by the night

Come by the night

Come by the night asking

Come by the night asking for

 

An exchange

 

An exchange

by the night

come

 

Come by the night asking

 

a water-maker

for

a soup-spinner

 

by the night asking

a connection-dweller

for

a fate-delayer

 

The night asking

a light-retainer

for

a life-explainer

 

Come by the night 

Come by the night

asking

by the night

 

for

a love-availer

for

a lozenge-sharer

 

by the night

distance-taker

come

truth-recaller

heart-breaker

come

group-builder

for

a hope-restorer

come

come

come

come

and come

world-destroyer

 

Come by the night

by the night

the night

asking for…

 

Your exchange.

Zero conditional

desire properly speaking

cannot be stood up

cannot stand down

cannot stand itself standing

but has to fall

 

if walked straightline –

footprints left behind

like impressions made by a hesitant movement

second-wanting to retrieve itself

to go back as well as forward –

this is not desire properly speaking

desire qua desire, this is not speaking properly

 

desire

properly spoken

cannot plan its own route

cannot map a way out

cannot break down to itself its own breaking-down-into-itself

 

if it wants

if it burns

first burning more than it wants

then wanting more than it burns

it has to fall into its own wanting

to be led

and bled

by that groundless motion

the only way to turn

not back

not even forth

but spiral

down into the emptiness

of the fullness

of an unconditional

wanting

 

properly speaking,

falling by a properness that would make speech itself fall behind the falling proper –

indeed, to a falling that, spiralisation, strips the single poem of the singular originality proper to the cosmic Poetry of chasmic Desire

the latter, itself not a poem, nor a series of poems, but the Poetry of a voice

unmoored and unpersuaded

by the ignorance of certain types of knowledge that, level, are just

more distance in disguise

a falling-back

onto a familiarity

that keeps us too familiar

with a certain idea of the self –

in other words,

in words that cannot keep up,

spoken properly,

and so without preface, recipe or annexation

never to let oneself fall behind the falling

but to fall through

listening to desire as “the desire to listen”

wanting to hear it properly spoken

which means never being able to speak it properly oneself

but let its limits outnumber one’s limits

without safe return, head first into the fire of the roar of the world

and thereby vitalising it

inasmuch increasing one’s own volume by, part-taking, increasing its volume

to let that be the case

mounting the case for that to be the case

irresistibly

unconditionally

is desire.

everything in time or The Chaotician

today

better prepared

for tomorrow

than yesterday I was

for today

because yesterday

for today

there had been an expectation

of something

which, in the end, threw everything;

 

now, today,

expecting tomorrow,

I do not expect something

nor do I expect nothing

but I expect that

even this expectation of neither

will be wrong

and yet somehow also right

but in such a way that it will have been wrong, nevertheless

and even then, on top of that and/or below it,

third-order,

such being-wrong-about-being-right-about-being-wrong

also being

not quite right nor quite wrong either

and so on

to fourth order

and fifth

and on

and on

until the day has gone and what it actually was will have been

which probably not much more than the affected expectation of a tomorrow ever postponed by its being expected per se

and probably a lot more than that, too

probably in such particular amounts of right and wrong that it and us will never quite be settled

and so that, for us, tomorrow, which must be expected, always expected, is still, in-the-making, on its way to us,

as we, same-way, on our way to it via an errant program of expectations

it being, at last in part, the remaking of those expectations about itself

guaranteeing that tomorrow will ever be in such a way that it will never be –

that is,

the total connectedness of the disjointure;

 

indeed, it now seems to me, this neither and both stands a much better preparation

for tomorrow

than yesterday’s had been

for today

having been thrown off by the unexpected problem

of expecting the problem of expectation per se.

F is for

Feather tickles on the soles of little feet,

A worn through gaze outstaring early crying eyes.

Moments for life of life-stages shared complete,

Impossible hours of love turned hate’s disguise.

Limitless seasons of care without defeat,

Yardstick measures as to whom and where it applies…

 

Of many, many-few are set on repeat

Reductions of a world made on fewest ties,

 

Under trees of blood, the shade will show deceit…

Stand no more homes ‘til the World-as-Home may rise.

The echo

I split the sides of the world laughing at it.

It all comes apart because I am an example.

Like a comedy of maps whose puzzle-piece first appearances dissolve in the yet much more puzzling ocean they spill into the gaps left unfilled by their drawing.

All that drawing drowns itself.

Very funny.

Cartography describes space at a distance, through the distance of abstraction; laughing is acknowledgement of things at a distance, through the distance of abstraction.

I laugh because tragedy is what will occupy the cannot-be-filled-up space

The one whose filling-up just retraces it

Repeats the distance

no cancellation

just more delays

Throws fresh water into the already very in-salted ocean))))>>/

De-lay: an impression of something is the renewal of something under the perforated umbrella of a part-hiding part-showing phenomenology; no stopping the rain; something shows up again meaning itself beyond an every-piece-of-the-puzzle collection entirety.

The shore never quite reached, despite however much mapped, hunted pen and paper, mast and sail, beneath near and distant suns, over shallower and deeper waters, with and against world-trapsing winds, current-sitting equators.

The share never quite breached.

The shadows never quite embeached.

The strip of possibility that narrows everything.

That makes it impossible.

and thus

interregnum meaning of this really

piece-by-piece-never-finished

gives it its possibility.

Here and, therefore, not-here, too.

Shown and, therefore, hidden, too.

Laughter speaks the impossible language of the impossible. Keeping the distance. Not overwriting it with a repetition that de-lays it with too much presence, all over again.

A meaningful voicelessness.

When saying anything is too much.

Laugh because it is the only way to resign without giving up.

Laugh

at the silliness of being involved

at the misery that involves us without a second’s notice

at the happiness that comes as a result of sadness managed in some bearable form.[1]

This and that

happiness and sadness

but never either totally

just both in differing degrees

winding each other up.

Family resemblances. Therefore, probably some sibling rivalry.

The puzzle is the puzzling.

That is,

even a full-on resignation has to do too much, make its own way to the grave, step-taking a many-ness that stands against its own reason

has to make a difference that does not absolve it of the world

but repeats the world under its own terms

which is a world-determining thing to do

world-changing

more tied down than ever before

so procreatively non-procrastinately involved…

I have to laugh at the nihilists

full of meaning

The shore they describe, the map they puzzle-piece into the ocean of puzzles,

sends them pen and sail into the very worldliness initially set out to be decried.

Boat-taking makes accomplices of us all

It is funny. Because the world is funny like that.

Just as I must laugh at the optimists

who think that the shore is really there, and that its correct writing shall tell us once and for all the procedure of being.

I laugh at myself for finding all of this funny

because it is not funny

nihilists retrieve examples ample from the wars that optimists – out of their unwavering correctness – repeatedly induce

there is nothing funny about this.

It is tragic.

And the only way to bring hope back from the des-pair of war and war-thought is to laugh –

in other words, speaking to the impossible in a careful manner. To regroup

to side-split a little

let out a little pressure

let air out

get inspired

a different air in

making the most of difference

of repetition

before setting out again

to speak once more with the nihilist

the optimist

the sure knowers of the shore

one tells me it is definitely not there

(burns it alive to my eye. Oh, the excitement of red vision)

the other that it definitely is

(which puts it out all over again. They say orange. I go limp)

The same story

They share so much without sharing anything

and repeat the distance without even realising it

as we all do

but they who are distance’s true lovers

possess the required indifference to make their own torch-light shaping of the invisible show up

fornicating and breeding endless difference

which

given what they believe

is funny

quite literally fucking funny

whilst I try to make them laugh at themselves before they make us all cry again

with their either-north-or-south-pole erections.

Laughter promises a spherical reach.

 

TL; DR: fill the gaps with a sense of the gap. Like laughter that really echoes.

[1] Thank you, Frank.

Quart-trains of trained quartz

A phenomenology of dust

sprinkled scrapes of sceptical specks

scupper sparks of step-sick aspects

spit-spectacles of scrap-spill sports

skin-skip spurts of spoilt supports

 

A geology of trust

The dig minds lines of fund finality

The dig spine-grinds from thinned duality

These humans send sun down beneath

Seek a Spring curtained by its leaf

 

A geography of lust

Love has time-zone terms which it hates

They cut its freedom to draft, to roam

They punish it with anchored fates

Give it eyes and a shallow home

 

A choreography of rust

A bronze cut sits atop alone,

A ton drop of metalised bone

On a stone throne atoning for

Air-time, water-use and sun-lore

Silver

Softer light that takes added heat to get home:

this is a person and other people.

 

this person

these other people

or just all the people

altogether

slightly short

slightly narrow

in the light –

because

person

people

all people

are

slightly short

and slightly narrow

of the Light

are but softer lights within all the adding up

to Light;

 

of all the persons being people

having and sending light

there is not even a single person –

a person and their body

people in the body –

as star-scarred

 as the distant suns,

and of all the persons being people

knowing and receiving the light –

a populated body

a body populator –

there is really not anybody

as well-rounded as those bodies

whose intentions

will fully originate

at their own axis

 

though, often enough

as often as often is possible

without all-ways taking up the time-work of always

are people to be found

mid-constellation

having a collapse

folding in on themselves,

so dark, compact

colourlessly voided as

any solarisation

at the tail end of its fire…

 

and still, often enough

as often as often is possible

without always taking over the space-work of all-ways

are people to be seen

closed-atmosphere

orbiting one another

gravitating so near, tight

in multiplication

of risk upon risk

of collision,

apocalyptically full

of meteoric desire…

 

indeed

the people

despite literal and lateral shortcomings

and an almost literary narrow-mindedness

lights always less than Light

stars not as poised as the Sun

planetary but lacking in the self-composed

are yet to be able

to find and see themselves

more successfully distinguished than this,

…will yet be able to distinguish themselves from the fuller bodies

…bodies of enviable mass

…a little more successfully

 

this person and these people

may find and see good distinction

when recalling silver-line

their own queer ability

demonstrated time and again (and this is exactly the point)

to do such surprising things as

relight

after

burning out

whether that be by shared heat

or random combustion

and recompose

after

impact

whether so by organic reproduction

or a many-handed

tool-box

prostheticisation,

truly

here

the person in the people

the people in the person

or just all the people

distinguish themselves

surprise

as bodies

not massive

nor fully lit

nor very stable

but in a body instead souled by Repetition;

 

and furthermore this and these yet find and see themselves in distinction

good distinction – surprising

by a similarity with each mass that each mass cannot have with the other

the people resemble both stars and planets in ways that stars and planets simply cannot resemble each other

the earth cannot collapse

or burn out

the sun cannot crash

or make contact

truthfully

here

the person in the people

the people in the person

or just all the people

distinguish themselves

surprise

as bodies

again, not massive

nor all-light

nor elemental

but in a body instead souled by Resemblance;

 

the people

a distinguished soul of light within Light

an embodiment unmatched by bodies that wait wasting the same until expiration

bodies circumscribed by forces

on legs without imagination

this person and these people, instead

by short-falling and narrow-eyedness

can find and see themselves

using and reusing

and – by accident of that difference – refusing

everything

in so many ways that never will it be so massively exhausted

before their own softer light has been divided into oblivion –

until their bodies phosphorescent are no longer adding heat to one another –

which is to say, finally, and yet most primordially,

this person

these people

in a body souled by Emergence.

How to resign

If it is going to be me without you,

the meagre possibilities left me instead

I will exhaust

making sure

the world knows

the size

the magic

of that which I have lost

whilst its arms

seem loose and wide enough

to embrace you still

look after you

keep you a little longer

however far away

you might end up from me.

The world

must

and will

be made fully aware

of what it, at least for now, has been given

lovingly

to care for.

 

With this poem,

I try to jerk its elbows

to attention,

and say goodbye to you.