Iterative processes of fracture – A consideration.

[Suggested listening while reading this piece: A Winged Victory for the Sullen, start at 39 mins 1 second]

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Iterative processes of fracture; is walking, is speaking, is contemplation.
Split pre-birth in a chromosome chain, split post-birth from the mother, split post-adolescence from maternal ideologies, split at teenhood from innocence, split at adulthood from false conceptions of humanity. And, into the jungle.
//
‘Why is he crying’ I asked the nurse.
‘Oh this is just the cry for the woe of being born. For the pain of existing’.
He cries and fresh-born voices from across the corridor rise in empathic accord, eerie in mutual mourning.

Iterative processes of fracture; is reading, is introducing, is paraphrasing.
Words stored in archival sensibilities of what was once said, or where ideas wounded us most in their manifestations. Sentences bound for incision, for ego-fed triumph, to oust arguments, to win debates, to regain validation in some internal sense of intellect. The point divides and becomes conquered, by the semblance of the point, by the imagined medallions of ownership of intellect and taming an idea with parameters of masquerading reason. We forget the power of words and make idols of those who conduct them.

//

Is ideas shattered by truisms.
Is faith fallen to logic.
Is swells of paradigmatic navigations overwhelming minds seeking directions.
Is learned ideologies innately unable to absorb foundation-shifting informations.
Is identity’s fickle flirtation between erudition and foolery.
Is salvation from immoveable places before.
Is asking and seeing.

Iterative processes of fracture; is dressing, is using forks and knives, is first-world education.
Civilised I learn and cut my hair in particular ways. Stop biting your nails, don’t hunch and don’t forget to say please. Thank you. What is your mother-tongue? You speak so well. Where do you come from? Whereabouts do you live? Do you go back often? Oh, you weren’t born there. New rights and agencies learned turn against ancestries and the seeds split once more, and the tree breaks or bends into a sorrowful display of itself. Biodiversity supports some foreign flora. Fauna may mutate, or upset the equilibrium of the surrounding ecosystem. Homelands dig holes for other imports now prized.
//
You would think I was a wealthy white woman,
Afraid of the natives upon my travels.
But no,
I am simply self-loathing,
And have spent too much time judged/ judging (myself)
For all the Motherland I am not
And have spent too much time groomed to carry myself as if,
I know better and am generally
Converted.
/
If I see myself as they do
(I imagine)
I hate myself.
Because I became one of Them formerly the Other.

Iterative processes of fracture; is the ecological body completing itself in relation to the dysfunction of megacities. The body, as a system, is a circuitry aiming to complete itself in relation to its environment*. My body, our bodies massing en heave in cityscapes and linear time parameters of working life, adapt to the city as an organism. My circuitry seeks relation to the pipes and clutter, to the punctuality and incivility, to the noise and the smell and the sound and the effuse. My circuitry breaks down and I wonder about how much nails hurt when they are bitten passed their whites.

[Sitting down for long periods of time shortens our lives].

Iterative processes of fracture; is the inability to satiate purpose in ones actions.
Dynamics of productivity and capitalism rendering uselessness upon lack of money-earning identity. What do you do? How do you contribute to society? What are you? Indecision breeds identity parenthesis. Useless ascetics wander in the margins seeking contracts and consultations and adjusting hairs and eyes in mirrors, seeking reconciliation to the former useful self. Where to for purpose? Jungian archetypes are now marred in Temazepam and double-shot happy hours or deep fried to quench mineral deficiency. The Madonna is busy right now, she’ll call you back. But never fear, purposes are a dime a dozen. See embossed business cards for future options. In the mean time: try to raise your child-contribute to your community-be good to your parents-pay your taxes-don’t live off welfare-be safe-be healthy-buy a house-stay connected-do your best-prepare for ageing.

Iterative processes of fracture; is when God is with you and then isn’t.
You go to sleep. You wake. You end. You begin again.
//
You fracture.
You scar.
You thicken.
You die.

Iterative processes of fracture:
You live
/lived.

* Theory articulated by David Abrams.

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this much i retain.

this much I retain

a smugness of tongue
pores augmented to
particular frictions

of phrase
resonant taut

frenulum linguae:
my fine flesh spine
rooted bottom-mouth, is

finessed in tricks of
banana-fruit custom.

Unearthed twice,
seeds of heritage soil

were vacuum-packed and
undeclared
to ensure ease
of naturalisation.

Despite the sojourn through
the Singlish ‘lah’
ruby saplings
harvested from my mouth
carry globules of

Dravidian authenticity.

Thamizh ponn

the hard edge of the ‘L’
should subsume into
infinitude
curl instinctive
against the palate like
beetle-nut leaves or

Hubba Bubba.

The double-N

‘girl’ sounds softly

but deep

like the goodness of
Brahminical
propriety
it is imbibed
with assurance.

I enunciate
with perfection
as though
sweaty backs are
being slapped
concrete verandas
cooling and
good young girls
combing afternoon oils
into auspicious brows.
  

(You speak so well)

I wax naïve,
oblivious to the
philosophical peaks
and credos
contemplative in
the insinuations
of a language
born of sages

now kept
in store-bought pots

beneath the mantle,
contained for private adoring,
my sea-locked tone
is strung fraught
in tight swallows

it remains thus,

rooted-bottom mouth
and disguised
in tricks, of
banana-fruit
custom,
resonant taut
frenulum linguae
the fine flesh spine

this much I retain

Originally published by Peril magazine as part of the 2017 Queensland Poetry Festival edition, ‘I Can’t Speak To You’

Absolute planes.

Find me something absolute,
Find me something with solid edges and clear planes.
Show me, if you can,
Something that fits in measure glasses,
Or compacts into mortar, and holds whole bricks up to cast shadows against light.
Find me this, solid and whole.
But find it for me most,
Absolute.

Immovable. Irrefutable. Untaintably,
real. So sure of its existence,
So certain of it’s truth that I can rest my elbow upon it,
In yards, or metres or milli-inches, that I too,
Can show myself against it,
Can realize these bones I hear,
And know myself,
Immovable. Irrefutable. Untaintably
Whole.
An absolution.

Let me not linger in the maybe,
Of the fate of existing.
Forgive me from hovering in the atomic questions of faith and being.
Save me from the limbo of disappearing when I close my eyes.
From being unsure,
If I am yours,
If I am here and real at all,
If I can be held as one and a mass beyond illusion and dream.
If I have surface and width and planes that exist,

As absolute.
As salvation from becoming, and going,
And alls and nothings.
I ask you,
Make me whole.
Show me just one thing.
And let me weigh myself upon it.
So I can cease from this maybe of being.
And know once and for all.
If I am here.
If I really exist.

Bland motel room

My body warbles in the dewy heat.
Vision blurred eyes sting from the gentle
pressures on my temple.
Vacant sloped painted ceilings,
White with wooden beams,
like school camps or dorms,
or family holidays.

Except that I am alone in
the company of white lamps,
not rich in mood setting,
or memory softening.

Rhythmic fan dance like reliable thoughts.
Ticking away at a comforting  pace,
For which I am grateful, for
if there were stark silence, I should demand
Amber lights at least.
Don’t you agree?

I am woozy and wondering,
if there was a particular purpose,
for such moods.
As it seems neither to potter,
nor rest sustains the needs,
of such a space.

And so I write whether poetry,
or prose, as an action from discontent,
activity from anxiety.
To reach an end in itself.

Rainbow ghost

Will beautiful words to come carve out from this dream,
a mattress of solid matter to allay the world,
now tearing ever so gently at my crown.
I seek the lap of the Lord beyond there,
crystalline clouds of promise,
scared by the radiance of the sun I can’t see.

Alas the plane turns to take off
and rather I console with
rainbow ghosts of gaseous density,
an idle patch above the tarmac.

Will myself to write beautiful word,
lest these powdery skies leave me unfounded,
my crest a sieve of the finest piercings,
too fine for Instagram clouds to collect within.

And after all, what
would they do there, but
move away again.

Find me a salve wrapped
like economy snacks, that
I may accept without shame and
consume in practical comfort.

A warm cloth to moisten my skin,
to glide over closed eyes and mouth,
to pull through myself for cardia cleansing.

Will this quiet humor inside,
behind my hair and before my nape,
to hand me the objects of abstract comedy,
so I may smile to myself as
I walk the strange dweller in me,
through another turn of
an indifferent Earth.

Willow song

 

Willow spoke through burning land,
Willow spoke through burning hand,
‘fire, fire. ravage, burn, tire,
Whereupon your scars will mar’

Arid breath in Kulin nation
Fallen branch in exaltation
Turn the knuckle skin of lore
And burn with willow’s kin once more.

Woken

image

I wake to sound.
The first sound.
The sound of all.
Sound, which woke the universe from its slumber.
Sound, that allowed the universe to realize it could hear; that revealed the internal and external,  reflected in manifest polarities.

Before sound there is darkness. The darkness of sleeping man.
The deaf, mute, formless.
Man, unmanifest, to become with sound, manifest.

Where there is no sound one is void of hearing, and in silence one returns to unmanifest consciousness. To pure potentiality. Senseless, infinite, all and nothingness.

Upon sound,  one becomes. One finds it has ears to hear, which in turn rouses sight from darkness.

In the beginning there was Sound.

Aeon Spirits

Barefoot dust on wooden floors,
Salt-lit seance, curtain doors.
Sweaty backs and underpants,
Lopside rolling mattress dance.
Sandy skinned sun-belly babes,
Deep-end toes in endless days.
Manic word and breathless ears,
Cascade dawn of passing fears.
Heart-palm pathways, endless eyes,
Welling tears mourn unfelt cries.
Midnight lights and introspect,
Dreamscape drumming dialects.
Blood-moon clouds and raindrop tongues,
Rattle-whispered secrets sung.
Hazy looms on lids unrest,
Pavement teapots, angel guests.
Clock-time keeper shifting gaze,
Fresh lines weaving, tapestry maze.
Grass-grown dreams on dark ink pages,
Poems strewn from heart-bled sages.
Blue sky blessings, mystic hands,
Sisters wailing womb-held sands.
Stone space circles, golden domes,
Aeon spirits, blood and bone.

 

The Sun

I don’t know how to shine, said the Sun.
Perhaps I’ll just fade away.
Or explode into a million stars,
And drift beyond the Milky Way.

I don’t know how to beam, She said.
Or smile, or glow, or blaze.
Perhaps I’ll lie beyond these clouds,
And hover a golden haze.

I don’t know how to rise, She wept.
From the weight of the world that I bear.
Perhaps I’ll remain in darkness.
For who would really care?

And so She hid from day’s break,
And noon and dusk did pass.
In silent mourn, as colours ceased,
And shadows lay uncast.

The ground grew cold and flowers dropped,
Their petals hanging low,
And though the rain fell, without Her love,
The seedlings could not grow.

Without Her touch the earth was left,
In a sorrow grey abode,
And people could not find the strength,
To watch the day unfold.

But Heaven peered upon this tale,
And reached down with gossamer hands,
To cradle the Sun and kiss Her brow,
And raise Her upon the lands.

And as Her face drew to the sky,
She realized that this was Her place,
And the Earth exhaled and raised its eyes,
To bathe in Her warm embrace.