Where the night is not yet

Waves so straight
so in formation as to be astonishing.
The flock glides across
them, dancing out nothing
but what can only be
seen as musical notes
playing out a song silent
to the ear, but orchestral
to the eye.

Layered, chasing away the
afternoon in tune, in a
chorus that fades away
to silence as they
pass away from the
capabilities of light.

And now this.
Fading blue and low peach,
ancient to a day.

Water whispers something
to the pebbles, and to the tired wooden
walls that penetrate
its form.
Something about
everything being gathered
together,
and passing. The relief
that comes with this.
The freshness also.

The temperature now
descends; a routine
that gives confidence
and a sense of safety.
The cold is not
opressive, and here, staring
out at this music, it
is normal to want to be where the
night is not yet than to be
between the steps and the shadows.

Forgiveness

I bring this punishment upon myself daily,
Sometimes as a reason to even get out of bed.
I repeat, I repeat.
I reassess. I analyse.
I torture. I exaggerate.
I punish only myself.
Yet all around me, outside this room,
Is nothing but forgiveness.

You came and sat with me and told me your name.
You forgave me.

You glanced and made eye contact with me.
You forgave me.

You came to me through the dancers
And smiled and asked my name.
You forgave me.

You come to me and ask how I am
And introduce me to others.
You forgive me.

But the times when there is no one around
To forgive me, then it does not come.
I am not the one to forgive.
I am the one to torture, to punish.

A punishment, relentless and focused,
Surrounded by a world of forgiveness.

伊藤 歩

Her name sings itself
and she returns to me.

March 24th 2010, 01:53am - 02:46am

This is a transcript of a turn-taking experiment following a discussion between myself and a friend regarding the nature of how one can either be random or convey the illusion of randomness:

madness
sanity
bumblebee
oak-like effect
suderous
irascible
manatee
gammon
lickable
trochaic
dispute
arch
mummy
euphretes
melting crayons on a lightbulb
slow chocolate autopsy
fur-flashing
serrated grin
profiting helicopter
elderly, cadaverine
triumphing, stomach
monstrous, neon, knelt
marvellously niggling kilt
massively neurotic kiln
yellowing cellophane kit
tragic amphetamine toke
delicious chestnuts rattle
quixotic deliverance pony
a face shies away?
the eyes, they will say
blown by the microwave
and now a son an heir a knave
more matter with less art
more savage no less justice
what a rogue and peasant slave i am!
but no wolf in the throne room
butterflies with soldiers
minervan charades
zestuous sniggle
airlock shanty
glass icecream
gun in mouth blues
frozen sun
the dog in the garden for the last time
alien water slide sensation
sugarcoma
mediocrity healing
god's will not yours not mine
once opened concentrate
sugar come back to the cavity
im here
i know

Flu

Bed. Bigger than I remember,
Less inviting than I remember.
Constant pressure behind my head,
Like having my thoughts forced to the front
To join the gnawing exhaustion.

The figures approach me now.
Are you actually standing there?
I need to ask you this.
Awareness leaves the room, a janitor.
He turns, takes one last look,
And turns off the light.
Are you actually standing there?

'Yes, of course I'm here', they reply.
'You have to open the ball'.
They leave before I can ask them what they mean.
'Take your hand to the stars', another instructs
Then turns and leaves also.
I know this one, though.
You? But you died years ago
I say with my stare.

After the compressed night
the day unfolds like an ancient book
And I am the dust within.
A concrete skull lolls on my shoulders.
I balance myself to the mirror.
I can see only me, my eyes,
But I can hear them all behind me,
Chattering,
Fighting to have a look as well.