Vespers (73)

May distance
from you
draw upon
its opposite.

May you offer calm
to each.
And may you teach
the kind of prayer

you do
reflexively
into the daylight
you can make.

May you cross
division problems.
May you fail
to feel contempt.

Machine Girl (Text and Image)

A different version of my last picture "Car Lights are Objects in My Night". Once again, a 3 Way Collaboration
Original photo by Miss Bouxmissboux.deviantart.com
Stock photo by Mademoiselle heleninawww.flickr.com/photos/madheleninastock/2879354765/
And Editing/Digital Effects and text by Me!

Text on Flickr

http://www.flickr.com/photos/thecrescent/2893594370/

Thank you

Simon

ethereal darkcaster

in that universe shadows of whispered		thoughts were symbiotic echoes of us

This is the shadow image of an installation by Wessel ‘Der Wexel‘ Westerveld.

Machine Girl

I have no objections, indeed anything special would be essence in the sense of bodily form. Delicately lovely you drive grotesqueries from vagueness by your frame to a ghost merging in malad machinery our new instinct anima mal I sense the flesh of it all will be precursor to the shell of it all keeled to the essence, persona of it all. I have no objections, similarly you have no particular objections, strangely I find you liberating by representation rather than flesh or authenticity. You insist on reality, not your reality but that you are real. What I know and what I know is fantasy strangely merge through a compliance that equals tissues of lies and truth sectioned beneath the fantasies and unrealities restrictions and undemocracies of the real... technology.

Unduly worried I take a pill to forge equanimity with computerised "actual reality". After ten minutes or so I'm believing you are actual, real, the essence of my truth the anima of me, fleshed and human. To lose myself in this would compromise consciousness to the realm of manufactured identity and perception. I watch this thought flicker on the screen, I have no objections, do you my love? "No, I have none at all".

CAR LIGHTS ARE OBJECTS IN MY NIGHT

3 Way Collaboration

Original photo by Miss Boux
missboux.deviantart.com

Stock photo by Mademoiselle helenina
www.flickr.com/photos/madheleninastock/2879354765/

And Editing/Digital Effects by Me!
Simon

Vespers (72)

maturation subdivides
the lives of prophets
into decibels of speech

insistence upon
rapid-fire refusal
to relax
beyond a shadow

territory destined
to become unclaimed
contracts beneath
the shoulder
a soldier at a time
conveys no signal at all

may you enjoy the generosity
of stasis full of sweet
and nest in how
the city's laced with calm
magic as a field
you made yourself

just whisper that
to whom you call God
and listen
for what comes back
until it's nothing
anymore

Sheila E. Murphy COLLECTED CHAPBOOKS (1981-2002)

Blue Lion Books announces a new hardback book by Sheila E. Murphy, COLLECTED CHAPBOOKS (1981 - 2002). A collection of all Murphy's chapbooks issued during that period, many out of print and now available in a beautiful hardcover edition.

"For three decades, Sheila E. Murphy has been been one of the master architects of American syntax. Those who have read her poems only in magazines or chapbooks have no idea of their scope, the scale and the depth of her work. For those readers, this collection will be a revelation. This is a great book!" --- Ron Silliman

"Sheila E. Murphy is indeed a virtuoso bird, one who takes flight through language at the slightest provocation, carrying her readers with her on long poetic journey. These poems are about linguistic experience, about music on the page and in the head, about ideas approached from surprising angles and made anew, about renewal and revival. Over the last twenty five years I have continually migrated towards Sheila's approachable, lyrical and engaging experiments, basking in the sun-drenched visions she has gathered and made from the worlds and words about her. Collected Chapbooks is an overdue delight, a tribute and a publishing event." --- Rupert Loydell

http://www.lulu.com/content/2251616

is the web-address for ordering this book. The book has much to merit purchasing a copy to enrich one's experience of contemporary poetry. In reading this book, you will be amazed at the variety of her poetic discourse, no doubt, in paraphrase, falling in love along with the the spell of her bright syntax.

Decision Poem

Yes No
No Yes
No Yes
Yes No

No Yes
Yes No
No Yes
Yes No

Yes No
No Yes
No Way
Okay

*

Ah! Yes
Oh! No
Not quite
Just right
I can't
I can
I won't
I will

tempers fuse it
I'm happy 'bout it
I'll have to face it
I'll just deny it

strangers meeting
I know you
your face is familiar
far away

lies are truth
and truth is lies
How to be decisive
when there's no substance?

I have no time
To say I am
Please accept my apologies
late again!

*

No no no no no no no no no no no
New new new new new new new new new
blue blue blue blue blue blue
Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes
l'oiseaux comprend l'avenue du choix a bird is a choir in new mud
your reason is my reason as such as a bird singes wing is a glue fortunate your hypothetically unreasonable

I've gone you've gone we've gone everyone isn't here
they are here right here in the flesh you can touch their flesh
and nothing disappears
cars scudding at midnight
a birds flight canoed by an Internet our flavour of paint
you're right I'm right here right here
Crashing like Gates

Mistake? I never took avenues to seed a truth
where truisms are anywhere nearer than now
Whose expectation was a kaleidoscope? Haven't
cervix esperanto illusive mime? Since when should
I explain that poetry is a scene to gather all other
scenes and provide the tinge that scraps the

whole out of all things? Une foret?


*

objet objet objet stars stars stars objet objet objet stars stars stars

I cannot finish this poem not because words are merely emblems rather than a scrutiny of post modern culture. I am an author so I am not here, you must be the author unless the words found their own way onto this representation of a page. I refuse to subdivide authors. I haven't the time nor the money nor the inclination. I would like to finish this poem but time is a reason in its self.

Time isn't money, but it is motion if it is anything... which it probably isn't, unless you are a devout Solipsist. The difficulty with changes is they are not measurable, however they are existent. I'm hoping that another bank doesn't crash like in US so time can become more lucid in the sense of freer interpretations and less intrinsicness.

Aloofness to time or "timewards", is now pertinent but exteriority isn't a mechanism without the dial that frees the face like a moon that frees the butt or a sun that frees the theatricality of global warming. My face falls on the clock face yet my rhythm and the rhythm of time are keeled to a Sun in winter and the Moon in Summer. Our quantization is expedient and parallel yet faces flow like cigarette smoke between the synopsis of dials handing the fractured fixity of minds worried to paralysis.

Sex is scary, to all of us fuckers if we're honest. Time can indicate the brevity of sexual relations, child rearing old age (past it) and death (in the breeze). Time was never an indication of complex systems, nor their raison d'etre, failure or success, where did this synonymy between time and the measurement of money occur from? Time is now an indication of health and sexual vigour. I can feel the fur slip between the numbers of its ever increasing accuracy the wolf at the door the rat in the sewer the cat on the mat the snake grating its poison on the door.

If any slippage were indicated, an evocation of transience and tranquility would be its opposition, a quiet meditative aloofness that phones capitalism and says "enough is enough - fuck off!". And from this distance we could observe late-capitalism, delirious and chaotic, melt down into a form that proved an essence was not the seed that we should measure but something that is blunt, non-incisive occurring because it occurs and however, we choose to alter it, we will not change the fact that it (us, our societies, cultures) are there because we are here.

A numbness at the cursing of over-capitalist societies, is no longer de rigueur. You can feel the bones wending, stirring vocalising a new amalgam of humanity and the market place. I long for the day that my face will sit timely and appealingly upon the dial of a clock and, time becomes a whimsy for those with time on their hands or those who must enquire or create. And when a lover sits upon times hands draped in flowing robes, I shall celebrate by writing my thoughts and feelings poetically, without disruptive anxiety about time and money.

Vespers (71)

An olive tree on Monterosa Street,
turns to unsculpted sprawl
of self containment,

Lists beneath warm breath of wind,
a reason to absorb diminished daylight
for the mind that leans
toward sleep,

Screen smell offers rain's ablutions
via dream across nightlight

Whole cloth of darkness
matches desire
and insects sing
a backdrop into being,

Calm lets go original
intention against street side
repetition of idea turned
to something recognizable again

A10 exit 113

Vespers (70)

I lose some of the light
already lost
when you reply
with any depth.

Reflexive "hold me" simmers
under peace lamps I no longer see.

Allow a face,
to borrow what has lived beneath
what shows.

Against the summer magnified
just now.