darkness and homelessness are siblings in
time’s dysfunctional family. in a
present odd reunion – a poorly attended affair that’s rented my flesh for its
drugged party – i find solace in darkness, i sleep in the cardboard box of my blood;
familial lineages glide before me in runny colours and difficult flatulences.
the realms of visible politics – identity,
sex, gender, ethnicity – are the shibuya of the human psyche … but the realms
of invisible politics – sanity, eloquence, blood, beauty, virtue – are the
pissed slums of neglected urbanscapes.
the latter are my home; daily i uncoil my diseased prick and whiz on the
future. melancholic jötunn suck me
off with their gums and we collapse into night’s putrescent kingdoms.
i wake up daily in a bed of death
i say to the shadow called day –
i will crawl into you
i will make you my companion
we will play together as if we were friends.
but i long for the prayers of dreams
i lust though for the shadow of sleep
death is my lover, the grave my mentor
day – night’s useful mask, void’s awkward
other
evening waits like a warm and dirty bath
how beautiful when darkness draws us into her
that dread of this ever-present waking
darkness is not an absence of light, but is polar
to and interacting with light; light is the simplest most undivided, homogenous being we know … confronting it
is darkness: infinitely plural, divisive
… and so infinitely creative. colours – shadow and the children of shade – are light itself. colour is born of and feeds on darkness.
darkness evolves environmentally: as humans migrate into contexts of perpetual
light, so darkness – our deepest need – is constructed and accessed in novel
and fabricated ways by these emerging creatures of light. the materials, maps, hazards, portals,
labyrinths, signage, risk management practices and false exits of these fresh
routes – the comparison of these to those of the worn ones – all this giving
new life to darkness … or rather to humans in their cravings for infinite
relations.
at light’s highest point on its ladder, the
darkness of things presents itself to me as the simmering surfaces of
light. but at the apex of darkness on
itself, how do i see light? as the
animation of darkness? a
misspelling? as the remnant that
questions, dark’s tongue? a hope that
subverts even hope?
any authentic notion of divinity – or at
least that of the human unhinged from its overwhelming greeds and incarcerating
self-reflections, and so the human not itself – must include that which is
oriented to seeing in darkness, regardless of whether it can speak. divinity is independent of language, and any
future notion of the writer, of the book, might place vision – not word – at
the center of its dark art.
do i wait for day or do i wait for night? my orientation to this question determines my
comfort with society.
knowledge, while it may be acquainted with
day – most certainly an esteemed and professional colleague at times, on
occasion a spouse – is night’s lover.
if we were to compare the conversations of
night with the conversations of day, with humans being novel to us, would we
not conclude we were dealing with two separate species? so darkness is a language, and who would give
themselves to its mastery? and how can it be taught but in unaccredited and
disavowed classrooms?
are not the translation arts between the
languages of light and the languages of darkness more of darkness, for they are
rooted in obscure soils and hardly seed or flower?
to say we are born of darkness and return to darkness neglects that we never leave – we are simply given briefly eyes to see it.
to say we are born of darkness and return to darkness neglects that we never leave – we are simply given briefly eyes to see it.
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