Skip to main content

Net's fucked, need a router, have a poem.

Sandbar

At low tide, lying flat between two spurs of rock
it avoids it’s own extravagances, what am I I am a sandbar
a conglomerate what is this poem
other than an outpouring what is outpouring but lack of control.
Yes but it’s nonsense what is listening but waiting for a pause
what is structure but attempting to discern a meaning what
is appreciation but the hope of reciprocal flattery what is anger but a tool for getting attention what is a sandbar but the agglomeration of eroded particles
what is your point.

What is the lying quiet sat on sandbar with notebook.
What is the omission of indefinite articles what is.
What is the hegemony of adjectives what is what.

Obviously two flat planes sky sea must I keep repeating myself
there has only ever been one poem written and it is about two big blocks of colour
and the contrast between them, all the rest is editing.
What is editing but simple compression what is compression but distillation what is what is what is.

Out on the sandbar it’s all prayers, prayers for forgiveness, solemn psalms
begging for ideas, short conversations with allegorical whimbrels, beaks pushing into sand, inconclusive. A latter day saint, bartering sand in the arse for revelation,
writing romantic speculation in mica with a twig and watching water bubbling to the surface to fill them. A liquid canto. A seabird putting it’s head to one side and saying

We’re all going to beat the oligarchs to death with their own shoes later, fancy it?

The sky is a variety of descriptive words, the sea is less so, all is temperance
the slight convection of air, the indeterminate barometer in the hut on the shore
is a model of calm. Deposition is at a minimum, the cliffs retreat under abrasion is in abeyance. The sandbar shifts and settles.

What is a continuum but relevance,
what is relevance but a static field
what is static but movement
what is movement but a continuum what is

what is a signifier two limpets, conferring
cracking codes on the side of a rockpool, cries
in tonal increments over start salt flats,
a stuttering cipher a cry here, the downward
advancing of the grasses on the Cliffside, the
harmonies of sight the stopping. Stopping and spreading arms wide in a Demagogic Christ pose and holding the picture for some unseen camera feel sure must be watching

What is the sweep of drift what is.
What is the notebook, dripping with brine.
What is the emotion of static items.
Out on the sandbar all is utterance,
stood shaping plosives at a shiftless ocean, standing on
one leg and pursing lip and making faces at the sea,
stopping and exchanging insults with the salt
stopping and comforting the air
stopping and arguing with tides
stopping and singing at petrels, frankly baffled
wheeling up and off and crying their bafflement
stopping and preaching in a serious tone of voice
at anything crossing the field of vision

to sit on the sandbar, and feel the water slowly soaking you, to see the sand pile up on one side of you the feel the salt crusting on your skin cracking when you wrinkle your eyes against the spray and to scrape a shallow grave in the quickly infilling sand and to place your notebook into the grave and watch as the sand flows over it and buries it one bright red corner sticking up sharply to lay back and feel the water about you and hear it rushing in your ears disproportionately loud to it’s gentle motions to stare up and widen your eyes for as long as you dare, find the pen your pocket and break it and to think to yourself you know if nothing else I can always buy more notebooks

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The last day of the county season

 Look, I never claimed to be cool. As a a cliched middle aged male, I have a number of interests which, if not exactly niche, are perhaps not freighted with glamour. Not exactly ones to set the heart racing. I yearn not for wakeboarding, my cocaine with minor celebrities days are well and truly behind me, you are unlikely to catch me writing graffiti under a motorway bridge. I do cycle, but only as a way of getting from point A to point B, you are unlikely, you will be relieved to hear, to see me purchasing lycra and or/doing triathlons. I like going for a nice walk. I'm fond of a good book. I have a deep attachment to county cricket. Yes, that's right, county, not even the international stuff which briefly captures the nation's fleeting attention once in a blue moon. County cricket. Somerset CCC to be precise, though I'll watch / listen to any of it. The unpopular part of an unpopular sport. Well, that's the public perception, the much maligned two men and a dog. N...
Post a Comment
Read more

D-Day Dos and Don'ts for Dunces

Oh Rishi. Lad.  You have, by now, almost certainly become aware of the Prime Minister(for the time being)'s latest gaffe, as he returned home early from D-Day commemoration events in France, in order to "concentrate on an interview" which, as it turns out was already pre-recorded. There's been a fair bit of outrage, the word "disrespectful" is being bandied about a lot.  The word I'd use is "stupid". It is often said of the Brits that we have no religion but that the NHS is the closest thing we have to one. This, I think, is incorrect, because the fetishisation of WWII is to my mind, far closer to being our object of national veneration.  I understand why, last time we were relevant, fairly straightforwardly evil oppo, quite nice to be the good guys for a change, I absolutely get why the British public worship at the altar of a conflict which, I note, was a very long time ago. I think it's a bit daft, personally, but I understand it. So you...
Post a Comment
Read more

The three most tedious food debates on the internet.

 I very much only have myself to blame. One of the less heralded aspects of running a business is that one is, regrettably, obliged to maintain a social media presence, it's just expected. And, if I have to do it, I'm going to do it very much in my own voice, as I don't tend to have time to stop and think when I'm bunging something on Insta. It seems to have worked okay so far. But, as a man better versed on the online world than he would prefer, I should have known better than to stick up a picture of our bread rolls, fresh out of the oven. In my defence, I did preface said picture by saying "one of the most tedious debates on the internet is what these are called...". Doubtless you've seen the argument somewhere, it's one of the workaday tropes that shithouse FB pages use to drive engagement. Need a few thousand clicks to raise the profile of your godawful local radio station/page about how everything was better in the past/shelter for confused cats?...
Post a Comment
Read more