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Thursday, May 23, 2013


Building in Pitt Street, Auckland at night in the rain.

Picture of myself ca 1970 from a book of photographs snapped by Marti Friedlander.


             Grovellation in the Dust of Day

These still trees, Unmoving.
We are Moved into
a progression of Inspiration, sensing.
Only this Ceaseless dialectic
of merely Being
torments the torment of tormented Things, twisting
and, made so by us, by the Thinking
of  them. And what is this Vast, searching,
and tremendous  Dance? Of  the
Endlessly circling Eagles, wanting
the tearing, aching for the Death, desiring
the killing of my Cerebellum. War - bellum, belli
May, or may not, Be - in this now of subtle spring.
So much Analysed -
it is a feeble Lady’s hand, age old –
dropping a small Plate,
as Heavy as an imploded star?
Oh let me Be as I have been counsell├ęd, still
so long to only Love, lust, bust:
and lash after the Ballooning out blown
of the burstful Bubble gum: bubble pink, world great
of great Expansion,
surrounding our Stannic world -
of which I am rejectful - analytic till Why goes dry.
Here the bush, the Tuis, the privet’s
sexual scent, Echoing
from bird to Bird to tree to tree,
and the songs die into Calculation.
Phallic this awesome, Earthful
erupting up of  Springen. Still as savagely
Doth crave and craze my Flesh – for I
am all about me, Infiltrating...but I
Have been abjured to Feel, to accept. The phallus,
like all spawning and teeming Seas of flowers everywhere:
erupts upwards Up. The pohutukawa -
bewitched, bejewelled by an Ecstasy of red...

Yes, I have been Advised to be.
My Dog man waves, far below –
analysing the subtle stones at the Canyon’s base.
Then it was I gushed, with a huge Joy
Of Making, and licked the lushiousness. I re-began.

But I will carve and Grind you out this progress.
Do you recall Don Pedro? He was told to eat
The beeeg, beeeg Sheeet; and he did - later having lunch!
He was then cruelly Chained, whipped, kicked, dogged.
O this wondrous Knotting of the lonely, pathetic two,
in Sexual double death ! O this faecal, focal,
Crawlsome, cowering, Grovellation in the dust of day!

I, in predawn slime, have been, that Protogroanic eye,
skouring up, up, into the bleak Black, and
Beckettian sky: where fly, great Flies  - their purpose?
The salivation of my Soul.

Too long, gnarlsome;
bently weakly have I bleakly road this darksome disc of doom.
The record plays Silence, and sudden sharp splints of light. It revolves, as
it shall always do, and we shall go, Oh we shall go
Thru purplic haze to ridges where: a new fire is Platinate;
and where there is an Infinity of hope.
The Great White Hand directs us on. We, who were those
smash├ęd clocks are proud –
We move through Centuries day by day: each day more erectly
Until – there is lo! There towering, there rearing –
Obsidian decision.


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1 comment:

Richard said...