Sandra Bullock (ASMR)

We all love a bit of Sandra.

ASMR

Hello.

Do you know what’s happening?

They’re making walls,

in cities

in places

in towns

in forests

in groves

in lemon trees

in brazil.

Do you know what’s going on?

They’re building Mother Nature’s dams

in chinese cities so big

they’ll eat the smoke of chicago

and spit it out like a whisper.

Or a cough

Or a stutter.

But probably a whisper

(most likely a whisper).

Let’s face it:

a whisper is the most probable scenario.

Did you hear the news?

In Syria

on the plains

next to Hebraities

they’re building hard whored

explosive

dandelions

and everyone is smiling.

Do you know what’s happening?

The witches

And the warlocks

They’re eating poppies

in Afghanistan

and those poppies are rich and wild

and fill the tummies of the poor.

Everyone has had dinner

and most will stay for supper.

Did you hear the news?

Raving Russian

Homo-

Sapiens

are flaunting their flawed

and fuck-full fabulosity

at the Petersburg gates!

And their old man

putin slops his chops

with jealousy.

Did you hear the news?

The babushki of tyumen’

are crying in the markets

haggling for coins

dancing 80s spectacles

and eating raw fish.

Did you hear the news? The poets are experimenting with long line formations

and scratching their heads, because long lines are much too long,

and they threaten the very existence of the short lines of babylon.

ah, the short lines of babylon! we are sorry for your loss.

please accept our condolences. we will buy you wart cream and nytol

and little crocs for your children. Is that okay?

I do hope the dwarven deities of oxford academia doth not object!

Didde vous entendez?

They’re making pqsta

In the forts

Of Florence

qnd the French fqrmers

They complqin

Becquse  they do not receive

Economic subsidies

For their wheqt.

And bqbies, they cry!

Bqbies they cry for the wheqt!

pleurez-pleurez!

vite, vite, donne-moi du wheqt!

dé sé tou derre pqrons.  

Did you catch wind?

(I hope you didn’t)

they’re draining diamonds

from your bank account

and filling it with pigeons instead.

They will nest in the vaults

and survive the winter with outmost efficiency.

Would you begrudge a mere pigeon your diamonds?

Oh, but you are a cruel man.

I will phone your mother!

Did you hear?

It’s time to sleep.

You little, darling

beautimous shit.

I’ll tell Sandra Bullock to get her hooks ready

If you don’t close those eyes.

Ah, yes.

That’s better.

Close those eyes.

Close your lips too.

Close the books of stress and

Work.

You have done enough.

Your body is getting heavy.

Oh, very, very heavy.

Oh very, very, very heavy.

Oh, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very heavy.

And all your limbs are getting heavy

heavy, heavy

And your stomach

Heavy, heavy

And even your nose,

Heavy, heavy

and your mind

heavy, heavy

& they’re all dancing together

& drifting softly

senselessly

to sleep

and peace

and the kind curves

of a warm, welcoming bed.

Is he asleep?

Sandra, bare forth your hooks!

Tonight we dine!

Rob me Blind

Today I tried to work for my exams. Of course, I failed. And so, instead, I decided to try to write a poem that rhymes. I've never written a poem that rhymes before. I often dislike rhymes. They can destroy the emotion, tie up the poet, destroy the honesty and turn the exercise of poetry from one which seeks to overwhelm the reader with the beauty of shared emotions, to a mathematical formula, something created purely for the purpose of showing one's prowess. Look at me, I can write a sonnet! Look at my iambic pentameter! Feel the wrath of my ruthless enjambment! 

But, yesterday, a friend of mine told me that poetry conforming to certain norms, certain verse lengths, certain rhyme patterns, can be good, because it can increase the reader/listener's ability to comprehend. I didn't fully agree with this, but in any case, I attempted to add some rhymes where I could, and, actually, it was really fun to write. It is a poem about trying to forget memories, and, given that I was going to be cliched anyway by trying to make it a little bit closer to typical poetry, I decided to take a picture from the place where I grew up, to let it grow in my mind and see what formed.

Rob me Blind

 Half-men, half-art

Half-dancers in half-dark,

Half-lost, half-gone,

Our half-beauty half-dead, half-newly born.

And, hark, all this I have sworn:

There are mysteries brewed between our eyes,

Deep and deepening,

Held in empty-wing-stretched arms

Incomprehensible, incomprehended, incapable, unmoveable love-struck charms,

But beautiful.

This

is true,

because I want it to be so.

Remember:

On a bench we parted,

And our hardened hands hard shook

And I,

Your crooked innocence,

Half-took.

Hidden,

Held,

Hidden.

Remember:

You said your father died,

And I almost laughed,

Because I never know how to behave,

I’m half-cursed

To half-here, half-there,

Half-British wit,

Half-Irish care.

In either case, I’m island bound.

And now:

Dreaming of a victory,

A heart-head victory,

A brew of love and wisdom,

Wolf and man and cat and fox combined

And in harmed-healing harmony.

I try to ship these memories long,

Long-longing-listlessly away,

Like souls to scattered bodies go,

I try to ship them.

Out.

Remember:

Of course,

After you left,

It would only be logical,

That I mourned a while,

On a window seat,

Lit a few candles,

Stared in the mirror.

Cliched, but valid.

Necessary.

And then:

Did you hear?

To break my brittle back,

To free frozen fear,

I borrowed the hangman’s rack,

And here,

suspended,

I shivered

Crippled and

Cracked.

But,

mentally-ailed,

feebly I failed:

Stepped down,

Slipped away,

Slew myself away.

Ran back to a pitied useless craving day.

Regretted,

And on life went.

Half-academic bliss,

Half-bourgeois Kent.

And as down I stepped,

Hidden half-bled hope,

Fell from the suspended rope,

Half-Hidden

Half-hoarse

Half-whored

Half-glorious

And dropped on the ground

Bead by Bead.

And in those beads I found little pathetic mirrors of the world, each reflecting something, each showing a different stage of life, each with more wrinkles on your face.

But now, disgraced,

I ship them onwards

And I wait.

I take your words,

And I push them

Off the shore.

A lantern

On a coffin ship.

But it is daylight

And it is a cold, wind-rained beach

And I am barefoot

And the beach bugs crawl

Between toes.

And the soft ice cream stench

Twists past the currents.

The raw cliffs tower above,

And the tower, it almost falls,

mourning Napoleon’s dying day,

but it composes itself,

and fulfils its role.

The air shakes its undulating crowns,

Humidity builds,

And refuses to be cleared,

And as I feel my empty turning stomach die,

The sand grows grief-grey under the grief-grey sky.

I take your words,

And in the day,

I push them to the sea.

They flew-flowed-faded-fucked away,

This memory gone onwards,

To rest,

To rest,

To rest with the wronged and righteous

The sacred and sexless

The forgotten and to be forgotten

The saints and deities

Dictators and prostitutes

Monks and mistletoe,

And everything which is dead, and shouldn’t be remembered.

My heart and hope heavily you mined,

Stole a kiss,

Robbed me blind.

It was great,

Glorious,

Holy.

It rose upwards,

Dance and tangled,

It scraped the angel’s clavicles.

But now, I forget and, burned,

 to normality

return. 

Inspirations: this picture, Jay Brannan, der Steppenwolf, Ginsberg.