Cacoethes Scribendi

18 August 2006

Filed under: Meaningful nonsense,poem,Society & Intellect — Jane @ 9:51 am

I am fighting a fight of no consequence.
No sense; no barracks or dagger-tipped fence; no construct erected
with trembling sinews and thighs, clenched tense: the marrow of human

In the pregnant open space reserved (before)
for shifting, groaning pilings;
for proud walls, cracked, stained, thin walls slumping humpbacked [who
would call these anything but;
flawed] walls;
for flawed walls washed translucent, buoyed tall by the tired hands of
men who curl weary bodies down to sleep under worn pillows of hope;
for sighing edifices erected by hands and suspended by love and prayer
and hope; for hands from which coarse brown fingers unfold with
seeping tears
skin too thin to hold the blood falling gold on the damp packed earth.
In the pregnant open space worked by man, by his days and weeks and months,
beside the mottled slopes of blackened earth carved out, cried out;
beneath splintered sooted skies:

It is here,
It is in this space,

that protruding stone, translucent, cold as ice
flails, wheezing, upward
out of barren furrows beaten black with blood
that ran from living hands
to seep,

into this space to rest

patterned by chance
in pallid serpentine rings
whose sylphic strings murmur
hushed and somber
songs to me
of inconsequence.

[written a few months ago.]


31 July 2006

a draft ——-

Filed under: love,poem,question — Jane @ 12:42 am

when these swellings of madness subside, my love –

when the tides of our aching hearts find pleasure
in lapping sweet at the sandy shores,
the fires of blustering tempests having faded, long ago,
into the sighing curtains of white morning fog
settling slow
against the waking waters of now ancient oceans –

and the thundrous poundings of racing feet
and desperate hearts grow silent,
and our souls awake to the pattering
tapdancings of tiny toes and dappled rosy fingers
dancing light across brows long since burnished
by the burning rays of extinguished blazes –

11 July 2006

the worst, she said, is silence.

silence equals madness. madness equals denotation and following, disintegration. alexandria tumbles to the ground, but in the head. structure and form twining fluid and formless between and then into the other’s arms of iron. no paeons to angles and lines embedded in painted shiftings of butterfly wings, say i, if my eyes are sight and blindness one.

if something so small and weightless as silence can shift the balance of the moon i see tonight through panes of shuttered glass.

5 June 2006


Filed under: Fun things,Meaningful nonsense,observation,poem — Jane @ 2:39 am


walls are paintedupon.

red, black.

noticed that i did this myself.
noticed too that it felt good.


hilarious, the nefarious windings of time.
pare it down
and it snakes like fire
through channels and fiddled panels
of hot air.

28 May 2006

Filed under: Meaningful nonsense,Nonsense,poem — Jane @ 9:13 pm

into caverns of mindless sightless silence i flee.
a bowl of apples tucked beneath my arm
i carry with me down the slippery steps
with nothing in my soul but
unread absence.

persistence of fleeting rockbeats, flight
into heat, soft-bedded the tiles
of miles i walk with my soiled
white feet,

and i hear and
i feel and
i see what is real.

and padded chambers of literal wordings
beheld with an absence of visceral

provides the contender with semblances,
purrings, with stirrings

of what can only be called,
be labeled, (befalls),

see silence, and be saved.

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