| What is intimacy? |
| 2007-April-15 14:47:55 |
Letting someone close, they know and can see your lumps, bumps and imperfections and they love you more strongly for this unpeeling, revealing, sharing experience. There is intimacy in a kiss of course, in a whisper, in a touch. There is intimacy in pain and sadness. You can be intimate with yourself, telling yourself a secret about your own body, and with a touch or a glance we can be closer to oursleves.
see www.completelynaked.co.uk |
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| Kissed by Luz. |
| 2007-April-15 14:47:39 |
| On the dance floor, smiling and feeling the united front of the beat...the commune on the floor, she knew i needed to be kissed that way....whats your name? its Nia, yours? Its Luz. Light. |
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| and i fell |
| 2007-April-15 14:47:29 |
and i feel like falling...i just feel like lying here on the floor until you get home and i want to lie smiling in the light,
the music makes me feel this way the music makes me cry and smile and fall and feel
and bend my unbroken bones in soft petal shapes
to be alluring to you ill do anything
but is this it?
and i see the people walking running to their places
i see the stars are shining down and watching us and waiting
waiting till the time is right to scoop us up and put where we should be...
wherever that is.
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| A Dwindling Pool |
| 2007-April-15 14:47:16 |
My mother is going to another funeral. How strange it must be to feel the space when your friends die. The hardwoods are waving from the hillside. I find it refreshing to look at the sky.I think it's the first time today Ive done it consciously.
We are in Kent,Ohio. Last night our hotel room at the Relax Inn was the scene of a near fight. We are in room 315 and our next door neighbours arrived back to their very identically dated room. They crashed into the back of our truck upon entering the carpark. At least i think that sound of foil crumpling was their back fender. When I went out of the hotel room to investigate, the driver quickly introduced himself as "Buzz" and feigned ignorance over the crash only half lying. There was a beautiful woman of colour in the passenger seat. I went back into 315 to continue my paper work, there was zero damage to our truck.
10 minutes later there was a bang on their door and swearing. Buzz's friend had returned home, he was soaked (it was raining) and angry cos Buzz (or Bobby) had left the bar without him. Right at the time when he was receiving a lap dance from a professional by the name of Cricket, so clearly was unable to stand up.
"You walked out right in front of me, why would you do that?"
"I wouldn't intentionally leave you, Buzz replied. I waited for you for 30 minutes and couldnt find you."
"Bullshit!
I watched you walk out(with that prostitute who is now sitting on the edge of your bed), then i had to walk home in the rain"
So these two had their gentlemanly/redneck disagreement while the beautiful prostitute sat on the bed. Then Buzz locked the door, and left his friend sitting outside while he got down to the business of relieving himself with his hired help. And his friend sat shivering in the rain. Such a strange code between men. He didnt mind but banged on the door when he got cold and demanded to enter to get new clothes. He slept in their flatdeck truck.
This is America. |
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| habitat |
| 2007-April-15 14:47:01 |
my house is a lung
it breathes in the rain and exhales journeymen
there are letters like indian ink on the floor
spelling seduction saved impulse
fecund earth
my house is a pile of sticks
it bakes in the sun and its lights glow like embers
the snap of the tinder is percussion
smug and smutty in the night
full moon
a cat waits at my door
gloss black orange eye, leaves me tiny hearts as gifts
the laundress is the butchers wife
fertile floor damp larder
disembowelled
my house holds me tight in bed
folds and fibre warms to sweat and covers fly off
split slats strain humming and ticking
spine prickles stomach stone
finger crack
actually the flowers on the wall
and the faces in your hair look rather like the pictures
of erotica; lie on the floor
all involved nothing showing
baring skin
the hallway echoes with footsteps screech
clatter scrape of plates
the traffic is driving me mad
she talks and talks and says the same thing again
unfavourable wind
snow-block walls
peppered with a bounty of artful sacrifice
lamps like woven fettucini; dormant
she is fallen on the floor
examines the ceiling conversion creases
builders blemish
dress up chest piled high with wool and feathers
brass locks without keys, curling wood paper
lapels poke out, holds lurid lace sari
the lid has an overbite, pandoras box
old baggage
sacred temple, gentle offerings tea-light
a sandalwood scented Buddha sits
lacquered clay quietly gleaming
aloe plants' corner
flow like water
the children next door speak in Hindi
they play till bedtime and their souls shine
climb and laugh and leap in the sun
their tiny demands float like music to my lounge
clear and high
the flax bowl overflows with summer-fruits
avocado pears luscious freshly painted
the chairs groan at a look, ample hill in light
blackened bread earthen oven
crescent moon
the whole house purrs, sighs out
under sunset, organic mouldering, composting home
heavy lashes, ticking tock
bending branches boughs
glitter sleeping fox
dinner is over and the door is open
the merriment slips out the back;
the recycling bin yawns wide
what goes around comes around,
the crumbs are spreading over the floor
flowers fallen
debris feast. |
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| The Time Has Come |
| 2007-April-15 14:44:58 |
the time is now...it is a beginning...and an ending too...i am ready to take flight. i am ready to go.
this is the right time for a song of leaving.
song of leaving
the fresh faced girl
she stood a ready
on the jetty
eyes a shinin
the fresh faced girl
it was the time now
to go to the promised land.
the man in blue
he stood a steady
to take her gently
cross the gangway
the man in blue
he was quite ready
to go to the promised land
the ship was bound for
clear blue skyways
and rolling valleys
and seas of plenty
the ship it found
a high wind blowin
to go to the promised land...
And when I arrive
I will find
the feasts a waitin
the people smilin
and the memory
of your eyes
niarobyn
An old song that sailors would sing when about to embark on a journey that would take them to far off places.
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| Bird in a dark room. |
| 2007-April-12 17:20:17 |
| For she was a beautiful woman, Tui sings the sweetest song and we always look forward to her return. Every summer she comes to the plum tree, leaving the cold behind and reminding us of the fertile months ahead.
She was married for a long time and her widower's left behind. In all his years as a farmer, drover and horse trainer he had never before seen a dead body. They bought her home before the funeral as is the Maori custom. She rested in the lounge that I remember from my childhood where Uncle Jim sat in his chair by the electric piano and told me to tie my tooth to the door.
The resting faun with its dewy glass eyes curled in front of the television.
Now I think of him on the other side of the world echar de menos.
He won't go into that room now. He just cries. |
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| curl up into it |
| 2006-July-26 00:33:07 |
if your hair was long
it would envelope me like night,
i could curl up into it and sleep |
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| last summer |
| 2006-January-28 00:14:35 |
indifferent tortured creature
the days are hot and the light is washed out. Sky haze and moist. Perfect weather for leavening bread.
I walk because I have to work. I take the train because I have to get there. I walk past the cats hiding under the cars for shade, they hide there every day because they have no other place to hide. Last week there was a kitten black, pointed and waifish with a closed eye under necrotic pus - it was a small and tenacious shadow cast by a high sun...it gripped onto the stone wall with its little claws. There was no water for it to drink. There is no rain, not a drop so I wiped its eye with flower essence and gave it a drink from my supply. There is only heat and more heat. The gardens here are brown and dusty, and the houses close their shutters to keep the rooms cool
My neighbours above me are always screaming at their children. Is that normal? The poor little things are so small, they are not even old enough to go to school yet. The mother has a voice that could cut glass. I wonder if that voice ever gets soft and sweet. Does that voice ever sooth a bumped head or a scraped knee? Does that voice ever sing a lullaby? A song can soothe so much. Im happy that my mother never screamed at me this way. Sometimes its a man and a woman screeching at the same time, over the television.
I hope it has something to do with this heat, the short tempers around me, I saw a group of ten year olds beating another one on the weekend, boredom and heat can turn out vicious behaviour. I asked the little leader what he was doing he said he was talking with a friend. |
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| addicted to dreaming |
| 2006-April-18 05:59:45 |
| theres a hormone that is released into the brain when you sleep (and just before you die)...it is called DMT. I believe I have developed a dependency on this drug. |
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| 2005-October-27 21:24:46 |
pink rain and loud flowers brewing
the air is full
of spider silk and feathers
fall lightly on the cracked tar
the train provides the music
horns and traction |
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| 2005-October-27 21:21:19 |
a stick on water she lay
as a crocodile
one eye open
the morning was late
scent of blood orange lifts her
and she's floating
on the edge
of conciousness
in that place where one composes music
8:30 am
Boston
the phone was not ringing
but the scales on her devoured arm were healing
and there was time to wait |
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| 2005-October-27 21:18:11 |
you call me and
speak in soft tones
10 minutes
i dont want to wash you off my skin
i want to be where you are
six hours ahead
driving
the Pennsylvania forest into Ohio storm warning
dark clouds stack up.
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| summer |
| 2005-October-27 21:15:02 |
gentle boys kiss
loving girls
on park benches,
in lamp light
and on the river bed
romantic moments to be treasured, a dance
soft shoes and touch. |
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| birth |
| 2005-October-27 20:59:48 |
beatific
white road
i sail through the intersection at the time your baby is born
the sun is at the perfect angle to make the tarmac shine
and i speed on and on
into the white light
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| snack |
| 2005-October-21 22:41:07 |
the catalan check out girl smiled indulgently at the little boy
like a snake about to swallow an egg in an unattended nest. |
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| brille |
| 2005-November-19 01:34:37 |
It's black.
and we
are swimming to the surface.
The light rushes towards us
the source died
aeons ago
and still we strive,
touching the brille is a meeting with
the self,
but finer, cleaner, clearer.
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| Diagonal |
| 2005-March-05 20:49:18 |
We are waiting for the train
to end or explain the embrace
Standing still together
still standing together
still together
Rush
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| 2005-July-21 09:59:01 |
| i didnt notice how familiar your words were until you stopped singing |
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| are you happy? |
| 2005-July-21 08:59:10 |
I was just thinking how good it is to ask your self and others this from time to time. Happiness is something we all need: But surprisingly it's something we can we can get by on very little of if we have to.
When I ask myself if I'm happy, I like to think, I am.
I hope you are happy too.
This is death and life and heaven. This is the only time we remember, this is it. Enjoy it. |
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| veins |
| 2005-July-21 08:58:41 |
| I notice the old lady on the train has amazing healthy veins they poke out and are engorged with blood, I am impressed. She has sunken cheeks and only one or two teeth but those veins! There's a strong heart inside. |
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| Spirit |
| 2004-November-18 20:49:48 |
| I find the music heals me, singing and dancing are soullifters... |
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| I Love You |
| 2004-November-18 20:02:37 |
| Like the sea, loves the stars. |
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| Paper |
| 2004-November-16 19:57:58 |
The sun is obscured by the clouds
light burst
out
silver seam
where is my sun?
It sometimes shines from my fingers
so delicate the prism
it is only visible in reference to the paper
this light falls on
If you were paper what would you be?
You say, recycled, full of egg cartons and newspaper
mashy and rough,
Rice paper, thin fragile, edible, transparent
luminous, wrapping something sweet
Newspaper, full of information, if you fold it right
you can make a cool hat
Origami paper, full of colours, potent with shapes.
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| To be read aloud. |
| 2004-November-13 22:58:19 |
We climbed to the top of the dunes
Spindle
Dry tree
Theres a man with a thick beard
speckled dipped in gravy
Someone spread a burning coverlet over our heads
We walk, we breathe it in
and wet our feet in the glowing waters
it burns it burns
Yellow orange fushcia scallop
Metallic gas over stratis
Lasts as long as we need it
Dans kite flies higher and higher
Its a new part of us
up there too
An umbilical cord from self to sky
Shimmy in the wind
Water sea air
Streamers wind and unwind
Furl and unfurl
Tug the line delay and shift
Bells rings from the woods
and the birds compete for height.
Our hearts in the air
Our feet on the gown
sand pinched with jewels
Frilled man o war
and draping sea vegetables
Sand skirt moving static
wash by wind and waves
roaring
Hushing over over under over over
He lit the water
It smells even better when its burning, he said. |
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| Peel |
| 2004-November-13 22:23:16 |
| I seek the fresh true brilliance under the peel. |
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| letter to america |
| 2004-December-13 07:16:31 |
Dear America,
Do you realise your children are dying? Do you know that your media deceives you?
The very tenets of your country's bill of rights, such as free speech have now become a joke. If I were you I'd start learning to read Arabic, then you might see accurately how many soldiers from your land are wounded day to day in this war which is 'over'. It is not over and nor will it be until your young men and women (soldiers) are given permission by your old men and women (government) to leave that occupied land.
Some say the re-election of Bush is a chance for him to clean up the mess he has created but in the meantime lives are being lost! Let us not forget that! I am shocked that the coverage of the the war in Iraq is given the same glitz and dazzle as a american football match in fact it could be a video game, superhuman troops from the US invade Iraq, suffering few casualties and targeting only the wicked.
Stop watching the nanny state news and start researching for yourselves... you will find that there are up to 100 attacks a day on American soldiers, if there are only 10 soldiers wounded each attack that is 1000 wounded each day, these are your sons and daughters, these are your sister and brothers. These wounded are carried out every day to german hospitals. If you are a land of good people then you must resist your own dictatorship. Resist the selling of arms to countries involved in strife and oppose entering those selfsame countries to fight against your own armoury.
Resist killing for oil, sport and money. |
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| 2004-December-04 22:26:00 |
| Barcelona on the Cusp.
I sit in Plaza Universitat and watch the world go by, it is almost winter. There is a skater nailing kick flips, he is wearing a blue striped jersey and hat, an old man sits and watches me and him and everyone. Its a dance, this city, the ground shakes and the people trip the light fantastic over the dirtied gutters. These are old dances, dances about making love and waiting to die. How the hell do we all manage in this crazy place? Then old man in a suit approaches me and asks me what im doing? Tells me that Im sitting like a China with my legs crossed. He tells me there are Putas Malas in this plaza, I cant see any, perhaps he's referring to me? He assures me I'm simpatica y bonita. There seems to be a plethora of dirty old spanish men out today, well dressed and bored. Pulling in two directions at once I remove myself and feel this is a perfect moment. Perfect in its banality perfect in its urbanism, perfect for all things light and dark. Perfect for the imperfect inward creature like me. Poco a poco. Clockwork autumn, wending down to winter
Cant get close enough to each other, to the heat, to the oil.
I make a warm room. I read about Hildegard von Bingen, a tithe child given to an anchoress. An anchoress takes a vow and has a funeral rite before entering a room where she stays for life, receiving her meals through a hole in the wall and attending religious services
Hildegarde was a child (8years old) when she was given into religious service later becoming a respected herbalist believing in the power of nature to provide answers to all ills. She also had visions (that which doctors now surmise as being migraines) which lead to her luminous visions realised in her works of writing, painting and composing.
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