MY BLACK BOOK (40/41[B]): "'the beau's songs re helen (not of troy)' poetry, Novel; incorporating the "juddarwin ..........................." entitled poetry [both series whether or not textual used].


_They are beginning to ask me about your constant presence around me having more significance than our studies warrant.

There is very little of anything anywhere than our putting something of ourselves into it. The persistence marks the dedication.

They say you don’t put anything into anything except your delegated obedience to Allah in the prescribed rituals set down. Your commitment qualifies your breeding, status and loyalty.

The Bible has it too. You are as guilty as those you allow to live among you. That is the logic behind the ghettoes and cleansing and disintegration.

They told me to keep away from you.

Does your father own a ‘Harrods’ too?

There are people here watching me.

This is Australia. If they dob you in they will be lynched.

It is religion. We are free to practice as we believe, they claim.

Our conventions are the most powerful in Australia. Like the dictionary is the most powerful Bible. You can’t help but obey it.

‘Conventions’ are also those things our fathers make us do and obey that are nowhere written in the Koran.

You have me convinced. Damn conventions too. As well as: the dictionary. Only listen to what we mean to say.

Yes, I, Miriam, am Dodi; you, Bill, are Diane.

And you don’t have anything on under that Fundamentalist garb of yours.

Shush! That’s only for you!

I do appreciate it. It is like the walls to my church.

I am not sure how long I will let you get away with saying things like that?
Come to my favourite outdoor position._

He has pulled her towards himself, her body pushing his back against the building. As he kisses her, his hands move inwards around her breasts, then downwards bristling past her crutch; possessively clutching at both halves of her buttocks, pulling her onto his body.

_I feel even more naked, today. Are you sure they can’t see me?

They believe they can see everything, can even see through fabrics, and therefore: see nothing at all. They just bicker with their beliefs.

I told them that you were working on evidence that Diane and Dodi are alive and well, living in quiet retirement. They s…

You didn’t! O! God! No! …………………..:No! Never mind! It doesn’t matter! I’m sorry, I was taking myself seriously for a moment. No one would care anyone believing they are alive, anyway.

What were you thinking of, for a while, with all those exclamations?

–Paranoia. –My cousin. I’ve trained myself to deal with it. But only by forcing myself to ignore the feelings I do have. If I don’t force myself to ignore feeling paranoid, I won’t be able to proceed with my work. What did they say when you told them I believed Diane and Dodi, alive?

Dad started to say something, but stopped. His eyes grew big, and then looked startled. Bill, if you don’t stop touching me soon, I’ll start making a lot of noise!_

Slowly retrieving his hand, he puts his fingers inside her mouth. Suck on it, he says. Taking them out, he moves their wetness up her cheeks, and over her eyes and eyebrows, pushing her head back as his fingers went inside, through her hair. His mouth was trying to fit itself inside her mouth, it appeared. Some kind of urgency registered there. He stopped when he heard a purring sound. He placed his arms around her and very tenderly held her very close.

After a while her eyes opened, shining, looking intently into his eyes.

I love you, she mewed, I, love you, and snuggled under his chin.

Shall I shove a cigarette in your mouth?

I don’t smoke.

I know. When did you tell your father about our Diane\Dodi involvement?

I didn’t tell him about us living out their relationship which was cut short, in our reversed gender way: me, being Dodi, instead of you. He won’t tolerate any kind of relationship between us. I just told him you were writing a paper claiming there were more than enough reasons for believing they are alive._

A DASHED ATTEMPT AT WHAT IS POETRY in a first yr mag killed before distribution:
Poetry is something a poet writes; no matter w…. The only problem seems to be with words thrown on the page like we’ve seen paints thrown on canvass. whether or not a poem has to have meaning; is it not true that we are not conscious of everything involved as we write the poem? no problem, if I leave the poem saying what I want it to say. If it wants to say something else on its own, logic has it, it will say it any way. A poem says something as soon as you look at it: its physical presence, whatever. The person who is about to read the poem also has the same problem part of the enmeshed perception, which reads the poem. The only important thing about consciousness is that I have to decide on whether I have written a poem. the poem as finished AND It isn’t that it is suddenly there like a used condom thrown in the open window, from a passing car

. They say a monkey with a computer can, a computer, on its own, can produce Shakespeare’s Sonnets, given ‘X’ number of years. I’d like to be around t see whether the monkey or the computer will then stop, knowing it has produced the sonnets. it is a matter of what the poet, now conscious, decides

I can pick out any number of words from a bag filled with words, and decide the alignment to be a poem, but it will be my decision. If the words fell out of the bag in the same order on the floor, they’ll just stay until kicked, swept or blown away. –Again, the human element, the conscious one.

MY BLACK BOOK (40/41[B]): "'the beau's songs re helen (not of troy)' poetry, Novel; incorporating the "juddarwin ..........................." entitled poetry [both series whether or not textual used].


Joined June 2009

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