The stirs of life slow down to rest
at sunset—they don’t like the dark much.
The streets, closed malls and parks—
they are left to the homelss, dogs, cats,
lost newcomers and nocturnal tourists.
I sit on a shapeless rock growing out of the sand.
Through the sunset. After the sunset.
Dull sounds of oars hitting gunwales—yea,
I saw some lazy boats off the shore in the twilight.
The sound of water lapping against the shore.
A dog barking at a far distance.
Nameless noises of being wriggling in the silence.
A cat teaching its kitten cat tricks
on the white table at my room verandah.
Idiot. Useless things.
There are more important things.
I have brought my eyes back to myself
and keep them about myself only to sense
almost imperceptible ghostly shadows
coming into their curtailed field.
I look at nothing particular—
I just remain capable of seeing.
I sit on the shapeless rock growing out of the sand.
Through the sunset. After the sunset.
The sounds of a familiar language are brought
by the wind, the wave forms twisted into unintelligible shapes,
into a strange language or a non-language.
Just the voices kept intact as humans’.
They must be walking arm in arm in the sand.
In love. In the breeze. The evening soon to pass.
Long tuned to the silence and pressures in the nocturnal air,
you can sense the presence and absence
of movements around.
My mind sits at the center of the quiet
weaving a thought without an idea in it.
Thought in bokehs of ideas.
My photographer friend would say
this is a beautiful scene.
In a slow response to the pull of silence
the dusts of sound have settled down
to the abandoned life spread across the floor–
preserved in layers the creases of pains
painted in fragile smiles for the show,
spirals of despair deyed spry for the show.
Slowly the dusts of life have settled
on the photographs of dead people
and people memory has let go of,
those blurry visitors in grainy dreams
you have once or twice in a lifetime
gathered from a long forgotten past,
part of the mistakes you made in learning life.
But a bearded storm keeps coming with a broom
dragging along his cart of dusts and photographs
when the sun is low to the snow free of all dust.
After or before the dark? You never know.
Even as I looked, I didn’t see
how it seeped into the port–
the ship of shadows docks
with dancers dancing in the dark
mixing darkness with dance and dancers,
the mix filling the mould
bubbling out sound and silence.
In the absence without pressure,
noiseless sounds ooze out of the ears
to creep for a flash unsensed
before yielding to the yawning thirst.
The breeze smuggles hairy strands of
the whispers of silence through the leaves.
You almost hear a muffled rustle
of the hurried hush beyond the hedge.
But you don’t ever peer through the twigs
out into the haze beyond the green
to see these strangers
for they’re regulars.
Failure is a beautiful thing–
the most beautiful but the hardest to live.
A beauty you avoid, an art you fear,
one you like only from a distance
as your negative space.
The best men in the world
are failed men.
They keep failing. Beautiful men.
Hopes crumble down in their laps,
brick by brick–those they laid one by one–
into shapeless rubble heaps,
formless grains of dust and mass of wastes,
in sounds from the mute fall of airborne dust
to the soundless noise
following the crashing of towers
and skyscrappers onto the dust
where the sky begins.
Meaningless until you hear them on a tape
meaningless until you rub
and feel their roughness on the canvas.
Failed men breathe through the wreck,
speak in nonsense–
a tongue of a different frequency range
where sound and matter merge.
All cyan and pale blue. Horror. And horror-tinted pupils. Un/real like a nightmare.
A river. Water thick and mucuous with dirt. Foul. Putrid. Dirt dangling and floating like hair in the wind from the skeleton of a bridge, banks, and leafless trees on the banks, branches skinned like animal rib-cage with the rotten remainder of flesh reeking in the wind. The jig-a-jig of the deep bass buzzes of acousmêtre flies ubiquitous and enveloping. Garbage chocking the flow–upriver, the water-belley beginning to distend, bending upward.
Garbage on the banks. Dirt flowing on the narrow paths on the banks snaking along with the river. Mumbling dirt, speaking dirt, coughing dirt, sneezing dirt–dirt walking in mass like in an exodus, pale-blue humans short of zombie eyes, that horrible skin, that horrible gait, that horrible raspy voice, those hungry hands reaching out impatiently in emptiness. More a spectacular river than the slow river.
Winged trams flying past over across the river, alarmed passengers covering their nose, the silent horror in their face streaming out through the glass windows into the river.
All cyan and blue. Horror.