pokkadots

and

abucu

sses

words

i never knew what words were til i met one

all bottled up and confused and i coexed itmade it open up to mei remember how at first she was afraid,

reluctant and acquiasent saying you have got me all wrong

i am prenounced si-clic-cal not sick-li-cal

i’m not linear, i don’t make senserole of your tonguei am out of context

there is nothing essential about me

i only make meaning in contextit is just about the way that you use me

situate me, without a user i am usless

i am just a word sisterdon’t be fooled

write now

if i can follow (or endure) the random dreaming strands of thinking

there are points which wasn’t where the linear streams were intending to fall

those delicious tangents filling my gob with spit

sugary like lemon squash a bitter sickly loss of meaning

lubricated in succulent disjointed rhythmscomforting and homely

pure oceanic intense but lackingcertainty which bumps

jumps jolts on every rock of the roadon a long unrecorded journey

move me as quick as it becomesa handful of honey, dropping into stops

so lost stomachs are synchronisedby ruptures invited

by shared imprecise humourmaking us alone unable to believe

hunted by motionless repetitions of answersleading us to ideas mapped in consumerable satisfaction like a film that documents us

as subversive angels of other worlds

transgression

the self-reflex makes luminosity loop in talk shifts to continue among playful competitions

that adumbrate alterity by the tongue we chose after it decided us

for speech is a trap and a nooseupon which

identity acts like tax

for the symptoms of freedomcollapsed into symbols resisting and provoking compositions like a book

with new tales on every pageas if a narrative dropped

leaving lack of order without indication toward ideas imprisoning repetitions reconstructed by a readers rhetoric

misinterpreting irony swollen simplicityfor desire to communicate in clarity

like a lung full of lost breathless speech

we are so lucky

to have time that tells us what we should do that we have feelings that guide us

instincts that help shape us in this culture that moulds us

into the likeness of the other

who is strange to me, as i look to them

or even myself, when i stare in a mirrorthey told me i must become one

with the grand body of the languageto be in tune with the feelings, the sensations,and where i was confident i became doubtfulwhere there was motivation, i was bored and i slipped through every happy discourse realising now that everything i knew

doesn’t make sense to me, or to you,

i cant float like a balloon and i will not popbut i must squeeze into the space there is for me

i am so lucky because i have to create a way to be yet i never know whether i am good or bad

i don’t even know what these words meani cannot become the body of words

even if i try, i may never even please them,for i am not discourse, i cannot speak, i lack punctuation, focus and postulation

i am only a body flirting perverted by silence

aesthetics

marked in quotations by a letter left unopened speaking of internal transformations

that cannot be fixedaltering circles as if they persistfor coreless apple decaying in the soilsare now fertilising the roots of new crops

peeled by the fingers of peopleabsorbed on their deliberations

born, inspired and identified in a state of fluxlike a harbour of verses shifting in stops

deforming clarity before it reaches the climaxfor her ink is drying in the waiting time

while tones imitate the echoes of pretext- with a chorus of vibrating suds to draw on your imagination as they are singing in a language translated yet unheard

drift

themes are colliding in my mindchanges are closing in finding timelike truths in eyes searching

without resolve to evolve and capitalise

on words as they bleed

and become

the expression

that seeps out of mythto encapsulate

a pastiche of soundamongst

this

dynamic

dialogic Drift

this

so much is certain and so much is there to be described there are so many relations and associations to discern

only with a can of paint and a fresh wall could i showwhat i would do without the freedom to take apart the rules

i compete against my silence, challenge my need to talk,

and precisions mark penetrates into this uneaseas its complications define and break in a wave

heavy and weighted like the sea crashing into its own mass,unlike feathers, with their details, that fall light and enchanting.

inelegantly, i long for the absence of myself: to knowhow to not be missed or missing -or miss- for i detest

the menial straightness that undermines my love of clarity yet obstinately

i don’t want to change, conform or be configured

as i reject this principle: while i crave and desire cleanness

like a broken lock on a vacated house offers shelter for a door which is hinged and swings without a catch, is open - as is choice - without

singularity of reason

leaving ideology

i rebooked the appointment,but then suddenly

i had something to do –i cant remember what now,

but i am sure it was important. so i am still unemployed

going down to the bottoms lines of over drafts looking forward to the glimpses, the opportunities not substantial

enough to put on a cv which blinks blankness

recording my non reliable ness as i have never done anything

that counts for a job no monotony, no stagnation, no routine,

time keeps goingall juxtaposed and composed

and released into boxeswith their sticky tapes and paper

bags and collections in categories,important for being

slow and having quickness in momentary organisation thats playing futures as it reiterates

itself into the memories that suddenly incomplete me

self

that there was someone who thought what they said was not often what they felt

and what they felt was not what they thought they ought to feel,and so it goes on.

i felt some time that what i do is not what i thought i ought to do

what i ought to do did not seem right.

every time i said somethingwhat i felt was

its not what they wanted to hear.

and sometimes i feel thati’m not true to myself

yet i always seem to do what i wantand i read somewhere aboutself-improvement

on how to do every-thing rightbut i though what they said

was just be yourselfbut i think what that is, is to just carry onnot knowing whom it is i am.and i continue to be not what i ought to be

redefining all the time what it means to become the other

to normals

viewing

parked in front of me was somethingi reconsidered, not much before i started

back at what it was

that got me there.i paused for breath, calm with the heartbeat

putting a hold on the gasp on the backof my throat that came, as i looked,

and as i stared, lost at what it was that

i was facing, as the background becamesome sort of film flat, as it was sheer.

music in my headphone projected me onto another place were my breathing was somethingi listened to, and the scenery became weird.

smiling reassuringly, to myself, at the

same time it was people looking at me, and i had to try not to be.

my muscles relaxing and the smiletaking over me and seeing the cars move in the traffic and the dog defecation,

the sun moving into the cloud, and startingto be real, beat harmony and givethe time that homogenous empty feel.

so silently, out of the darkness that camethis pain; a haunting that would never

be believed in isolation; like the same. where we pass through and sum up, in a

less depleted way, that while poetry cannotcorrect it self; the message will not get through

frameworks

different frameworks interposes how it exists

in my many me.

you said before something approaches

the third dimension that we see,

ah! but yes, looking back, looking over

is the third and final three!

what i read becomes the perspectiveof over all angles.

connoted correction balancing

the lines connecting between making up

all in the being words

last you’ve seen.

dyslexia

searching for the story to write you better

looking for that sentence that in reach becomes

part of you concluded adding up

knowledge as full as well that without partdisarray is in bid as in

shackled made order.towards making the completion within the assertion

the message procrastinated

in hope of teaching

standing behind words to say

they speak me i am the lesson learned

to give and

let give

everything that you handle spokento be beside as you

look onwards

lost of learning

in the face of mirror void of voice and writing

is your lesson.

art

it all started with a little bit of french

linguistically replaced humour:

from the outset we never determined the time to insure positive forward progression,

it was primarily more a moveable, a syllable of choices:

so ‘dada’ darling! this world of illusion brought to a head,

strung up – quite literally, seeing her face blank with immoveable expression, all that relishes.

what a pretentious preposition! it is

not about autonomics (they said).

for

with every word i say to you

comes a little painevery line that

i’m not understood there’s a formula,

that says i should find joy…

whenever instances are the feelings that i embrace

you think i have found a protruding dismissive grain,

i am speaking found lost, the hula that says to my face

conflictingly against me,

your not allowed that voice.try to look within me to find some strengthfor those that know me best to deny that length who now knows

i find i’m lost again,and within me i find pain.

mimesis

i have on my wall tacked up so i can readwords for when i lose my own,should it be that in that place

where i lose myself, between the pages,

between, the wake, of what is,

exactly, i project

from wall to page for its sake, i’m kept

i need of what it is when there is nothing

where i can see

the illusion of myself when i forget and look, suddenly

there is release an escape, essence: i feel free of what it is

to be me, to go back home

to the words which is there on my wall to see

locution

the word expresses itself

inaudible knowledge in front of meas taught as the trees stand

demonstrating velocity holding bagplastic lounging itself on the vision

sealed silver bark rapes itself around matterand i stand in the pathway

with shaded green carpetingallowing a blanket of green amass

with the world unbecoming lettersin the park

without enunciationbenches to rest the locution

the statue placates without

a notice:

what should

this mean?

corrected

my body is expanding

all i can hold on to is hopeas i feel

the pain grow the sickness swell

in a kind of boredom a physical decorum

without the stops that make me happy

there has to be some strength that makes me love them

you understand that?you don’t hear right!

rightly misunderstood against the norm:

every-one must carry on reading through the lines

fixated by the write and

wrong

message

there standsthe crest of the theme

that rejects me

that without i can stand

homogonous and unprotected

under its symbol

i become the traitor

if you’re the sign i am the disintegrator

under the hazel synopsisthe drunken metaphoric thesis

modality is servitude to the amoraltrinity of simple ellipsis.

visualization

there is a balance of a swiftby some discrete drive of balances,

flicking pencil line metricallypast the air of his wings spread,

charcoal marks out his reach behind escape of silence

the pinnacle of the golden needleflattered by the swift departure

uneasy flight that takes miles

beneath division, without balance

off that statue faction

line marks of an artist’s

visualization.

pre-chora

it is the grammar of dyslexia, the speakingunusually said, repeating, confusing

the words are not quite well saidonly understanding what is being

speaking by the way they understand.chora speaks beyond the barrier

the word in-between what was saidsignified: literal mistake, you think i’m kidding?

i’m not i’m seriously misunderstood.when you read the point, which was never there

do you suppose i should have said it other?other in which case, and all the others, is wrong

i was told at school,

you must try harderthey never supposed

to be wrong might actually to be right,being

misunderstoodwas just difference between i and them.

continuous

there are no years without decease

no honesty in slow luminosity without dim what is it that we begin with when are to search,

for when seeking, what ultimately will finish;

every-thing in the dark, foresees the shadow of light

to feel the echo of the day before which become traceswhich collapse into something knowable,

something do-able, where we can't exhaust words.can your end be

without a cautious beginning?

and what is so secure about

free knowing?the end or the continuous

it is hard to know which.

momentary

there was a momentary break from the bizarre,

confusion clear. understanding replaced as before.placed like inspiration, in an empty mind,a key to the lock, to the insight we are all trying to find.

if only explanations were as easy to comprehend:i hate these words,

for which i feel i represent-the mirrored words within.

and from where do i gain-the words, which explain,the complexities that i see,in this world in which i’m in?

will god never let me in?or have i committed a sin?do i have a religion?will i ever fit in?

‘loosing my identity’seems to be the song of the century.

for which i would now like to sing

Windows

i see myself as always looking out windows just as i might see myself looking out by not looking through.

and this is a strange reflection looking at myself not looking outand you are saying i am always looking out windows, not lookingback but looking through and i see you behind me looking at me

not looking through. a multiplicity of spectrums allured through this conception or misconception by you. and i'm always looking out windows,

wondering weather if directly you'd stop complaining if i looked through: maybe i like the window; i like the pane and pain of glass reflection

like looking at you looking at me and the diversity of looking discreet intellection, and we thought it would always be plain sailing direct talk by sailing the mast

same suit same language that occurs, which i see fractured, diverse in mask: you'd never know that i see you and me

subjection and not ordered write too much time, wrong letters and we are always compiling language, which might

but does not quite, suit us and yet who is to complain that i see through us?

domestic

how come you can’t read a bookof back cover to front,

it is ridiculous

childish fantasy versus

the wise,face to reverse.

the real winner, why either or both,

but

when did i choose not to be

precisions wise?

pause

in the pause i took it completedand fell;

intermission neglected the edge

that is touched by confronted

which was when i lostevery-thing that i saw as patience

like the endurance we watchedbecome a

prediction slowly

peeling of the freshlypainted wall;

the periphery interluing the ending

that i missed, which i reduce against

withdraw, to make peace

interpretation

everything separates itself into its own formalities and it is defined by the lesson it is teaching.

reading through every line is the bleeding

energy that creates itself, like the symbol that bares meaning,

there is everything to be interpreted but our teachers are always ourselvesand so we are searching, looking for direction

by our own discretion and these are the complications of voicescrying out on the one hand, for its own formulation

and on the other, the rejection, rejuvenation by the denial of what it is that will bring forward

out of the darkness,our own minds to appear as well as paper

that can share us, sets us down and make a mark

which we can trace, back through into credencevalue and acceptation the pieces which together make us able

to work in some sense and contrive for us our teachersyour reflection, my mirror, the distortion and hallucination

which flows forward and down through

like multiple directions that always summate at a point, which is discourse

contrived through a stipulation; a lesson we learnt speaking, power and its meaningthe sentiment not yet displaced drowned by my own needing security which is only made in breaking

that, as we stand outside from, we can look backand establish ourselves by the bodilythe whole, and the other, the anotherwhich we desire, in our own ways, to control.

pokkadots and abacuses is copylefted imaginased by nim folb

and published by rebelling against spelling press

2007

more info on RASPcan be found at

http://www.r-a-s-p.co.uk