Labi Siffre - Into The Light

Facing waves

We slipped on the beach when she sentenced
“The sea, like my hand, is submerged in air”.
Of course we denied to listen; though we voiced
Opinions which we regret now; she already knew
That air is submerged in dark matter

That eels
Narwhals and flying fish among others can see
Really see
Dark stark matter splashing
When we found her body that evening
Still, and still with sculpted care, submerged in air
___

"Living is a job for life "

His successful pitch as a “Corporate
Spiritual Essence of Existence Adviser”
but on this third trip down alimony alley
With cash dripping from slit wrists
The only ups are the media bandages; losing
The respect of his kids like that is deep
Unburdening talkie-talk gold

It’s advisable to version only one confession
And in only one genre so folks know exactly
What to expect. Be aware a surprise can
Be considered a felony assault, especially if the victim
Client, bought a ticket; At the same time befriend
A zillion strangers. He truth and reconciliation
Can thank you ma’am do that

As in “man kind”, antonym “bitch”; Oh The humanity
The authorized version: be cruel to be kind, kill
For peace, I could kill for a bit of peace and I demo
Cratically with spirituality have and continue
Scrota do. You want the truth? OK. here it is
With Jehovallah off the hook, we’re all
Very much at ease

___

Odd that God and his angels wear clothes

Did they too find shame in the garden

Or fittingly wear their dishonor

From the start?

Did justice force them to depart?

Deceit, hypocrisy, entrapment

Are these not also sins of the heart?

___

We’re all war poets now

It is a failure of diplomacy the analysts say
But the killers display increasing enthusiasm
Clearly they detect diplomatic success and paint
With definitions more vibrant than those used
By entertainment-news faces whose job it is
To soften the blows for us on our sofas

Meanwhile I report to the editorist on the meaning
Of life from outside sliding doors automatic
Of cancer ward buildings staining the city
Like dots on a dalmation

My mobile prosthesis disappointingly distant
From the life support systems inside I stand
Among pyjama’d and slippered in dressing
Gowns, the walking dying (why should we pay
For their self-inflicted self-indulgence?)

Braving critics and cold, the plume of their breath
Makes love to the smoke from their cigarettes
One here with a glowing pipe bowl and blooded
Neck bandage sucks not at all shamefaced

These terminals encourage one way negotiations
Between reason and addiction and, as ever, are
Mere photo opportunities for routinely faked
Displays of gravitas with the relevant platitudes
Attached: Peace, honour, regret, concern, reconciliation.

So close to death these cancered are stronger than
The rest of us. We weasel and deny logical
Conclusions that blaze roaring solar winds of arias
Uplifting “Death is the Drug” in a major key

And though serial killers on MTV extolling
The addictive romance of slaughter has yet
To become a prime time feature
In the world outside, without pop up ads,
It's a permanent bloody success
___

No158. Day begins.

I Kiss you. Make tea. Kiss you again

Then I row across from the island

Listening to excellence playing Maestoso

Molto Espressivo (screw you arsehole,

That's how it is); onshore I walk and walk

Even with this in my mind cruel and

Terrible things are happening; autonomically

Swatted aside like the Australian salute

You forget you’re doing it, the mundanity of

Constant crucifixions but without the platitudes

Without those feeble lies and excruciatingly bad excuses

I walk I walk; there are no lambs

This morning is an alien breed of sunshine

My heart a hotter breed of furnace

The reactor shaking with pressure

The building constantly about to

My mind will never be that feeble

No matter how diseased

I hold your despised hand

In my despised hand

Look at me; keep looking at me!

How small we are and bigger than the universe

Come on!

___

I notice there are no conversations

On his gloves nor on his boots and though
The street is covered in newsprint

Little is read and all is overborn
By the angel three meters tall

In its arms a light machine gun
Its right foot on the tune of a child

Notice the chorus is neither Greek
Nor Norwegian; anxiously they speak
"Is it art?"

“is it art?"

And now I press the button
Though that is not my task

___

On the dot

Wednesday came then monday; then,
Shuffling our expenses and to our amazement
Vegetables flourished comfort, ashes

and symphonies

Herringbone returned to fashion not
Before time; we were refused another drop
But we’d brought our own having been

This color for most of our lives.
Territories expand contract expand and so
The universe is nothing new; blasé? no way

Can’t you see where this is going? I ask
Myself that question every almost
and make sure not to listen
born before yesterday

the shoe, though tight, fits gravely

From our tombs we learn cold ‘n fresh are signs
Of youth; refrigerate ‘em while they’re young
They say; peas in the mirror see riotous blooms

The old goat sees peas; as will they eventually
Meanwhile press on, rats and roaches play
Tenaciously; why not us, if they

___

Within a few years

War had come again

And again and again

Difficult to believe

We men

Of every creed

Race and hue

Are so stupid

___

Time present and past

Are yes present

In time future

What might have been has done so;

Even time would not be

Crass as to claim originality

___

Within their sustaining creation

Never able to view the magnificence

Of their endless labors

Earthworms define useful life

___

The older I get

The more difficult it gets to blame

Anyone other than me

___

To further research we fell in love

So that scientists could measure

Euphoria, discomfort, realization,
Desperation, loathing and finally despair

After forty five years we've been dismissed
The experiment an embarrassing failure

___

Republicans in Congress

___

Guns don't kill

People kill

We need fewer people

So we're killing them

___

The burnt car, the burnt house

The burnt children, the burnt spouse

The burnt man with no sense

Of the difference

Between love and possession

___

Closer inspection of the poplar tree reveals

Tea bags nailed to form the shape of an angel
Rogering a cat

They walk home hand In hand, smiling
Having completely misunderstood
The spirituality
In that
___

Lasagne; in a body bag

I hear your voice

From the roadside

No, I can’t sleep

___

Why does the BBC categorise this item on immigration as being about skin colour

White Communities' £12m  scheme

when it is an item about white people in Leicester (UK) complaining about being pushed aside by Kosovans and Polish People (who, as far as I know, are White)?

Interviewed White Leicester citizens :
“The white person’s getting pushed out. You’re getting all Kosovans and Polish people and things like that and I don’t think it’s right!”

“I know for a fact that they’ve moved loads of Kosovans in over the road in the last few months”

Mark Easton (BBC reporter) : “Some white communities in Leicester complain they feel like a persecuted ethnic minority … (in a city) close to becoming the first in Britain with a majority non-white population

Are the editor, director and reporter purposely focusing on skin colour, where skin colour is irrelevant, in pursuit of tabloid sensationalism? Or is this just a ludicrous error in which BBC employees have failed to see the implications and consequences inherent in their lack of journalistic rigour?

It is interesting that some of those interviewed clearly consider any immigrant (or any foreigner?) as being not white.
___

I sometimes forget this & lose heart

"Yes, it matters. Information matters. The truth matters. Words matter.

These things may not matter to the ignorant, the ideologues, the racists, the 'murican exceptionalists, the secessionists, the tea baggers, or Michael Steele.

But fuck those people. They don't own the truth. They don't own the facts. They don't own reality. And we are not obligated to cater to them. Knowledge is still power."

Written by ondioline
October 9, 2009 8:25 PM  in reply to nellieh on the TPM post How They Pick Nobel Laureates

___

Streuth! You piss me off!

Five minutes of this out of eighty years of that
Stop whining you little shit! Open the desk
Drawer; slowly a hand creeeeps out

It holds a flower; the flower is a message
The hand is a message. The drawer is a message.
The desk is a message. The message is a message.

Eat the message; I will have a salt beef sandwich
On rye with pickle mustard lettuce tomato
I will have a glass of merlot with my sandwich

Enjoy your message you piece of shit
Streuth! You piss me off!
___

Has poetry changed the world?

Of course
It has; second question, has macaroni
Changed the world? Of course it has but
More importantly, has macaroni changed
Poetry? Has pasta placed poetry on the path
To portention? “Perhaps”, you may propose;
Nonetheless, science and faith agree
Poets fertilize farmland less efficiently
Than cattle; Q.E.D.
___

Line seven men and seven women

Seeking and deserving justice against
A wall and shoot them dead

The result is much the same as shooting
Fourteen branches off an oak tree
More will grow but credibly

We have less branches than bullets
More bullets than women and men
More bullets even if we add children

Still acorns wear little acorn hats
Have you noticed? And underneath
Keep secrets hid while we are open books

Packed with pages filled with complex texts
On every page subtle subtleties;
Nevertheless
___

She mashes in a bowl, locusts

With crushed seeds of grass
To feed her child

In Trafalgar Square she is not
On a plinth nor anywhere

This morning, in a tantrum, he kicked a garden rock
Fracturing his toe; through the bus window on his way
Back from hospital to Redbury street he notices
The tip of an iceberg breaking through
The surface of the shopping mall car park

Glancing around it’s clear none of his fellows
Have noticed this nor his fear, only now does he realize
His thirty second birthday passed a week ago
No cards arrived, even he has overlooked

Growing older; he feels the fist of time
Squeezing the small walnut in his head
Meanwhile, machete men return; soon after
She and her child are dead
___

Still sleepy puppy you yawn, I yawn reply

I make you a crumpet with marmalade
You open the mail I read the paper
Monk is Hornin’ In
There are a thousand lakes shining
On our bedroom window
The sky is grey and grey, brimming with life;
The trees are red and yellow ochre; if
You’ve never been responsible
For someone else’s happiness
You’ve missed it
___

I have no interest in undoing what has been done

It cannot be undone; but
To explore what has been done
To define it; the many ways
Each can be defined
This I have interest in, though
It has no interest in me

As the box is more fun than
The toy could be because
I make the box what I want it to be
                         Take your toys
They have no power
They do not migrate
Nor do they stay for the winter

They dissolve
How miss them?
Why miss them?
I don’t miss them
I have the box
___