Saturday, 7 November 2009

FROM 12.00am TO 4.00am (a collection of 7 poems)f

i) The Lone Car
ii) The Quiet Hour
iii) The Isomniac's Cognitive Chaos
iv) 3.00am - Winter
v) Morning Has Opened
vi) In Darkness, the Nothing Nots
vii) 2.05am - Party End

i) The Lone Car

2:15 am.
Black night.
A car screeches into the silence.
The silence bleeds, violated.
I am half asleep and wondering: What's the fucking rush?

The phantom car, with its demon driver,
Was here and gone within a yawn.
A deadline to meet? A lover to see?

Well good bye sleep intruder.
I hope you fucking crash!

ii) The Quiet Hour

It was the quietist of hours.
Made of still moments.
It was long past the time the last noises
Had shuffled into their various holes.

A car dared pierce the silence and break a thought in two.
One more took its place.
Thoughts are well-oiled, assorted, in the hushed hour.
They flittered in and out of a skull which tried to probe them...
And turn them inside out.

It is moments like that moment when we resurrect the gone day.
We paw and pick at its remains.
Then place the bone-of-the-day, gently, into the memory box.

That silence was not modest.
It wordlessly told me to take notice.
To listen and be aware.
I stared darkly into its darker heart.
Step inside, it said.
Listen and be aware.

Then a barrier of stirring sounds
Placed itself around the hush.
Sounds, at other times, we'd search for.
That would comfort us through such quiet hours.

iii) The Insomniac's Cognitive Chaos

When in high gear - when wired and fired,
Thought takes no breaths,
But motors on from here to here to there.
It has neither concern nor care for the I that owns it.
Thought moves in and out of his unguarded house.
Move with a stream’s fluidity.
There aren’t any full stops or welcome breaks.
Despite its tones, mind-content is seamless and lawless.
His self hates the dumb, persistent torture-in-thought.

The sleepless has his hell short: from midnight to morning –
Or till he gives up, at last, on illusive sleep and goes for the morning paper.
So why not turn off? Expunge all thought (in a Zen kind-of-a-way)?
Why not stop the din that keeps you from sleep?

Insomniac thought is sovereign.
It does its own thing; in its own way; and does it when it wants to.
When wired and fired it thinks only of what it wants to think.
No I could stop it when it’s buzzing like a hive.
No I could rebuke a thought it neither owns nor controls.
Thought doesn’t belong to the I -
Belong to that void yet transcendent part of the head.
Who’s ever seen the I?
Even when eyes close, the elusive one still evades the inner eye –
That eye that inspects our mental innards.
So give up the fight!
You can’t put a leash on unruly thoughts. They’re part of the I.
All the mind’s escapees are silent now.
Its beliefs, records and accounts - all that slept through the dissident racket.
Thought is awake now.
As awake as the birds on this just-opened morning.

iv) 3.00am - Winter

It was silent.
It was still.
That hour was a lonely place in which he couldn't hide.
His thoughts were clear and loud.
There was the silence required to meet his naked self.
And there were the thoughts to scrutinise that self.

Then the silence thickened to cover, with a concrete crust,
That early hour.
No breeze broke that oh-so-solid air.

The streets wore their empiness like black capes
Which covered their breath till the morning came.
With momentary screeches, lone cars haunted the roads.
The church-bells' ghostly mesage sprang out, head first,
Of the elclosing dark.

That time was a sactuary for the rat
That stalked the streets it owned.
It sniffed hard the air
For still-warm waste.

v) Morning Has Opened

Dragged from sleep by an alarm that cut a hole in the silent wall.
Then it stopped. Still.
The silence became more silent.
A grade of silence that pokes your skull.
With care, we listened to its words.
Then looked out at the dark world.

Soon the sun had dragged itself over the hills.
Its sunrays traveled down the valley
To kiss the heads of sleeping birds -
To wake them for their breakfast of song.
The town was brought to life by the heat and the light.
At last, the morning had fully opened ,
Like the tail of a peacock.

Cars began to trickle onto the roads.
Their drivers: half asleep with minds on nothing. And full of nothing.
This between-hour ended with a swarming road.
Then we fell asleep again.

vi) In the Darkness, the Nothing Nots

Darkness, darkness, the consuming dark -
Alive at this night’s beating heart.
What insightful hand or eye could fathom your elusive snare?...
Blake wrote only of the dark’s own creatures;
Not the dark’s very darkness.

The darkness doesn't allow any sensual access to itself; save for that of sight.
It can’t be touched or heard.
No smell gives it away when it hides in a cranny,
Or when it fills an empty hall.

The dark’s body-mass forms an unbounded solidity when at its purest- in the earth’s belly
Or when alive at a choking-forest’s heart -
Where branch strangles branch
And leaves weave a canopy to snuff out the moonlight.

Such a perfect emptiness is as real as a concrete wall.
Far from being a nothing;
Or if a nothing, a nothing whose non-being is something to fear.
Something to cognise.
You see, Reason’s light can’t shine when a dark place has snuffed it out.
And yet more evil’s done in the pure light than in dark’s obscurity.

Do not fear what the dark hides.
You’ll be hidden the other’s hidden from you.
Fear the darkness instead. The darkness itself.
Fear what lives at its heart. At your heart.

vii) 2.05am: Party End

Fag-end of another Good Night.
The fresh air mingles with the boozy breath.
Night-clubs spews out the pissheads;
The packs of fist-happy lads;
And drunks whom later spew their innards onto the pavement.

This is the anointed hour to drop one’s pants;
For a fight to spill over the fun-barrel;
To neck the prize lad on a quiet street;
To piss in public;
To cry over boyfriends and fight over girlfriends;
And, finally, but not leastally, to moony at Asian taxis.
The fact is, the drivers no longer care about this.
They’re not impressed by the debauched, silly displays
Of the white working class - you know what I mean.
By yet more of the same.
You know what I mean.

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