MY BLACK BOOK (76 to 80): "'the beau's songs re helen (not of troy)' poetry, Novel; incorporating the "juddarwin ................" entitled poetry [both series whether or not textually used].

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I like tp watch
have a look, see
them congregate
s-o-c-I-a-l-I-a-z-I-n-g
twixt drinks twixt food
teeth of cogwheels
each small movement
moving
m-a-n-o-u-v-r-I-n-g
that old still pond
that domioe
(c-o-)m-I-n-g-l-I-n-g
other pebbles
already thrown
dominoes downed
oh! what pattern
did manoevres
pastiche(?) that day?
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they allow free play
of their worlds who have
not something to say
.
of their wor(l)ds who have

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did I not say sit down
the middle of the room
do everything yourself
even cook and wash up
thing to do while cooking
plates, while making coffee
a watched pot never boils
washing clocks the cooking
cleaning; putting things b
allowing her to clean
is establishing that
there is need to censor
let not her hold a broom
cleaning is not your joy
and she does claim it toil
I can still sweep my flat.

what will you let me do?
: do what I can’t myself.

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READ AS THOUGH WRITING THE WORDS YOU READ (imagining the necessary changes).
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I believe that the human being is free, like my namesake, Descartes, after whom my philosopher –parents named me. Now they have parted, on to become a priest, (a beguine order), the other meaning = some artist. Yes, I read Thomas Merton, too. Cogito ergo sum, you realize, you do realize is Latin, meaning: thinking therefore existence. ‘You is your thinking’; your head therefore its shoe [only recently, have I realized there is no feeling at all in their fiddling with your brain sawing through your scalp]. Why, should solve many mysteries: not that I hear anyone ponder the point. Not even using the Southern drawl? Does Latin phraseology well translate French, though? Descartes meant to be understood in French, I have read. So, does our Latino represent his frenchy, well, or has she something fault to pick?

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Behind my house & behind those houses…
Facing those houses back to back to mine
the wild growth was filled with slag,
mounds, dunes of slag instead of sand; hill
locked, looking like a rubbish dump of buttocks…
Not yet have I ventured to read that book
maybe entitled The Itinerant.
I know I bought the book for the cover:
I did not think the book would be as good.
I thought of rocky climbs & prospecting,
that lifetime search of the man and his mule.
Steady its step, it’s said, along the ridge;
not all sides slope right to the waterhole.
They would plunge deep down before rising up!
The one thing left to say, being positive:
they played a better game than Sisyphus.
Class-mate of a girl I know, and sister
of my brother’s partner.in.crime. doing
literal research into Lady C.:
“Lady Chatterley’s Handbook”, some said then,
is whom the first lines and rhythm address;
I also burned that DH Lawrence book,
tired of repetitive Confession.
I did feel I had purified myself.
My brother’s eyes grew big and looked nonplussed.o
I said I did what the priest bid me do.
Maybe, she was a year older than I.
When I was younger an Indian girl, there
lifted her dress to point her bum at me,
turned, her chin catapulted her contempt:
did not see I was not calling her names.
When I later read tarred with the same brush
I did not think of anything like this
being taken to be just like an other:
I only thought that people could not see
were ignorant. I only need be good!
Surely they should also see that I loved.

Slag’s remnant when the furnace smelts the tin
which, made tins which, delivered food; later,
delivered food to the war time trenches;
food, still edible when the tin was found:
fifty years tin had kept food good in tins.
Love lasts they say when you don’t enter in
to too many enough disappointments.
Capitalist commodification
now added copper to the tin they made
to keep the food from keeping good so long.
That way you’d have to keep pace with the price,
afford just enough, keep for just so long.
to coincide with rot time and price rise:
instead of buying, stacking, storing like ants,
they bid us grasshopper-play time away
not letting us stock up for the future:
making tins that hold food until ‘due date’
so you’ll have to use what you buy, and soon

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If you start by referring to poetry as some silliness, than your own is locked in measured steps therefrom: worrying, maybe that your acclaim is merely political; a ‘statement’, like they say of attempts to initiate fashion when they don’t want to hear themselves say anything about it.

True poetry is when the poem suddenly takes over, finishing & defining itself in the writing. Poetry, which does not do this, is secondary, sheer craft, as written words to fit decided space, like music’s lyrics [—music enslaved to words already written?], dependent; a cued rhetoric. True poetry has no prescription nor idea about what will be written until filling the mind, at the same time as the words form simultaneously. That is why this thing about the Muse, as though one were dictated to: a kind of mysticism. —The established church hates mysticism more than sinners, also.

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Catherine 4

I think again backwards
you’d think to yesterdays
but no back to young bodies
put inside into dark long coal mines
cold alone afraid
it is impossible to corrupt what is then just open to learn
just like they put them there thinking of naught but what they’ll earn: maybe
I was left with my potential registering as nothing but some bloat
like some bud some fruit some gourd
but I was sandbagged housed clothed bombsheltered (now that it’sbackwards too!)
churched schooled parented booked and perceived
I pressed my nakedness against the open glass louvres as the works siren went
saw some look & laugh still cycling on not really knowing they could see as I do now
even as I fast pass in the bus
I had thought I am sure that left lost like with those kids in the mine exhaustion ‘d
lump me in a pile juxta.in.position smudge against someone else someone
else again against me & our shared exhaustions & mingling sweats & our
guttural noises attempting to sweeten in sound as attempted animal hellos to the body I feel so nice now next to wondering if this meant love & the body was a girl.

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Who is Forbes, really?

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New Helen Poems ( origin of THE PHOENIX )

‘Twas dark then, hazy; all Dicken’s London fog here
flowing its symbolisms to metamorphose this reality to conform to our unperceptible
realness
what we was was nothing definite so(me finger could tangibly prod on to cite as
substantial \ evidential
but then was not anything for any finger to indicate familiarity
insistent we in our hidden experientials so tentative almost to miss registering as
existent; existential, literally: ticks! of nows

furtive our actions like pickpockets procuring valuables in forests of fabrics
thinking of rabbits and moles and beavres, squirrels & otters
and the Garden and them and the snake; the apple, ever
the bite changing the moment into forever
shocked then to discover a new nakedness accused upon us

often, both the peas a-pod, we was: green, ungendered, stll stretching the latex-white
lines of demarcation
hungry like the infant’s urgent phases whixch thinks to suck blood from your finger
very Marco Polo, Amundsen, Sherpa Tanzing, Francis Drake
we Attenboroughed, Fabred

3 lines Kerri…bowel of plant source of river enthomologized

thinking all should study biochemistry at the same time as astronomy
all the time to Mozart, Beethovan, Chopin & Debussey,
not because of anything but wanting only music to register ourselves onto instead
crowding lyrics
open again the score as though music be what records as fervour particularizing its
rhythms , when music that is is the background: the empty page, that music
now also in the ink now dipped to act out its script

stripped naked of what one wores, present as the page now there
the crime is not growing old but out, away, estranged, being defined as other; as ain’t
and no more! as with the underwear worn, much loom-ed, in the bush
{{{{learning how to spell the word \world t-o-g-e-t-h-e-r is supposed to be}}}}

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new helen oems

no no the poem was not about sex like the many things not directly named
It had variation and globular coverage; animal vegetable mineral; micro-\ macro-
biochemichemical \ astronomical

I trekking \ travels to itise, nth depths, verily up to the source

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come wearing your glasses
one day wearing nothing
come o studious eyes
come o studious lenses
camera
and camera be
like you take off the night
the night also snatching its black cloak
the night also taking back its balck cloak
as your adult stand discards its chrysalid
and each etheric envelopemenmt
taking turns

to loose their hold
as your long lengths
as your whole lengths of limbs yet loosen to move
as your whole lengths of limbs yet loose
unloosens its unthreads of enfoldment
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andreyevitch rasputin
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sweet sleeping babbkin
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I do not want to think out what I think
it is enough to picture you lying there
in your birthday suit or not, still in the pink
your young body still in its constant blush, whem bare
there are times I ‘d like to yell, make it clear
it is the many strictures of ethics
and there’s the as well other things held dear
as it’s the many commitments: no tears,
life’s learned well to leave us to our antics

I cannot come to you, you so distant
so distant even were you naked here
I have neither the time nor the intent
nor the wish to let my love {{disapear}}not make it
iron bars and other arms restrain me
as our bodies do:
the prison van transports to prison, peo
ple already jailed inside their bodies
unconductivity rules; : all
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yooouuurrrrrr hhhhhhhhhands

your small, wet, chilled rims:

I want to lie in a plate at mealtimes: watch you dine, alone

my gandfather used to inform
with regularity
how
one ought to chew some twenty-three times each mouthful

but I do not mindif rice sticks sometime slike moles: {apt and timed} aptly placedhere: there on your lipsexpressive as quipsthe tongue breaks through thelips over underother lips {plus tongue} tenderedmuch like lasagnathe architecture

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much of what I say will appear unrelated to the task at hand so I ask you think of perry mason and know that all the lose ends will tie up, the worms all crawl backwards back into the can as you visualize the can unbelievably position its lid and appear to weld itself shut by , also apparent, inserted phallic opener going backwards (like what is done can be undone)…as you visualize the can of worms weld itself shut and spit out the penis opener and the hand holding it

what you hear is the reason why I want to write the novel my way
as I get to it, everything you think nowhere will suddenly become predicate

I start
as though suddenly popping my head outside meditating

I never wanted to be a writer
bathes said the writer is dead
in 1969 I would have immediately re written his line in opposition to himself, making the line an ironical parody. I was also then writing things like as churchill said, shut up!

1969 was my year, I always said
later on, with a smile
coining also the dolphin’s smile
declaring also a real symbol for equality
adding quickly of endeavour in case of thought I did not note the differentiation
I had such a poster (blown up in some middle of some paper of the time like living daylights or nation review) when my parents visited me, who did not say a word –– he said he liked something else, written, pinned to the wall: rapists are masterbaters who picture god laughing who use a woman to hide a hand

although I quoted queer theory last year
enjoying someone at last saying that all categories are suspect, I did not know until these seminars that queer theory involved self-definition and some enlightenment denoted as a silence because it is something you can not posit your finger or brain for immediate realization
earlier when I started writing poetry my cousin eventually did tell me that most of it was love-sick dribble when he wanted to tell me he liked some lines I almost absentmindedly wrote trying to define myself: I am a youthful adult child. I am in a crowd: I am alone. I hear voices… that kind of thing
this poem registers the inability to accept definition as being the case
no matter what it sounds like to the crowd
the next line was:
I also hear
replies

I stopped thinking of this as sheer teenaging because the others had left teenage, and so did their teenagers, to join, become the crowd

I did say I did not want to become a writer
I always thought in terms of priest
I know now it is because he represented, personalized a dedication I could see
can’t see that in parentage
parents often as ridiculous as children: or
ying on the goodness so thick, it smacked coming from the priest (nowadays, describes as reverse panopticon: there are whole buildings of doors –– where is this person who is writing all things about doors? –– all thinking themselves oracles: worse, parents emulating like reciting scripts; like plumbing: inauthenticity)

only the vision dedication of the priest retained: this I now know is the one thing I accepted as dependable
reality was sitting in an office of a church when not preaching at the pulpit or hearing confessions, marrying/burying people, smoking cigarettes and reading truths from certain books or closing your eyes and anticipating –– the atmosphere after all electric –– enlightenment, clarification, absolution, a purification allowing a re-beginning
father belleville, I am to immortalize you!
he said if only one man could stay without sin for one whole day that man would save the whole world
I took this as an implication that dedication was a 24 hr task
my dedication was writing letters, books of thoughts & poetry and narrative; some description
I have been doing this ever since: more than 10 such bks, plus 2 or 3 boxes of writings
a journal would allow that some of that may slip into the one to become the dissertation novel, where the writer is a character in the book as well as a regular of Bill’s Bench, the local, where he’s lately become a cleaner
Many people will meet at Bill’s Bench, including Lenin’s ghost who may think the writer, John T, hamlet because he often comes dressed like Dr Who: logic belonging on the sidewalk sometimes, paradox reigning
_no it’s because I play hamlet’s father, it is that I call you hamlet: this travelling garb you don, not beside the point. I died in full view of the public, he said
I thought this when I forebode what worse he could have done, seeing you wrote against him, Stalin, succeeding you, I said, the note vanishing \millions of people beginning to be killed \and you, ‘died’: him, doing no more: doing contrarily, apparently, having you embalmed and lying in state for masses to file past, -worship!? It was not seeing any revenge against you, although scapegoating millions, that made me suspicious
In Macbeth fashion I come to you amongst this crowd, none else seeing me, Hamlet, John T, corroborating your worse fears, when you read Yevtushenko. Stalin did do to me just as you suspected he might have.

life, death, religion, existentialism: I am not particularly researching these, sspoiling the ratio of knowledge: the extent I read will suffice the character who writes the novel
it will include any other writings, stories, poems
maybe textually
maybe as appendix
maybe re-textualized
developing ideas, theories
autobiographical bits always considered

the journal also a letter
in dedication to cousin, pen pal
this journal grew out of the 30-40 pg letters we used to write between Singapore, Malacca, and Penang, which counted as one earlier, which we may now represent more than politicians, people, do.

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MY BLACK BOOK (76 to 80): "'the beau's songs re helen (not of troy)' poetry, Novel; incorporating the "juddarwin ................" entitled poetry [both series whether or not textually used].

juddarwin

Joined June 2009

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