There is no colonisation.
Our asses are free.
Our lands belong to us.
We are masters of our own destiny.
We control everything that happens.
From refugees to golf courses,
from resorts on beaches to Highland Towers,
to former political aides.
And astronauts.
All these things are ours.
Nobody else owns them.
We are rich beyond our wildest dreams.
And not ten thousand virgins would deny.
I am your master.
As you are my master.
And I am your slave.
As you are my slave.
We are married to ourselves.
Together our colours are ours alone,
from 1948 to 1957 to 1963 to 1969
to 2008/9. We are bona fide.
We are real. We are bona fide.
Finally we have a name.
Neither master nor slave.
But both. One and the same.
So move unto me, my love.
I can taste the curry on your lips.
It's the ecstasy I feel
when you’re tied up in my bed.
It’s the pleasure you feel
when I’m burning in your head.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Silence The Thought
Silence the thought.
The thought is silence.
When I make something out of nothing,
it is upon silence I’m intruding.
I must keep still.
Like a tree against a chainsaw.
I must stand my ground.
Like protesters against water cannons.
Amid the screams of technology
and doomsday recriminations,
I pay my debts in silence.
I let go in silence.
My days of sadness will be lived
in silence.
When they come to draw blood,
it is silence I shall call upon.
And silence will answer.
Silence the thought.
The thought is silence.
The thought is silence.
When I make something out of nothing,
it is upon silence I’m intruding.
I must keep still.
Like a tree against a chainsaw.
I must stand my ground.
Like protesters against water cannons.
Amid the screams of technology
and doomsday recriminations,
I pay my debts in silence.
I let go in silence.
My days of sadness will be lived
in silence.
When they come to draw blood,
it is silence I shall call upon.
And silence will answer.
Silence the thought.
The thought is silence.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Three Kinds Of Freedom
The First Freedom was difficult but
inevitable. It was a lesson
we all had to learn: that escaping from the womb
comes with it
an obligation
to breathe.
Some of us didn’t understand.
But those of us who did would go on
arrogantly believing
we’re free,
that is,
until Freedom Number Two.
Now Freedom Number Two is not inevitable.
But, as in all transactions in life,
requires of us a payment.
Payment for the knowledge that placates
each passing of the day.
Payment for having to decide
what freedom really means.
Payment for having the terrible freedom
to choose.
For we won’t always choose for happiness.
Choose knowledge instead.
Or solitude or survival.
Or even wisdom.
Or at least the violence necessary
to break
someone's heart.
Whatever the cost, freedom will never be enough.
The Final Freedom, however,
is not a choice.
It is the thing that matters the most.
It is knowing the word that can cut through flesh and bone.
And finding the silenced thought in the skull
where the beloved resides.
Until the heart that bleeds
finds another way to die.
It’s freedom itself.
Freedom from pity, despair and strife, but one
defeated all the same. Not because it's
joyless. But because
it understands
freedom offers
nothing. Nothing at all
And that’s when it happens:
when the Final Freedom takes over,
and our last breath of life we surrender,
we close our eyes and realise
we have always been
tethered to each other;
guarded and pleading,
haunted and needing,
each and every single one:
a prisoner.
inevitable. It was a lesson
we all had to learn: that escaping from the womb
comes with it
an obligation
to breathe.
Some of us didn’t understand.
But those of us who did would go on
arrogantly believing
we’re free,
that is,
until Freedom Number Two.
Now Freedom Number Two is not inevitable.
But, as in all transactions in life,
requires of us a payment.
Payment for the knowledge that placates
each passing of the day.
Payment for having to decide
what freedom really means.
Payment for having the terrible freedom
to choose.
For we won’t always choose for happiness.
Choose knowledge instead.
Or solitude or survival.
Or even wisdom.
Or at least the violence necessary
to break
someone's heart.
Whatever the cost, freedom will never be enough.
The Final Freedom, however,
is not a choice.
It is the thing that matters the most.
It is knowing the word that can cut through flesh and bone.
And finding the silenced thought in the skull
where the beloved resides.
Until the heart that bleeds
finds another way to die.
It’s freedom itself.
Freedom from pity, despair and strife, but one
defeated all the same. Not because it's
joyless. But because
it understands
freedom offers
nothing. Nothing at all
And that’s when it happens:
when the Final Freedom takes over,
and our last breath of life we surrender,
we close our eyes and realise
we have always been
tethered to each other;
guarded and pleading,
haunted and needing,
each and every single one:
a prisoner.
Friday, February 20, 2009
The End (Fini)
And so it ends. The credits
appear. Even though we know
the story continues, it ends here.
Because it cannot go on
and continue to make sense, or
it would be boring, and
it would be sad, or
it would be
too much
to bear.
Costs have to be considered.
The heart can only admit so much.
And the audience has to leave the room.
And so it ends, like a plant
that bears fruit has to let go its fruit,
to be borne away by water, wind,
monkeys and birds. There’s
nothing left to be curious about.
The story expands but
in different forms and shapes.
With new characters
and a new trajectory,
with the past only serving
as some kind of nostalgic grotesquerie.
And so it ends, a death
is recorded, a finale
allowed. Beat to beat
and breath to breath, this exhalation
stops. No more kisses left
to be given.
No more aching pronouncements
to cry.
Only a sigh.
And a sigh.
And a possible backward glance
that lasts but a second.
Because it had been beautiful
and worthy
but no longer.
For the light needs to be switched off.
And so it ends.
When friends leave comments
that leave no doubt.
When life is asking you
to reconsider your sorrow
with a question that turns
dark into light, or some other
optimistic blight, like tragedy into might.
When the other person no longer
gives you that backward glance
and you’re just staring
at the shadow of a shadow.
It is the end.
It has ended.
There is no more to say.
Except, somewhere, with a step
onto an uncertain plan,
the end turns
and turns
into a beginning.
The fruit bears a shoot.
The movie bears a sequel.
And Lazarus awakes into the same world
with the knowledge there’s still
another who could save him.
From beat to beat
and breath to breath,
the body rethinks its instincts
and decides to live again.
And so it begins.
And so it begins.
For there is no end
without
a beginning.
appear. Even though we know
the story continues, it ends here.
Because it cannot go on
and continue to make sense, or
it would be boring, and
it would be sad, or
it would be
too much
to bear.
Costs have to be considered.
The heart can only admit so much.
And the audience has to leave the room.
And so it ends, like a plant
that bears fruit has to let go its fruit,
to be borne away by water, wind,
monkeys and birds. There’s
nothing left to be curious about.
The story expands but
in different forms and shapes.
With new characters
and a new trajectory,
with the past only serving
as some kind of nostalgic grotesquerie.
And so it ends, a death
is recorded, a finale
allowed. Beat to beat
and breath to breath, this exhalation
stops. No more kisses left
to be given.
No more aching pronouncements
to cry.
Only a sigh.
And a sigh.
And a possible backward glance
that lasts but a second.
Because it had been beautiful
and worthy
but no longer.
For the light needs to be switched off.
And so it ends.
When friends leave comments
that leave no doubt.
When life is asking you
to reconsider your sorrow
with a question that turns
dark into light, or some other
optimistic blight, like tragedy into might.
When the other person no longer
gives you that backward glance
and you’re just staring
at the shadow of a shadow.
It is the end.
It has ended.
There is no more to say.
Except, somewhere, with a step
onto an uncertain plan,
the end turns
and turns
into a beginning.
The fruit bears a shoot.
The movie bears a sequel.
And Lazarus awakes into the same world
with the knowledge there’s still
another who could save him.
From beat to beat
and breath to breath,
the body rethinks its instincts
and decides to live again.
And so it begins.
And so it begins.
For there is no end
without
a beginning.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
The Loneliest Profession In The World
There are many professions in this world.
And though work occupies us in ways
deep and shallow,
not all professions are equally
professional. Some people get paid
to kiss. Some fall in love
for money. Some even do it
for free. And yet I’ve always done it
willingly, albeit slyly,
brokering my deals with the lilt of a pout
that suddenly breaks into a smile—I have
always loved this part. Falling in love
with the customer is, after all,
the glissando flourish of the heart.
Ah... if only it was as easy as the song
and dance about it.
Night after night
of working on one project after another, like
“What to say and what to do
when there’s nothing left to say or to do?”
Who’d ever thought love could be so taxing
on one’s capital and imagination?
Not to mention the competition!
And jealousy that stoic opportunistic constant!
To have just one or to have it all?
Questions, questions that burn...
And the answers that sting... like the blitz of champagne
on the severed tongue of a memory...
Back at the shop, some days the business
pours in. Some days
it’s adequately lean.
But we soldier on, my heart and me, in the service
of one plan and then another,
wearing our battle stars
like stigmatas and scars. Scars
from listening too closely. Scars from
pretending to care. Or caring too much
for someone whose emotional cheques
just bounced and bounced. It’s no joke
when the laughter is broke.
But this IS the loneliest profession
in the world. And it doesn’t matter really
if there’s no bonus or pension at the end,
when the loneliness has itself been
the means to
an enemy.
An enemy and a friend.
And though work occupies us in ways
deep and shallow,
not all professions are equally
professional. Some people get paid
to kiss. Some fall in love
for money. Some even do it
for free. And yet I’ve always done it
willingly, albeit slyly,
brokering my deals with the lilt of a pout
that suddenly breaks into a smile—I have
always loved this part. Falling in love
with the customer is, after all,
the glissando flourish of the heart.
Ah... if only it was as easy as the song
and dance about it.
Night after night
of working on one project after another, like
“What to say and what to do
when there’s nothing left to say or to do?”
Who’d ever thought love could be so taxing
on one’s capital and imagination?
Not to mention the competition!
And jealousy that stoic opportunistic constant!
To have just one or to have it all?
Questions, questions that burn...
And the answers that sting... like the blitz of champagne
on the severed tongue of a memory...
Back at the shop, some days the business
pours in. Some days
it’s adequately lean.
But we soldier on, my heart and me, in the service
of one plan and then another,
wearing our battle stars
like stigmatas and scars. Scars
from listening too closely. Scars from
pretending to care. Or caring too much
for someone whose emotional cheques
just bounced and bounced. It’s no joke
when the laughter is broke.
But this IS the loneliest profession
in the world. And it doesn’t matter really
if there’s no bonus or pension at the end,
when the loneliness has itself been
the means to
an enemy.
An enemy and a friend.
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