three

(poems for the summer)

Brighton coast / Photo by Rachel Silverlight

Night (summer).

 In the stillness of the night I hear
Some car pass down some road.

Or is it the sea? That roaring rumbling
Sound is so distant and so faint.

Or the wind that whistles down these streets
Between the buildings like channels to
The sea?

No matter; the laughing gulls are up.

 *

Three.

The sea belongs to me.
The sea belongs to me.
Three times I have swum now
Three days in the sea
And three makes it true
Don’t it?

The sea belongs to me.

 * 

Fixed
(after Camus)

I will die not happy not sad
it will come to me just as it is
and it will be everything
I will feel some trepidation before,
but no more than any man or woman
at any other change coming.

After all it is fixed
like pain is fixed
and joy has its limit
and cold is fixed
and so death
from the moment we’re birthed
and before
played out in the lottery of the stars
in the light of any distant sun
still playing out forever.

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bus dreams

rumblefish

the seas were fake and made of plastic

Over the hill see the stars of the city red green yellow and a faraway peach coloured crescent of light glowing roman colonnade

 the comets bus window reflected lights

 Coast past handsome Georgian town houses like we’re entering the Mediterranean only not quite like they’re braced: against the weather, grey waves no gentle blue.

 huge halo dandelions of  streetlights rain-blurred

 Sudden bus smell something who knew you’d missed or would/could miss: musty, sweaty smell of someone once’s bed– gone.

misty on a runway in space.

the rattling road
the crumbling pen

A palace of light, signs where cassette lord reigns and fat man crossing road flaps his arms left right like an oversize duck attempting to take flight and stars approach and fade, a memorial, a memorial, a hall of strangers:
it is the City!

It is the city.

(peacehaven to brighon, last bus)

love not money

The Free University Brighton Launch

Free University revolution

Caroline Lucas
Bob Brecher
Martin Levy
Red Diamond Dragon Club
Funge

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first quarter reading list 2013

sex drugs & madness

Narcopolis, Jeet Thayil

Jeet Thayil’s Narcopolis: not my book of the quarter

January

Albert Camus, Exile and the Kingdom
William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury
William Burroughs, Naked Lunch
Jeet Thayil, Narcopolis

February 

David Sandison & Graham Vickers, Neal Cassady: Fast Life of a Beat Hero
Antonio Melechi, Fugitive Minds
Hermann Hesse, The Prodigy

March

D. H. Lawrence, Sons & Lovers
Tom Robbins, Skinny Legs and All

Sex, drugs, and madness was how I began the year. Literary wise, if not otherwise, but probably a little otherwise too. But in reality, it probably was more literary than any of the other three (or the other three combined).

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letters of prodigious length

to N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver

ImageIt’s gonna be a short one I’m afraid on account of being unplanned and I’ve been away for a while so let’s consider this a warm-up of sorts.

The day before yesterday, February 8th, was the birthday of one Neal Cassady, whose biography, by some kind of serendipity, I happened to be reading – else I would never have known.

Neal Cassady more a myth than anything. His star’s a kind of literary penumbra. In a previous post I mentioned how he was a figure who haunted. in the book, Aquarius Revisited, which I reviewed, he did not feature as one of the Seven who Created the Sixties Counter-Culture that Changed America but he haunts its pages as its muse and hero, one whose energy was so great he was the star of the show even when given a cameo role.

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WORKING AT MY DESK

a poem about being a writer

 

Smoking at my desk,
I ash into the whale.
I have a cup of tea
And a glass of water,
And the whale is in between
In a ceramic sea of filth
Where the cigarette points at me
Filter up, and I pause,
To smoke it; it glows,
And then I put it back
And write again (like now).

Sometimes I write and smoke at the same time
The cigarette dangling out the corner of my mouth,
This makes me feel like a real writer
I’m doing it now, (but not now.)
It’s hard though.

THE HAUNTED AGE

thoughts on the weirdnesses of time

While studying for my Masters someone told me, apparently, time is going to be the major subject of the philosophical thought of this century. This does not sound unlikely to me. For a long time thinkers have been perplexed by the elusive nature of time; I was first bitten while studying Kant in my second or third year of undergraduate philosophy when I discovered the idea that time and space are not objectively real but originate in the structure of the mind, like filters to order the glut of data from the universe perceived by our senses into systems and patterns, which allows us to make sense of the world in a meaningful way. And Kant was not the first serious thinker of time, oh no! His theories address earlier models of time constructed Leibniz and Newton, and ideas of the mind-dependence of time can be traced back to Aristotle.

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