29 Apr 2008
i own your
to say no
image stilled @ Robodock 2007
Labels: psychonautic wallpaper
25 Apr 2008
Vespers (56) - for Tommy Murphy
night smooths across itself, each
conversation filled with pivotal
arrangements, each a sweet
young policy, and God,
awake now, offers summer at a time
when whispers offer to remake an afternoon
into another breeze with / without light.
My brother, once hinged to insomniatic living
I have claimed, redeems a light I keep
inventing. I am home because he's in my home.
I am awake to the involuntary / voluntary
happiness that he evokes.
It is in syllables that we find blessings
full of color, full of pleasure, filled with
flights that lift us to first heaven
as response to better ways of finding
a redemptive pause in this
form of an informal daylight
that amounts to nightfall, too, a state
of generous circumference of tulips
in the already pretty yard.
My brother transcends inference. When he is here,
the story is already in our cells, and I retell it
for the language that he understands. We need no words.
We love them anyway, for we are wearing these
ingenious sentiments along
with ways of life that blend with all eternity.
There are intentions that remunerate
the flight from quiet and the presence
of unplanned eternity.
We find enough to locate depth
within no depth at all.
That anyone who had a mind
to have recited would have found
in syllables, in threads, in practiced
answers to inform our happiness.
deus ex politica
24 Apr 2008
hungry an appetite for money
to disband words and relish restrictorspeak
falls words waterfalls
of serendipity the squiggle of money
underfoot gridlock the necessity of
words, the primacy of comprehension
you're a winner consequently words
this place as a pose
to that place a space such as Myspace
to allow habitat
love was on my lips
I've never been abroad
echoes of space flight
The succession of poetry
by the spoken word
the guns are out and the land is copper, a hot acid between a tooth and a toe an echo of a forefinger. Lost in the land she shape shifts a mirror of rain a car crash clouds deep upon our knuckles
The soul is a repository, a tree that blooms
fades echos and dies to deny words by the fridge
of money would be paradise on earth
stamping feet on the floor and clapping our hands
rain can fall from the sky
and brush our paradise aside
And she is not her or many or another
of a thousand faces you've been today
seen this week, month year
gone by, reluctant to admit
whether planned, by chance
neither either, someone
else who documents your fall from grace
your pleasure or your pain
we are all disenchanted by money
Bin men that don't strike?
The novel isn't dead
but our monks are and
the teachers on strike
are fucked off with the whole
Seasons change here
my face changes in the car mirror
I should have slept
to skate thin ice
in grid lock
watching the land and no longer
recognising the British
the strange thin
strips of buildings
way beyond our pockets
and the wisps of cloud
seem to knight our heraldry
this odd occasion before
the rain, then sun
New York weather upon British soil
My muse, at present my
is a delicate featured Indian girl,
to the turns of our culture,
her dance and her shape shift
this is not you or me a girl
we see, or wish to see,
or not wish to see!
Then who is she?
As the intrusive author fades
a little further East
as London shifts closer
to the Garden of England
that touches the coast
on a clear day
We must play out some
memory, a maladaptive
how things used to be
To say things clearly
an artist may need poetry
but the very crux of the matter,
the raison d'etre
is lost by the skin and bones of words
that climb to images
that linger to the abstraction
Honking horns on this by-way,
the London circular quite derelict
of anything British, English
This then must be an apparition,
As much fact as fiction
to lose then recover diction
neo lingua franca! The ghosts are in our minds
in our machines.
I will mistake Paris
for New Zealand!
She runs for cover
as ambulances scream by
the end of an administration
a change within
and beyond the teachers strike
Jobs fucked up by paperwork.
The rain is falling fast and large
and lingers in vapour trails
daylight, opposite (for all this entails)
a landscape for the eyes
to fall. Flora is omniscient. She
came to me in sleep as a Unicorn.
She whispered that we cannot escape her
speeding faster, faster
by plane, train, car and
We'll not lose her
as the land will identify
acknowledge and sleep
I am the wolf
that craves her sunset eyes
that runs by her side.
For Atlas holds up her residence
and within this paradise
is the repetition of money
22 Apr 2008
offering smooth light upon the moment
May you find a soft place to be sheltered from
the natural inclination to seem
Summer has afforded you a respite from intentionality
belonging to those opposite all
Rampant legislation misses the true level of need
affecting morsels and a vast stretch of the
Per omnia secula seculorum amen
is how in unison
When a word has gone into the figurative hopper
there is nothing really left to
An hour or more of sleep, ribbons dividing unkempt air
from latticework in whole
Marry your integrity and stress the point of disrepair
until we have seemed lovely
20 Apr 2008
19 Apr 2008
18 Apr 2008
what is outside the lines
what is examined under sleep
what revokes the temperance
what is sorted by these fingers
what accommodates a prayer
what has been affordable
what is resumed
what has been shared
what allows new wool to function
what defines the character of after hours
what applies asunder
what lucidity invokes dark drapes
what lapel pins seen through
what in the fire absorbs the text
15 Apr 2008
ease of motion
range of blessings seep toward
chance fends away the radiance
pen strokes dried
pumice in a strained toned span of
"mind your head"
revert to range
of motion's lull
entonces far from brittled toll
the document made
whole of sembled
parts as struck
repaired as new from forthright chi
13 Apr 2008
soft sleep of yours
I only dream apartness
the reality infused
into a whirlwind wheeling
straight line rationally
headlong with no thought
of pockets pocketing a lumbered wilderness
mornings now birds populate
the pollen and the lariat
many plays are written in the head
and on the skin and in the morning
we defray the cost of never having grown outside of this
12 Apr 2008
"the things I value most in the arts are simplicity and
"I must be middle-class because I have some
spare time to
create art""Touche art your body
passion is a generic question?" "pense de la question? Beneath things and things-things are truths we all know and love not to hold"
"I am as a fish my totality of this banana world""Hedonism is our best science" "transience is a beautiful expectation it lies beyond the reach of trances of paper chase"
"Of all the words I've ever blamed
your value is pigeoned Apollo a wax of taxed breath and the room we charge to be in"
"Your breath is a clutch of flowers a charge quite loaned via a banks bullshit and claimed to Tuesday"
This "poem" inspired by "Dogma" by Roberto Jonata. You can catch his composition "Dogma" on his MySpace
let's kick some ass
Labels: tiny heads of state
9 Apr 2008
A Bite Off The Big Apple (America vs. Americana)
Comment t'appele tu?
One to section Six
Sa Sa Sa get a good grip
An island off the sky;
Canada is a cool shade on
my editing program
Shadow 7 (photograph)
New York is New
York is New York is
New York is......
Madrid on a rainy day?
A fear of subways?
A play for a continent?
An Island offa Europe?
New York women are a shrapnel
off rustic slates (and)
An advert on cosmopolitairianism
An earthly Eastern European shade
Dice running close to
pancakes and potato chips
New York is in poverty
a culture via T.V. snakes
we aspire to
You're welcome (Pardon me)
anywhere and here (Visa Waiver Scheme)
So apologetic for our pitch
The Brooklyn bridge
hides in vast crevices of
lives stuck hardy to the
fearful bliss of
ne'er ending change. But
this is not certain
Plus ca change
Plus c'est la meme chose!
I shall finish as I began
'Tis yours to question why
the depth of Manhattan
is as "black as it is white".
For all our lives and airs
we shall change and change
And wit and wisdom hence
our lives are like puppets
free to spend!
Graffitiology, pardon me
Dali, roasted nuts
5th Avenue, Helen Mirren
We'll still walk through and exit
the immigrants door
for, first you are blamed
And then, upon departure
You are quickly forgiven
3 Apr 2008
let him sit on high
up to the rafters in tar and feathers
out to the state line
oh it was engineered so well
down the pipeline and it went
like clockwork like it was wired
just one time too many
neighbours get your eiderdown
go pluck a duck
and give him the goose
don't spare the chicken
a little emu-lation
will go a long way
toward improving the state of the nation
he's not our Joe nor theirs don't worry
fun for all is here
the one who tells you to get used to it
he goes first
come hoist him up
the yoke is easy
the burden light
lest ye be trodden under
with a sign here please and
don't bother reading it
do-si-do and away we go
with our bustard
By Christopher Mulrooney
This is one of a number of poems submitted by Christopher, that will be appearing on Saying Something over the next few weeks.
2 Apr 2008
Anybody seen my leaflets (the one that I was wearing just a month ago)?
Until you've registered your life in slippers that fit me, you'll never know . . .
Her last words to me were "You don't know what you have."
I replay the melody she shelved near me it was not very slow nor was it dark.
Tomorrow will be holy and the veerage will contain what off-ramp we have parsed.
I think I want to tie together elbow room and formulate my own park.
On the matter of a labyrinth, look at who is posing where it is.
Let us pray, I told myself, and then I cell phoned you.