MY BLACK BOOK (53 to 56 ): "'the beau's songs re helen (not of troy)' poetry, Novel; incorporating . . .

50th allotment is in ‘blue room’

I used to lick than kiss her lips from where flesh raises to become the lower one; enjoy that drop into her mouth as my tongue tripped in, moving upwards, feeling the sudden chill-touch of her tongue. Her mouth tasted milky. It was the way she made her coffee: pouring warmed-up milk over the coffee powder: coffee-flavoured milk, I teased.

It was when I was on the edge of the swimming pool, and reached down to help Imogen up, that I first started kissing her. The tongue bit, came later. There was just the taste of water. Her cat’s eyes/blue eyes/(what colour were they?) pierced into mine: or, did they shriek somehow, so that I found it hard to let my eyes look into them! My mouth lay open on her shoulder, hanging by the top lip, probably from slipping down her neck, the naked side of my face nuzzling there, content then, to feel the naked-to-naked contact twixt face and primitive drumbeat. I saw her hidden-from-the-sun small-bird-breasts cowering inside the oversized hats of the bathing-suit top. I was thinking that all actors should be like those absolutely, body-bald, castrated, male, mannequins in the shop windows: no, not ‘male’: ‘neuter’. That way they could be dressed to fit out any character, male or female, as textually required.

Often, we lay on the grass near newly planted evergreen bushes beside the pool, now, tall in the garden Christmas trees, all: as numerous as Santa Clauses. Maybe, also as numerous as the times husbands and wives, re-husband, re-wife; or freely change sexual partners. We had many of those special cups of coffee, there. Sometimes she cleaned the pool; or, pushed the pool-cleaner around it, as I read. Sometimes I did it. Sometimes we watched her nieces and nephews. Were we pretending they were ours? We even grew expert at inducing sleep when they cried that overtired I canna’ bloody do ma’ pop-off-to-bloody-sleep cry.

Often I was there, as she had to get out of her swimming costume. I swore Norman Lindsay was the greatest! Australian, and immediately wanted to see that Age of Consent movie again, with Helen Mirrim swimming with only her goggles on. Nature’s untouched showing of growing/glowing adolescence, wearing the water she swam in as easily as she did the cloths that thought they clothed her. It was lyrical. My eyes toasted her. Here was so much to touch, already miss touching, as she, moving, was. Do not say it was rashness, with the young man: this was belief that physicality could, will with each moment’s missed veneration, disappear. It was right.

One is many making love; the whole, a polymorphous rendering; seconds, registering no differently than the year’s 365 days: the latter stretching too long what the former too modestly assumes cannot be happening: those slow boats to China in every blink when seconds, like the space between sand, is that between planets. There are more stars than grains of sand! Postmodernism allows it, now appropriately admitted, that every second is its own experience. One becomes stupid as one gets older, if one considers one was rash then. You do only fall in love, impassioned; your body is your teacher: your teacher is your enemy: just seethe!

I did not: I had three other women, the two weeks she went on holiday, five days after the day we joked we would date, then did meet: alright I’ll come see you, and you can cut my hair. We clicked so quickly you’d think we had been dating for yonkers!: that much that our behaviour was already more like taking each other for granted.

The very day before she left, we met, we walked along two long roads and much across the green expanse there, to beneath the chaperone of a very huge, very grandfather of a tree. That, so very close to the crosswalk I would spend some few years, later, safely guiding many children across Mary Road to the primary school, there. Many mothers, looking familiar and just the age to have been those others in-between the three who could immediately register as corespondents.

I would eye them, those children, with great scrutiny; suddenly caught like a fish by bait, sometimes.

But that was another night of paradoxes, when the carnivore would subdue again its prey; spontaneity apotheosized by the moment the mouth grabs the jugular, absorbing the victim’s soul, being there; the ritual, fulfilled; the true grace before the meal. That is why the meat at the butcher’s can be nominated: ‘dead meat’: dead means: the soul, him gone! Old age tree, its historically infused susceptibility to jealousy, ever tested, despite its layers and layers of skin grown bark-thick, dubbed Imogen and John T — animals; their behaviour; pornographic: the proper place for eating and procreating is underground.

Were some of the, noises, that of the tree: fuming, flexing its roots, especially those above ground between which we lay as so many chromosome-like symbols monkey-doing compass points to bespeak the times? So easily, the tree could have flung its roots like gigantic octopus-tentacles around my neck; but duly, lay as quiet as the dead to the time that did not belong to them.

Desecrated: all this, the two weeks Imogen went away to Thailand. Those three, in particular, and the many, no hypnosis can retrace: small as their part in this piece, nonetheless, damning, black blotches stay on something wedding-dress snow white… When you are together without the church or the registry office, your own-made rituals are your sacred memories, and it was two in the morning that had us walk back down the street, she in my jacket and tie.

I used to wear them, then; or still had them to wear.


I WRITE ON ETHER ( woke sweating and scribbled like she wrote through me nonstop; just a few days after)

It is blissful, this life, stolen!
Why did they not expect that this we would?
I chose Eden again: a Middle-Eastern
like the former foremost Omar Khayyam,
if, with more than a loaf of bread, and wine.
Wordsworthian country: nearer Robert Frost,
perhaps near some provincial Canadian
poet, who actually has a Russian father.
Do not tell me you still do not know who I am!
I know they all said no, it can’t be true.
Andrew knew; heard Dodi say he was
ready to leave all girls to live with me.
He also watched a movie work the plot out.
Maybe you who disbelieve, these things, should
read its history instead of those thrillers.
I don’t suppose – none of you –imagined, if
if it was not Simpson, but impotence?




to catherine ng

soft breezes
and moistness
as though I

bid to tell
and coax/tries
to portals
at sixteen/
when first i
breathed on air
going down to
as well as
alpha bits
on missives,
filling your
senses and
flowers, and.
,The origins of creativity.
creativity is making something out of something with/by our self/senses. the trouble is that when that something is “creativity” we are trying to explain being creative about creativity. anything we say/smell/feel/hear/taste, is soon creative; easily, also, also repetitive, and therefore only memorable when “deeply” felt (as mentioned); when suddenly come upon and otherwisely associated with one’s already prized evaluations (also much mentioned/referred); when personally involved, and narraton is best awaited/investigated: destroyed, (as by a useless archeologist; grave-robber). or, we are indifferent. hope we are never hacks when we are unaware: and do! rid ourselves thereof during rewrites (one of my pleasures!, apart from that other ). among creative people, creativity is an ever redefining property which always has to veer/hide/differentiate from, so that, we, collectively know to decide whether to, so, do: this, also open.
creativity, too, is a particular, different way of writing, —style(?), than one usually encounters . . .

the idea of creativity starting deep inside, is what i took with me from this site. i found someone describing artistic as different from craftmanship by saying the latter incuded fine ability in craft in constructing something already thought out and decided upon and successfully producing the said object.

the artist, on the other hand has an indefinability, inside, the outcome of which, unknown, until, so, decided, as though ever at the risk of failure; although i don’t remember reading this last part, so presume, it involving/including the finished work as a work of art, plus the ever possible controversy: : the then/said, artist, already seen as such, then fulfilling the and what does the artist opine? (—how’s it look from there/where, you are? thing)

perhaps the presence of the ever possible controversy, their deference to their deity’s sole claim (that created out of nothing thing, as unlocated as deep inside )to perfect creativity


MY BLACK BOOK (53 to 56 ): "'the beau's songs re helen (not of troy)' poetry, Novel; incorporating . . .


Joined June 2009

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