The desolate completeness, being nothing except the ALL of human flesh the Cave of brightness and the colours climb on us to be or not as indecipherable truths as if we could spell things are struck up into a brass and craving around in a vacuum cleaner Infinity itself as if we were really alive. Something about a scream or a brightness we had forgotten lately. Who are or were you in any case? Oraclular cliche or whatness into whoness or gone not yes I don't know they free said he. Let's go on at least into the cranking sunness of the dark blue of endbeginningallingendlessness. We him she and they. Decipher the silence (we had all heard so much about ) in these places of ill repute and joy. And in THESE times by gum!! Hullo and good bye Mr C. We-I will write more and do more. Time.
Terra residual, we have this mix of things to becoming and become. We are blind. We are blind yet see right through worlds. Horse. Great Horse. Oceans ago you came, only to stumble and your way was eye-seen and many gathered sullenly behind. Greatness leaps in stone. Old things (like skulls for example) are heaped toward the death place. But we progress, despite. It’s another word we found like `sign’ or `green’ or `grin’.(I’ll go in now.) But once we were ape things and now. Now there are many blades. Blades. Glyptus. Of this we could make – what make? And how do we decay? (There are many things.) And why?
But I must stop. For it is winter and there are reasons and it is cold and winter whips us: yet soon shall Spring in savage garlands break.
Daffodils are first then cinerarias. We love them. Once our hands. Our hands, we dig. Our hands.
There are millions. The variations are infinite. Blades.
and then there was a burst of blast as of a beginning of a stein or a
‘stan’ once in the nacht of delight when the crooked engine began to
throb with an uncalculated song such as mud-fire. begin. stop. start.
we are startled by the standing silhouette as if we were the edges of
eggs. fly. you need it, you want it, and they are each and every each
of them burning, they are not screaming tho, for its not tea time. I
wanted. box. you too shall know the ill despair as if redness sang
beyond (the perceivedly habitual) commercial instability of a
substantial subjunctive or preterite habituation of wordle words and
something disguised as an aluminium south island whereas new zealand
is something about a fish and a bird or even a heteropholous of a
kylic kind that could be bright or blind or priest green in a flat of
block towers to observe a fallacy of north east west how a window had
been rushed there to the room its own believing the grey light and the
old saw in a dark dank tank where in all goodness the unconstructors
perpetually redemolish their photon ladders that gently up let them. a
strange. as if. this thus this dichte as if i knew language of whose
example: tock tuck fog bog rug mug. all this. yes. beyond. beyond
there are beamish and posilogically polished frogs that frop and flop
and slop (as if s1ip fog) whose Green is their own surprise.
The world is shrunk to a stone:
And yet this rock has no size,
For in a crevice of it, and upon some soil,
A tree, which is minute -
Springs to hugeness
With a mass of leaf -
It quivers, penicial, throbbing.
What do you know?
What is this image
Of the grey cold stone,
Cold to my clasp -
And the rearing,
Green and yellow of the tree
As great and warm
As all its bursts of flowers?
Who is that man of gleaming grin
Who knows the white of burning bone?
What do you know?
Two ways and many have we
To know the vast world
That concentrates, now:
All the Age’s pains -
And pangs, and joys.
Children from my street
Rush from their house:
Graham in grey
Peter in blue.
At the Tamaki railway station
the lines shine to a convergence,
Or snake about some vague purpose.
The building, boarded up, is brown
With twenty years of trains.
There is no one here, and stains,
And red dust whirls the devil winds
Unseen unheard on the iron rails.
Clacka clack clacka clack:
You rock and roll
To death or to everything’s begin,
At the heart of Auckland - at Auckland’s heart.
But before the dreamt adventures,
Eat at the railway cafe
And drink for your journey.
You only know: the fire in treetops,
The car-flooded roads:
You are between the tree and its rock.
You are in Queen Street
There is nothing here.
Your thoughts are lead,
Your head is dead –
A man in grey is dressed in blue
He walks the pavements two by two
Counting nothing on the way
He cracks the silence with his song:
“My name is Z, I’ve been here long,
It was I did shrink this world to stone
And you my man are quite alone.”
The tree, the stone, send amazement thru
The vast glass eyes -
And the people stare down:
Why are the trees upside down?
Fallacious, childless man, you walk alone,
The buildings ache with stone.
A beautiful woman
Eroticates a billboard -
She is as enormous
And as stupid as Disneyland
With all its sexless eternity.
The world is truncated.
Balls of basalt roll about.
Death is forbidden. The people wait.
They know nothing.
Nobody knows nothing. We wait.
It won’t be long.
The concrete towers shiver
They are waiting
They are hoping:
A tired lady
Puts on her coat
Dies for fingers:
Her hands are cold -
It is 4 o’clock,
She sees the sun,
She is thinking:
“The people wait,
the people wait,
Graham and Peter
May never come.”
Beauty or desolation both? Again there is nothing left of my "past" except my memories) and the school buildings are gone.
More recent graffiti or Art. The "realist" face contrasts withe previous almost "random" work. It is almost as if the face is that of one of those idealised revolutionary figures seen in some Chinese and Soviet posters. This is a working class area so perhaps thoughts of socialism and justice are alive on the site of my old high school...who knows.
The football (rugby) field by the Tamaki Estuary. A cold but beautiful morning. Vic, my son, looks back . I can never cease my fascination with clouds and sky scenes.