own little peaceful contradiction - the self made miniature landscape is more harmony than flux.

A birds-eye view of a construction site in motion on a desert scape with a docking station where boats are just beginning to set a sail, sometimes the emblem of a snake appears, and a satellite station watches the movements of beings, who are all but little dots on an abstracted map of town. Do we spot artillery? Is this place preparing for something? Is it all about to go off?

The tracking system with its bleeping digital clock takes us down to ancient ruins and back up to the end of another day and the quieting down of its metropolis. What is so prevalent though is the sense of civilization that occurs within each frame, the vibrations of scurrying human existence - an ant farm - is mapped only through movement and time. Abstracted shapes create areas of settlement, buildings, tracks, seedbeds, gravel – walked through, dirt stains, blood blots and traces of fine hairs.

Skins of the earth.

Though we talk of the human soul as the one which is looking for balance, here the artist in question is mark-making in a way that appears undomestic; like a creature of another species scratching at the surface, proving his existence, making himself vital, searching for food and asking to survive. Repetitively each print is signed in pencil together with a small text marking them each 1/1 (one of one), matching the title of the show; the mono print is a one off, a moment which has passed and will not be replicated. The artist describes the works as painting, and this is justifiable since the print making process has been edited, overlaid, patched up and in places even eliminated and scratched out. Earthy tones are aligned and misaligned with blocks and patches of inky pigments, a bright blue, a fluorescent yellow, is dynamite in this otherwise still-scape.

Ask me where I have been, 

what I have done, 

who I have seen

I will tell you, 

'what I have done', 

'where I have been' and 

'who I have seen'

Take my breath
and recycle it
for your used up 
respiratory system
I have plenty.

Wake up 'sister'!
Like a brat on a stick.

/səˈkəm/

Verb

There are no Captions!

AlexandRA.

Its time to pick it apart.
To make that exploration.
To be in touch with what is, 
or all that you will ever know of this place.
Its time to keep the sand in the hand, and use it for production purposes...
However thinly you may have spread it there before...
Its time to get up.
And write it. Write it down down soldier.
You are, you are, you are.
You are entitled 
to build - so knock down the thought of anyone who won't let you
(on purpose, or dimly not so)
And
You are you are
AlexandRA. 

K

Whenever I am scared of new beginnings, or anxious about unfamiliar grounds, whether in love or friendship, work or geography, I think of Kamilya and a number of other women. They, at different stages in their lives, have burned the bridges of comfort and went off towards further living, more intense. They have accepted the loses but celebrated the gains. These women are my heroes.

Helene Cixous: This procedure [demarche] of truth is for me the gift you

give to humanity. In reading you we learn that the truth is always a bit further on. From the place where you arrive, you set off again, you take

yourself back up, you relaunch yourself, you do not sit the truth on your knees. Truth makes you tick [La verite tefait marcher] in all the senses of the word. It's also the law of writing: one can only write in the direction of that which does not let itself be written and which one must try to write. What I can write is already written, it is no longer of interest. I always head towards the most frightening. This is what makes writing thrilling but painful. I write towards what I flee. I dream about it. It is

always a jardin d'Essai, but it is an infernal, expelling garden.

the greed is the unraveling

Sensuality often makes love grow too quickly, so that the root remains weak and is easy to pull out

I think I shall fall in love with grammar

I want to read Caribbean literature

Re-construction site

WE BROKE FREE, 

thank god the gold is mine

WE BROKE FREE

"You knew, even if you wouldn’t admit it now, that leaning in and pulling me close was an act of conquering as much as a foreigner arriving in a strange new land, planting his flag and declaring to everyone he can reach, that the peaks and valleys of this territory are now his."

Yarn wrapped around a wood block stamp

wool becomes a carpet, earth becomes a palace

is not the darkness of letters but the whiteness of a pure heart

just like mine

The mirrors getting old, but its changing what I see
I know I am in love because lovers are internal
each one grips, marking a little threshold - tug at my heart string
there is a little peasant girl who is shooing the flies away from her eyes,
my eyes, the ones that show me so little.
Thumping around down there, in the depts of my confusion, are little mice consolidating my arguments.
A man is putting his chin to my head and I rest a little while, until I realise I have two chins
Rest is my possession now, and I sleep on the little arm of my love
I kiss her on the cheek and tell her little riddles to keep her awake,
her temperament always accommodating, just like mine

From Poem 2 of the Tarjuman al-Ashwaq, translated by R.A. Nicholson.

Wild is she, none can make her his friend

When she kills with her glances, her speech restores to life, as tho she, in giving life thereby, were Jesus.
The smooth surface of her legs is (like) the Tora in brightness, and I follow it and tread in its footsteps as tho' I were Moses.
She is a bishopess, one of the daughters of Rome, unadorned: thou seest in her a radiant Goodness.
Wild is she, none can make her his friend; she has gotten in her solitary chamber a mausoleum for remembrance.
She has baffled everyone who is learned in our religion, every student of the Psalms of David, every Jewish doctor, and every Christian priest.
If with a gesture she demands the Gospel, thou wouldst deem us to be priests and patriarchs and deacons.
The day when they departed on the road, I prepared for war the armies of my patience, host after host.

col quote let

I refuse to contemplate the most beautiful countries of the earth, shrunken in the amorous mirror of your gaze

Colette

I've fallen out of the moon
And I'm only thinking of you

Which only proves that his violence, the fruit of his upbringing, still exists within him. That this intellectual is conscious of his violence doesn't stop him from using it, on the contrary, he expresses it.

im·po·tent  

disturbance (dear M, I am sorry to have caused you trouble)

a crazed moon
tatiana without a horse
olympia where are my truffles?
pleaded like a shackled witch
and waited like an exuberant nympth
Big rooms, greedy caverns
the inches of my distress
and sitting there
puddle of mud, weeper
I can't move in this room
the mirror will fall down
the shower pane will explode!

scrub dem eyes
scrub dem eyes

12 hours of sleep
blood in the bed
oh! come lay your head, my sweet

and muted now, after the scream of another usual disturbance

hey, how is it going? .. I am fine, 2 days left for me to come back, it passed so fast!, anyway tell me.. u feel awful because u made a mistake or u just feel guilty for something that u had to do? .. To be honest when u ate at my home u seemed kind of in love... tell me, being there killed all of that? you found another reality and you dont wanna come back soon or u just wanna do it but without someone? I hope your thoughts are going well.. sorry for the many questions.. I miss you girl

Can we make an official date? Monday, lunch at the korean? or dinner? xxx 

Hi. Happy new year even though it is bit late.

Happy Birthday. I hope you're fine. Update me about your plans !

he he i have a lightbulb head not you, festive i agree, but weird no..

I know, I am really sorry, I was in a bit of a mess but, I'll hold myself together and send them to you, I really didn't forget, so, count on me 

i feel you belong to here
i dont use belong that much

i think it will be great if i got a phone call from you soon ...

well then itll probably be alright

Friction in the bathwater

the only thing that is meant to make you okay

at the beginning of life, swimming, pure without chafing

but the bath is spinning

and your getting bigger, loosing more water

spilling, out of the sides, onto the carpet

the rough, goatskin prickle earth 

and you rash quickly and you get bald 

Survival. Don't be moody darling...you won't make it through

GRACELESSLY GRACEFUL

O

Statue of a Saint

It is imagined, that on the day of arrival, that they be symmetrical. That their worlds meet somewhere in the middle. And when a foreign being enter into that sacred space, one should say 'look after yourself' as if the other one is not capable of warning off unwanted spirits. One however is not the only pole. One is not the only man, there is not one man, not no man who may stand on a pedestal overlooking the scenario, the scenery, the light movement of nature which is (of course and anyway) under the control of a higher being- ones own father. Perched there, angel like, one should expect of the other one that the eyes only look in one direction, to the centre, eagerly awaiting ones arrival. Come my other one, come. And yet, they are all waiting around 'the other', all saying the same thing, all imagining that the other delicately take her steps toward them. And this is what one gets by putting himself in the centre, no not many man just one. Static. Expectant. Anticipant. Statue of a Saint.

some people are pigeons, others are contenders of this place, others you wouldn't in the world have imagined, could ever begin to live

M

I can see, that quickly there have appeared a maze of walls to start at defeating us, and water barriers to keep us from the world, sheltering us in artificial cover. I give you moss, you give me moss, and we feed like peasants.  There is fencing everywhere 'for the people', but maybe there is shrubbery too, somewhere, greenery and fields full of food. Flood the gates! Imaginary landscapes! So far, I can only recall the concrete ships,  factories and stones that skip and stop too early at the doom of a day up too soon, in the cold, severely unhappy. But you know more than me. Can you see the aqua in my eyes? Can you see the leaves? Can you see the fishies?

In conflict, in apathy, with mild traces of greenery... we say it to ourselves, daily (in meditation) 'we must begin to live,  w e   m u s t   learn how to live.'
.................................................................................................................................................................. On the tongue is another night of medicinal fodder, a damp awakening on a half camp, a fake rural setting, with a tormented wind swept ambition; to get up and go, to make a meal of it, to make a master of oneself.

home?

In every calm, and every word

the place lacks something, the very moment I step into the lid of its dip,

into its service. Interactive architecture, a world that is built for my manoeuvre. with persons! of whom to interact, easily, even naturally, and paths of which to walk with, not against or at war. I wonder why I feel uncomfortable, then, at my dress and my shoes. Unproper I, am unproper. And so unrelated to the click, and blink, the glance that ends too quickly, the look that never leaves.  

recipe

a mass of people in a midan midan of snowflakes no not snowflakes of flags of stone almonds and rice with milk with powdered white steam making tea come out of choo choo trolleys and more milk for the barley of pale male robes hanging down on cotton candy by the shiny lady who is wearing metalic pants ultra light of the semiramis intercontinental shining through dusk smoke bomb painted silver of crowds and crowds and crowds and crowds with tin bowls and itchy town faces who are neither winning nor loosing from the crying gas

You face me like an Atlas, broad and far in scope, distance, I can surely travel there. Sometime. Sometime soon? I'm seeing Hungary in your eyes now. And the baths of Budapest. Water baby, come with me. Lets go to one of the Poles. Or Poland? We can live an underground life in the kracks of... Moldova, up the river, down the path, of your nose. I know we will eventually. See eachother there. at the mouth. 

Spare

he drowns inside his own eyes. steep the water goes. flowing out out and into thin air. he doesn't know. he doesn't care. he thinks this is the way it is. the world and the air. this thick smoggy headache city. his babies swim away from her there. without a care. 

Nothing more. No. naked eyes love her for its as if she has always been there.

The smell is stale. It can't wake up. It can't open its eyes to breath fresh air. The air is not fresh anymore. If it ever was. his eyes are deafened by their depth, damp trodden brown, he stares alot now. 

Its damp down there.

spare

The Earing makers + Like bears

The Earring Makers

Two earring makers
revealed themselves to her
as earring makers.
The first a long time ago.
The second just recently.
But she doesn't wear earrings.
Among other things.

babe

Meet me, greet me, eease me into your world
Give me reasons to do things,
build me with your tools
but don't tell me what not to do
and don't you take my tools away

I'm going to be everything you don't want, and more.

Bear with me

PDF forever, Rough Guide unfinished

Locked in the contours of a face, wide eye and cheeks abroad

A paradise, but only in a layer

I stay there, for a long time, too long

I am captive, but I don't dig -

I have the tools I think, but I am afraid they won't work

For this is not a real place, not one that can really be attacked or altered

It choses itself and our experiences in it, as if we don't have a will

but we do.

Annihilation

Theres something so tantilising about a surface

Unbroken and untainted

Holding us there, in smooth valleys

between the features and down in large ponds

but there is limited wildlife here

and the bays they are stark and the waters see-through

A quiet place, for birdseye babes

Flat chested seagulls

who coo at the sight of a one sided world

we weep at the surface, we dine there

again and again and again and again

but the food, it is tasteless

as it always was.

green

Interlocked, on the Tahrir junction, now, garden , the smell of linen, detergent, and behind the ears

of what anyone might call love; is not enough to take me, this time, through the sleepless city, back to your ship of giant ants, and warmth, and comfort, a three storey desert house, of faded fabric, junk yard, balconies galore, and rooftop watching.

shabby matresses, and that turkish coffee morning; spilling over into the dawn of a new day slept through, a big sleep and never let go - of two docile bodies, clinging on like broken babies, in a city of bodies everywhere. Revolution? I don't want to leave - from this patch of grass, on the Tahrir junction garden; dressed and unable to touch properly, in safety, we are being watched.

paralized on a patch of grass, grown on top of old terror, new seeds planted - not another land, just another layer, I don't want to go.

Hijabis night bathing in blood, on this green spot of evolution.

Have a cup of tea koshari, the roots are a pain in my side, but, I just don't want to move






hale a taxi
but don't you go.
For here, in this shakey place
storeys high city,
you were my only home

Braless fanci girl

Why do you like AIR so much ?

folklore

it warms me to

the colours of you.

box for the pathetic

I think you got it, good and clean, I think you got it, without a contest, dogs mess
you were just playing, cleanliness, you were just fooling, politeness, you were just cooing, floozying, it down, to the bottom, of your loneliness, more or less, I must confess, I think i got it, I'm, humouring it down, into a box, for the pathetic...

I will collapse in anything that allows me the space.

I can not wait
For the century
where you will speak 

O – Us

We are not knowledge centres

you and I

we do not archive

information

figures

facts and futures

we have no interests

no hobbies

but we have favourites

we have fortunes

and our eyes are full.

Poison from the borderless

If I'll go to a place which is quiet

am I looking for peace -

where the mountains don't even whisper

but I can feel their heat

waking up on sea, matressed out with a door wide open to greet me

you retrieve me

theres a slug in my room and I can't go to sleep

theres an ache in my head and it won't let me be

thinking, slowly.

Sit around scarved

wanting to sing, to be heard

but not on this night

off to bed sleepy head

and then hear the ring

some-body is playing

wherever he is sitting

'are you shy or can I …'

'we can play louder on the mountain...'

no treking shoe, just walk it through

a canapy, a blanket, a sweet little bedlet

and play and sing

voices' sweet and sharp and high

and so is his sugar cane

from matted locked,

and sunbaked ly

open up wide

and listen to the tide

and listen to the tide

and listen to the tide

and listen to the tide

and listen to the tide

and listen to the tide

and listen to the tide

he hes dogheat

and I I am dry sheet

in the meat

without a thought

wipe up with a jeep

little feet pattering

need to go to sleep

and thumble down the hill

stones fly

maybe I'll die

and hes ahead

and I am unstead-y

a bedoin had had,

before the light came back to care for me

to make him retreat

into hut, palace for a mutt

a white horse must cover him

over limbs of asalaya

shield him to dark time

to have his stinging again and again 

later.

appointment

I didn't realise it would be too bright for you my dear,

I had suspected, that I was addicted to the light

To the wide white window frames

and the tall white walls

but the ultra white light bothered you

and made you feel quite sick.

Letting you in for the first time

soon turned ill -

there in my bright white surgery lab

was a clinical spirit not ready to be murky

well not here, not in these clean waters

and yet

the ambiguity of our tidy white faces

led somewhere, somehow

a weed to grow

or to sprout out immediately,

but die ever so instantly afterwards

and then there were the white beans boiling

and you said you wouldn't eat my shit

and then there were your other appointments pending

and you said, you wouldn't step outside with me

until I washed my face

and so, up in my house clothes

and made myself up

to leave by your side...

...............................................................................................................

you come in this way? (do you, do you dear?)

But isn't this an entrance for the servants?


.........................................................................................................

Torture wretch, fletch arrow, I can't believe its you. Demeanoreye, compartment of a truth.

Straight through. and go without a hope, a touch, a flash, a peck, a gash, no, nothing, nothing from you.