Economics, Literature and Scepticism

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I am a PhD student in Economics. I am originally from South Africa and plan to return there after my PhD. I completed my M. Comm in Economics and my MA In Creative Writing (Poetry) at the University of Cape Town, where I worked as a lecturer before starting my PhD.

Thursday, January 12, 2006

Recent Dictates

Posted by Simon Halliday | Thursday, January 12, 2006 | Category: |

Circular 22.11.05

The logic that pulls

me back -

I am unable to

find that point

of beginning.

There is no start

to the road of

my love for you: and

walking it

takes me past places

seen and re-seen

until I have passed

beyond memory and

we are all-at-once

newborn but unbegun.

Context 24.11.05

This is my reliquary for

every heart that I have

taken. Each placed in their

box and held tight in time

awaiting my awakening.

I have caressed them

to their individual slumbers

as a penitence for the actions

against me. You can see their

presence etched into my skin -

a brand for every woman I have

loved, for every cut into my

heart that they have performed.

They are dark incisions these

women have done, and I am

all the lighter for it, but changed

and unbalanced. Every love

has damaged me, and yours

I hope is the most damaging

the most changing.

Falling in the cracks 22.11.05

I see chasms in

the spaces between

bricks, paved

so carefully for us

We are in jeopardy of

stepping between them

and falling into the

earth to be held.

It is contemptuous of

us: our easy movements

without pressure or heat

through airy heights

we forget our capability for

stillness, of letting the air

blow into us, of letting water

flow through the spaces in

and between our souls. We move

to intercept each moment

each thought and feeling

before it arrives.

With you I restrain myself:

instead of rushing to meet

and discard I will stand in the

earth and encourage your

flowing through me, your

movement into my every space

and the knowledge that here

I will be moved by you.

Knowledge 07.12.05

I knew, I knew, I knew

you were not that inanimate

that there was a beat

reaching out from some

hollowness within the

stories making you up

but I could not

access them

I could not bring

them into being, and

bring you back to me. I know

that my presence remains

unreplaced, that I stand alone

in my connected context with you.

This cannot impede my love.

Declaration 07.12.05

You have (opened up) your soul.

In this moment of


Histories parade

before me in attempts

to re-construct 'now'

(because we are what we

have been: the integrals

and areas of our pasts)

In Praise of Bricks 26.12.05

Although there is structure

and a Marxist commonality

in your intent

I prefer you best

when you are


It is then when your

validity and your pertinence

lack condition, when

you are exposed and,

in exposition,


I would see the clay

of you dissolve in a

reminder of mutability

I would feel the burn

of you melt in cold


From these would you

finally appear honest, seem

more human and be, at once,

a metaphor for our growth

and our timely


river bed 21.12.05

holes in the sand

marking hollows

beneath my feet

I imagine being

small enough to

drain myself into

the hole, submerged

in the water and

hidden from sunlight

It is a slow and

purposeful movement out of my shallow

abode – something normally

unworthy of excessive risk

lest I be suddenly and

fatally consumed

such is the danger of


Thunderous light

while the spread at

my waters extends

beyond its higher bounds

My neutrality is the definition

of my beauty

I am enchanting water

Inspiration 20.12.05

Such dullness as you

have inflicted upon

me: it is the slow

consuming silence

of one thinking

they were inspired.

Instead, I have

been stifled by

amassed expectations

unfitting 'reality'

a clash of silence

and voice speaks for itself

Lilies 23.12.05

I gave you them

You claimed

their pollen and

their falling petals

would stain


(as if I did not know)

In truth I hoped

they would stain

your clothes, the

wooden table on which

you left them.

Or maybe they would

mark your skin

dye your hair

indelibly marking you

possessing you: mine

(although we feign unpossession)

Crown of Thorns 25.12.05

Cutting into me as

I walk towards

a hand-washed

death (or was it


confusion is easily split

by wine-piercing

and headcuts may be

a sudden cut off mercy -

would be easier, but

No! My suffering is

so warranted father

Father, oh goddamned


in my head

dark and light

and the whiteblack


of insistent soreness

This crown this

cross and the destined

holes (holes within darkness

within holes) through my

hands my feet my

ribs and abdomen

lurching blood free

of mortality (or at

least an idea of the mortal,

the immortal) and my

momentary eternity:

that time, that instance in

which death is inevitable

the cloth and clutch of its

encapsulation: me crowning

me for this infinity my

infinity and my life

repeated repeated repeated

because of recording

recalling my words

My words this today

All on account of

birth (death happiness)

of me isolated

and as immaculate

as an unclouded

desert morning

Prayers and Darknesses 25.12.05

A shamble

of breaking voices

raising praise in

final pleas for



surrounds me

send Up your thoughts

send Up that which hurts

send Up any and everything

you refuse to question

They will be solved

A solution of clouds

harps angels and


I would rather be the

shadow beneath the

cloud: cast on the

unaware soil, infused

by its darkness:

a fertility for light

that would come

our way

Labeled 25.12.05

Am I kaffir you

who call me


Am I fuckingqueer you

who call me

bent fuck-buddy?

Am I AIDS-ridden you

who call me

HIV 'positive'?

Such a tenacity in the

multiplicity and

paradox of labels

And fuck you if I cannot be






hairy skin blanched in

frustration and


Blood tides 25.12.05

An eternity of switching-

sign parabolas in a

progression of



moving into

every level of


I sink beneath

the granule-much

sand breaking


that is my blood

though your veins -


My tears flow from your

eyes in attentiveness to

your tenebrous states

clouded shadowed coagulating



mixed you and I


A river wind 25.12.05

cobbles on the water's surface

the clasp of weeds

on a wader's


Organise 27.12.05

create some logical and coherent

structure to what is extant

let reality refill itself with

what is actually there

A contrast: water is not water-perceived

but now re-consideration leads

it to be water

my finger is not

pointing at the moon

but is the moon

and every understanding

of moon-ness

although you perceive so much

ease in my acceptance

it is trained, strung out to

a photon width's perception

i elocute i properly think

you your histories and

why i do not have the

need for privation

(though part of me screams

violation it is easily adumbrated

by the perpetuity of love)

and love that moon-finger word

how I wish that my pointing at

it would convey to you

its every nuance

its potency and



there you are

and I do not perceive

your borders

Systems 25.12.05

A river flowing

away from its mouth

Her body's limbs turn

away from the ground

Limpets attach to

the sea, not the rock

A compass points, not

North, but rather South.

The way that the water

flows indicates its

misdirected intentions:

a fracas with its

reality-cast role.

Indignant, its course


She is unaware of the

way she rests, arms above

her head and unaffected

by what we'd claim

gravity should


The mollusc, the sand, have

made their way up to the

dams attempting to

reclaim their ancestral


Direction, having lost its

terminal anchor, ceases

to retain its causative


And in amongst all

of this is the third

person casting their

mind out to clasp

ideas, to halt

progression of space

and to encapsulate why

direction should not

lay claim to




Jam-packed 28.12.05

your request for


does not much surprise me


knowledge, its constituent parts



possession, entitlement to all


a sinew reliquary holding us

between bone and flesh

and the long-haul fuss

of misunderstood ownership

Forestry 28.12.05

Muscle-bone bound is

this body

a tree carved man

without the roots

of water and sun

to guide its progression

woman walks towards the branches

entangled in the leaves

in approach to the heart

of it

although a tree is unlikely

to uproot

it could fall

and fall


the bones and sinew could

step up from the ground

calling up and moving away

exerting anger upon the

constraining body

these branches they scar

the intent of woman's skin

these leaves imprint their

skeletal brands on woman

such Action drowns woman

in the natural suffering to

which she progresses,

at least so in belief,

at least so in memory.

Capsule 01.01.06

i do not mean

space not the ones

bursting through

atmospheres and

launching satellites

no not those you

pop-pop in your

mouth vitamin quick

and PROZAC heavy

not accurate enough no

but that oval shape

maybe or hemmed in

yes or held into an

odd unaccustomed

shape honest

murky acrid tastes

the crumpling of metal

and the parachute explosion

all that's capsuled:

tension and bursting me now

carriage 01.01.06

this vessel

placed in you

to channel fear

its movements

an asymmetry of

rhythmic erratic


calling back to

recreate touchedness

in the non-you-me

space we entered

we leave behind

uncanny tastes of


begun : ended

Nevertheless 03.01.06

Inject me with your blood

I would suffer as you do

it would give a point

to these tears I

shed in disbelief

to the pain I

inflict on myself

in sympathy


though it is

Give birth to me

as young as you are

my mother, giving to

me all love, all

infected passion

that I would accept

my role

my dissolute

and arbitrary


and no pills

no love

no adoption

no purple and white

t-shirt wearing


can protect me

when the uncaring

the unbelieving

hold power

Injunction 04.01.06

I would celebrate

turning water to wine

and the subsequent joy

were they not inane

I would worship the

wonder of healing

blindness and maiming

were they reality

I crave a son of gods

were it a cannibalistic

celebration or a wine-sex

rite of gloried intents

I would worship, I would

be faithful if there was

but one iota of evidence

that they could miracle

that magic could be exist

or be returned to those

who suffer in its non-existence

who live under the falseness

of its lacking. Were you here

would you perform healings? Are

you that connected to god, to the

wondrousness of faith? Or are

you simply created in history and

so I defy you to create faith

in me, my ingestion of you

running poison-thorough

through me in its ability to

change me. If you could

heal infected children, if you could

stop collapsing lungs

if you could remove the yellow

clasp on malarial eyes. Then

would I eat and drink of you

and I would praise you

I would magic you and consistently

and continuously create you in

every day. I would be yours

I would be faith.

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