there’s a song snatch in my fragmented brain… I’m on a train
*
the space is co-created, shared. what flows into it is often pain
a unique snowflake drop, individually etched with wounds.
with the pain, sadness.
hello, how low?
wrenching
creeping
weeping.
the pain of the other infiltrates the listener. often that’s ok.
sometimes it’s not easy to hold
when the harmonic vibrates some deep string inside myself.
what soothes? where catharsis, cleansing, comfort
calamine lotion for the seared soul
a humanity reservoir to irrigate growth.
outside everywhere is dead as skin flakes and dry as fear.
I feel stupid and contagious.
*
old woman buffeted confused.
someone pressed purge on her language centres
the words are gone.
she walks, though.
she likes to walk
around the facility around the grounds
out along the pavements into the next suburb
she’s a good walker
walking in the wimera fields where she grew up
maybe
tender age in bloom.
nice young policeman brings her back. he chuckled, she said.
not so much the next time.
or the next.
no I don’t have a gun
imagine: a care facility without a fence
yet management is upset.
they locked her down with the drooling the shitting the territorial pissing the moaning the shuffling dead.
she shakes she weeps she is scared in bedlam.
is that demented?
memoria
memoria
memoria
so she is here
a facility with strong fences and locked gates.
arrives, shrunken.
shuffling through fatigue and dislocation.
shit shit shit she mutters.
are you scared I ask?
yes she whimpers.
it’s strange and new and a bit scary – guessing, offering words.
she nods.
pat her hand. you’ll feel better tomorrow
hope.
I don’t mind
I don’t mind
mind
don’t have a mind
she does feel better tomorrow.
frustration when the words don’t come
infuriatingly garrulous then
but not now.
the silence is easier than the chatter.
I miss you
I’m not gonna crack
promise I’ll visit tomorrow
I’m on a train
melancholy voice – agitated anger
*
I don’t care
I don’t care
care if I’m old
I fucking care.
polly wants a cracker
biscuit bite tooth shatter
molar invokes dentist
a day’s work’s worth of amalgam.
polly says her back hurts
box lift spine strain.
back calls physio
a half-day’s worth of manipulation.
something’s chasing me
it’ll get me in the end
get you too
just because you’re paranoid
don’t mean they’re not after you.
pill for this pill for that
sharing the creaking progress towards death
ms connection the a-side to my b-side
you’re my vitamins
yet
need for own time
at night with disc and platter
ears reaching out
noise cadence reaching in…
maybe writing
what cliché shall I spin
music – lifeblood lover obsession
re-juicer
re-animator
re-connector
I’ve got this friend, you see
who makes me feel
*
cannot connect out
without connecting in
music conduit
record for sensation
beat for heartbeat
perfect interval of tears
love myself
better than you
I know it’s wrong
so what should I do?
it’s not wrong. but man you could’ve loved yourself
more.
happiness transient?
sure.
so is pain,
just with a longer wavelength.
hang on to this:
periodic sinewave dips
are not permanent low.
not on a train,
a plain.
open space, not constrained by
empathy
entropy
family
I’m on a plain
I can’t complain.
each compiles a playlist
make it a triple live album
Thanks for another extraordinary post.
I consulted myself
And the doctor in me said
Take two Mingus
And lie down.
[DD has been too crook to think this last week, could not reply to your last Post nor listen to Jazz]
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A most appropriate prescription. Hope it does the trick.
It’s a poor show when even listening is unattractive.
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In fever for three days last week with mind unrelentingly focused on producing a precise display of black tiles with precise black grouting – to stop the nausea over-running me (funny thing, my mind). It is indeed a poor show when music palls.
Are we both better now?
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Looking forward hopefully to when the happy life begins.
Looking backward fearful that it already came and went.
Who the hell clicked “crossfade”?
Gotta find a way, to find a way
Moving, evocative post, Bruce. Almost motivates me to, um, ….er, …. (sigh)… Nevermind. 😉
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With some trepidation I read this post again. Two years is a long run-out groove, this one is still running. Or sitting now, just sitting.
And the piece itself? Less pissy than I feared! Grateful for that, and for your visit, Vic.
Webster was much possessed by death
As for (almost) being moved, I wait, in gentle hope.
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