Sunday, November 13, 2005

Morning Murmurs

Posted by Simon Halliday | Sunday, November 13, 2005 | Category: |

So yes, I should be working as I have that silly research report due on Wednesday. Truth be told it's not at all silly, but it does mean that when EVERYONE else is on vacation and one of my dearest friends is arriving back from NZ I am going to be working. Tragic! So here I am procrastinating. Anyway, enjoy the poetry some of it's ok, some of it's atrocious (as it should be, even Keats wrote badly, just see some of the lines of Ode to Psyche). Love y'all. Si

Stray 25.10.05

Though I have cleaned

and washed my sheets

strands of your hair

are still caught in

my pillows. I have

an intent, it seems,

to maintain some

connection to you

even though it may

be unrequited. Upon

finding a hair I am

bound by it to memories

to some conjure or

voodoo of yours:

that set of smiles

followed by anything but

if only it was in me

to hate finding a lost

strand. Instead they inspire

my irrationality and

confirm what I dare

not voice.

Bikes 25.10.05

You remember me as

small blond and

clutching tightly to

your back my

unhelmeted hair

all-over-blown by

the wind of our riding

but I have sped

past that boy on the

back of a motorcycle,

although you still

glance over your shoulder

at him

Let free 27.10.05

If I am uncaged

it does not mean

that I am free

nor do I suddenly

understand my own



existence: reality cut

up by criss cross

bars patchwork

prison living

black around colour

What does 28.10.05

to last


Would it make me

the final raindrop

on your face in

a storm,

or would I

be the eternity

of my fossil

memory in you

etched in sand

and skin: indelible.

Deep, could I be

that deep that

I am the last

part of you to

ever go, but still

so slow as to

be the endpoint

of forever.

Ice Dream: 30.10.05

although the heat

here devastates

my body

dreaming inspires


why would i

feel snow falling

upon my sleeping

face and on

what earth should

i be walking on

ice the cracking

of which disturbs

my wakefulness

it is the mirror

of it that in which

i find myself

a cold reflection

to my heat and

intuit this orphean

journey is

because of you

your capturing of

my reflected self

Scrivener 30.10.05

Bearing the names of tombs

into scripture, the Word that

must be heard by each and

every living soul for their

Redemption. I do not begrudge

you your charge. Nor do I

presume judgment upon your

holy quest. But I do question it.

Though I recall the psalmist

it is not in that which I place

my faith, but in your ability to

replicate and in replicating

change all that has been placed

before you. The Word is that potent

that all-driving. I cannot help but

think that maybe I do the same.

Krsna's Fluting 30.10.05

Would that playing for you

was this easy, that I was not

simply a reflection of some

poetic intent. The statues of

me playing should remind

you of your playfulness, but

instead they result in Faith

and Dedication and Claims

that Ganesha would have it so.

Worship in inaction. Joy and

the act of creating Joy would

be all that I demand.

You would rather Worship

than listen to my Music and such

is the loss of Faith, that music is

no longer Joy but pervasive Duty.

On Rach 03.10.05

A man sits, tied

to a desk and tortured

by an inability to move

despite it's necessity

these notes clamber over

him as a bout of insanity

but his fingers too cold to

feel the keys

this is the post-partum

depression of composition

the moment after the birth

of writing in which

the world is suddenly smaller

your hands more wrinkled

and the sunlight less able

to heat your skin

see him there his hands so

tightly cold and his body

dying of deprivation but

he must write

Cat 03.10.05

you walk in here

twitching tail

arrogant, as I

begin to sneeze

you continue

on unannounced:

a malcontent

describing their way

around that which

troubles them.

(or simply being that

which troubles me)

Lalage 03.10.05

G. lalageo the sound of a babbling brook

I thought it

the sound of laughter

carried to me by wind

a normal shriek and

pulse, but there

was an undercurrent -

a sob birthing itself

out of the laughter

I should not confuse such

things with you.

We spoke of it later: I'd

heard you as you burnt

imprints of flowers

on your skin disguising

seared, cut flesh from

those who would look

although I am looking,

eternally observing in the

hope of catching some of

the ash, perhaps it will give me

a taste of you.

Recidivist 03.10.05

This habit is something

into which I easily hope

to relapse

the comfortable warmth

in holding your hand

on a couch

I have been warned against

it, too many women who

later hurt me

who burn their past intents into

my soul, while I attempt to

walk gaily on

in blissful attempts at normality

and the ignorance that would

pervade me

if I could recidive to that state

but that is not easy, nor is it

confirmed addiction

unlike you who call me onward

and inwards with the final


[of suffering]

151 11.11.2005

There is your hand

pushing downwards

I am the plunged

coffee of this

pressed down, guided

and immediately

distilled into

some purer form

Although I do

believe that I

would retain

a granular consistency

Stubborn, even in

my own change

Marmorate 12.11.05

We are the thick-veined

marble pillars in support

of some levitant

Greek ideal

can you not see us?

Here about some

Dionysean fucking-rite

praise and more praise

to wine and sex. That

harshness fueling the

blood of these stone veins

pumping grey and cold

into these we so religiously

support. If only they deigned

to see us, perhaps they would

marvel at their own


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