dusty

A poetic sense of memory
just as if you’d be
lighter and less factual if
tonight you lay with me

A dusty nowhere highway
and a running little girl
who peers into the headlights
through a single hanging curl

sparkles

sparkles...
11:46 p.m. :: 2003-10-07

My best friend Kat died on Saturday night. For those of you who didn't know, now you do. For those of you who didn't know her - you missed out. You would've one day heard of her, about her or met her somewhere in the world. Because she sparkled so. Because everywhere she went she carried with her a warmth and a fire that burned so brightly if so desperately short. She will never come back to us, because she has not left. She lives and burns in each of us here today and the thousand people who wondered 'Who was that girl in red?' Whether it was in a tutorial, a performance, a speech, a party, a shoe shop or a quiet cafe made louder by her presence - you felt her everywhere she was. Everywhere she had been. She was our Kat. A thousand tiny facets kept her shimmering everyway you looked at her - like one of her oh so precious diamonte's. And sometimes though we feel like wailing, though there are questions that will never be answered, we know that she's the best dressed angel there is, with pink feather wings and a trail of glitter just her own. We will miss you honey, we will keep going for you, for each other. Because it's what you would want and it's what we will do - she's ours now, to carry round, to fall back on, to laugh with, to cry with. She was our Kat and she sparkled so.

LaScala

Venice

Naked. Bread and wine laid out.

olden-time coin stacked neatly

in a struggling pile.

The fan’s pulsing shadows keep

bow-string time as lower chords

sow the whole divine plan together -

out the window, down the long

Via Garibaldi, plunge through streets,

twisted markets, stunted lanes and

nameless bridges - urgent seeking

thrusting

some repose

the fan brings you back, striking

at first in its fits and inducing

haze (like something in your eyes

is broke)

incapacitated, solid, melted chords

drip off the speakers, seep into your

ears

Help him, he must hurt so

How does he transcribe it all –

ah that chord

such agony

such pain

layers build chasm

mine

tears

the soft hum of the fan as

the end slides near, why

where, crucified

as, father.

Victoria

Brighton to London

different voices in the Lavender,

I have many

but there’s too much –

yellow flowers interrupt

and many more than leaves

blur past your widow

and suddenly next to you

someone taps your shoulder

and stutters out of sleep

to quiet clamoring

insistent

Victoria!

No not yet

Settle

Flop over your seat and rest

until someone locked inside

bangs on the cell’s borrowed door,

clang a pot on stone until

your fingers bleed –

Victoria!

soon, soon.

there’s something about those

places that I hate,

be it the fluorescent lights

or the endless rows of shopper’s

specials, lazily intruding on your stroll –

count yourself lucky to see me back

again,

this isn’t customary your know

this isn’t fair

how did you link it all together this

time,

before the song is sung

and timid swans staked out

in fields laid waste to the sun

some intrusive effort

mumble Victoria!

just let me go

it’s too…

let me

So this is where we’ve left us?

Cobblestones

London, UK

cobblestone does funny things to

your head

and the roads round London-town

go backwards, like there’s a

thousand things you’d never do even

if you made a list,

and checked it off as you might at

Christmas

Who’s to manage everything for

you when we depart?

There’s no room at poet’s corner

for the delivery you want,

take yourself over the top

and plunge through the Hippodrome,

(you’re your own circus sometimes)

that’s not really true

(well dyu have the time?)

stop thinking inside yourself

but to wander past the opera

house is twice as dangerous.

(even though just this one you

did go in)

stop yourself

“You’re one of us then”

that’s all-right

(it makes it all better then.

I suppose)

In the end

after

that glass

is finished

(pour me another)

strum up some more purported

goodness

pretend to write

be prepared to cower

(throw around some nonsense in case)

moisturise the truth

work out something

Summ’it new

‘Wiv ou all da bova’

some more reason

how do you encompass

cash some more valuables,

there’s nothing much like tomorrow –

is that your contribution?

or shall the lottery continue…

unabated

sapphire dreaming

oak panels

more history than your country knows,

this is your forgotten land

this is your abandoned mother

The poetry of colonial refuse

diaspora I claim Armenian

my rejected self

on the ashes of those filed

(on the ashes of my children)

there we re-built Babylon

oh honey, why did we have to go

oh we

why

not so much a leaving anymore

not so much a nothing

as more to dissipate a counter-

intuition you feel that (culturally)

you might know is there.

(again)

allright to dream – Spinoza

rears his strange intrusive head

once more

Whose spleen am I?

tides are turning in your

brand new rambling

a little bit off…

what would they have had?

(and why?)

all you have to come up with ideas,

offer it a bit louder

and drop your coat over a puddle

(If she looks, you’re in)

I know you’re that kind of guy

- whenever you want to be

better, better

why bother really

that’s really your issues

interesting reporting

isn’t it/

he’s just difficult, he must know.

a little bit more

walk away

hot

2 days inanight

find it

read, recall

read

rest

cobblestones’ll do that to you…