Lostness (6) 1977
Blue sky, but the moon is already up. An unutterable stillness cut into its second. Beauty I live for, yet cannot reach.
Do we ask what play is for? Why ask what art is for.
My life was a performance without an audience.
What karma have I been paying? Perhaps, one day, I shall manage to forgive myself.
Happiness is not my vocation: I leave it to others. Life is a wince through the bones.
I resent meaningless toil, unless unavoidable. Better to confront the problems of freedom. We need a utopia to see if it is bearable.
Creativity as rebellion against death? An art of mind improvising itself?
This time I tried to play the game their way
but the big machine had painted my ass with cement.
Pretending to be normal is a full-time job.
Footprints wind toward the horizon. My own trail, stretching out before me.
Death has no morality. Nothing can be asked of nothing. Or a universe seen as oppressive neutrality.
Toothpick fingertips of a word
Lostness (5) 1977
History could be shown as a struggle against knowledge, not just for it.
Logic’s appeal can relate to the pain of feeling.
Are we the only animal that needs lies to go on?
The cult of despair. A refuge from dreaded banality?
How well I torment myself. I am an expert in something, at least.
Is nothing worth dying for? “I’m going to die for it anyway,” says the nihilist.
Today revolution. Tomorrow repression.
Philosophy seen in a necessary quest after the impossible; or is that art?
Only subjects have objects.
Words lead to others, like a broken waterfall over the page.
Lostness (2) 1973
Am I ever to draw again? My ability seems lost. All that lies between this hand and the paper is effort.
I think I lack talent. Which is tough for a dreamer. I fail to see a way for art or writing.
Living has no appeal.
The window is open. Sounds of night through shifting curtains.
Death wins over life. In the end. Perhaps evil wins over good?
There is no justice in the world. Justice only comes from us.
Suffering continues everywhere.
The foetus hears a cry
in its red lair.
Put my last poem on this blog a week ago (5th May 2017) .
Felt sad afterward. At least it had a chance to be seen, before sinking back into obscurity. (Though only one view, so far. Illness saps my energy to interact with others or gain readers.)
I have been sorting through old notebooks and papers: working on a transition to the prose. Thought I would start at the beginning: when I left school in 1972, age 16.
Art was my main interest. But then I tried writing.
It has been downhill ever since.
Weak as a dribble
and too ill for sex
on another unwelcome morning
one look then
doorways to nothingness
open in my mind
over absent possibility
wishing I was once more alive
through city nights
with chance to be preyed upon
just unfriendly dawn
blurred across the pallid sky
while this clock ticks
few neurons fire
temper’s flame burning lower
malady forms its closed sphere
I feel squashed there
like a bug.
Drained by illness
my feelings were comatose
I tried to prod them awake
in these surroundings
some unravaged vision
That pavement grey
In the garden
yellow to brown
shying like a horse
crashing over dark leaves
as my mouth
on the pen.