Category: Writing

Simply | what there is | else |’good’ fortune/?/

On By Alias HarlequinIn WritingLeave a comment

I don’t know what ‘else’ I might have…to offer

Wherewithhoweverwhomwhateverwhy

On By Alias HarlequinIn Writing3 Comments

I drink

[and] I read poems

[and] I write letters

[and] attempt to acknowledge every feeling

Reduce (‘to lead back, to bring back’)

On By Alias HarlequinIn being, change, Experience, Fear, Language, life, pain, paradox, Poetry, Writing1 Comment

https://www.etymonline.com/word/reduce

Thrum –

that is the hum of the liveliness

the phrasing which your voice emits

the charging of rememory

the shock that members monsters

–

Thrum spark! –

the difference between hearing

and listening-for, anticipation.

Or expectation?  and its careful ache

awaiting every painful jolt

–

The fear involved –

an awful angst of joy –

timbre re-minding the body,

bodies, of things that surge

–

Like language –

what’s drawn out

and quartered

into inestimable more

–

So like-wise, the idiot

breath and ready veins

fill up with begging

bursted already in the mouths and hands

–

and far beyond.

Reach in, reach out

one motion as touch

the no-one-knows-where

–

Leading back,

bringing back,

reduce:

our introduction

Reduce (‘to lead back, to bring back’)

On By Alias HarlequinIn creative writing, Journallings, Language, WritingLeave a comment

https://www.etymonline.com/word/reduce

Thrum -

that is the hum of the liveliness

the phrasing which your voice emits

the charging of rememory

the shock that members monsters






Thrum
spark! –





the difference between hearing





and listening-for, anticipation.





Or expectation? 
and its careful ache





awaiting every painful jolt










The fear involved –





an awful angst of joy –





timbre re-minding the body,





bodies, of things that surge





Like language -





what’s drawn out





and quartered





into inestimable more





So like-wise, the idiot





breath and ready veins





fill up with begging





bursted already in the mouths and hands





and far beyond.





Reach in, reach out





one motion as touch





the no-one-knows-where





Leading back,





bringing back,





reduce:





our introduction


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Some Sort of Inquiry

						

				On  By Alias HarlequinIn Writing1 Comment			

					


		

			


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Something Scribbled

						

				On  By Alias HarlequinIn Writing3 Comments			

					


		

			


…something that/what happens…


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Being something

						

				On  By Alias HarlequinIn being, human, Living, Perception, Poetry, Writing1 Comment			

					


		

			
This is how we see:


a set of brackets, dark,


moving across wires in the sky


(that we placed there)


because of the angle of light


and it’s changing


– perhaps –


and perhaps it’s the change


and the angling,


and perhaps it’s involved with the light


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Self-reflection

						

				On  By Alias HarlequinIn Writing4 Comments			

					


		

			
It all seems like a coagulation of before now and ‘now’ you’ve been ‘given’ something to do something unknown with… an accident awaiting each happening… to be…




			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Writing

						

				On  By Alias HarlequinIn Writing3 Comments			

					


		

			
Image result for weird happy holidays


This is the path I take every day.  I get lost.  And name it “home.”


I am not a good father.


I am not a good son.


Nor…a good lover.


I do not know what it means to be a human.


I do not know if what I do is what is called ‘thinking.’


I assume (PRE-sume) I’m a-live.


This is what I do.  Again and again and again… (ad infinitum)…


I try, errr, perhaps… I am.


 


She said.


 


I was working.


 


Things happen.


 


Perhaps.


 


Every day.


			
					

	




			
				


			

		

			
Tapping at Windows of Words

						

				On  By Alias HarlequinIn creative writing, desire, Experimenctes, Language, Poetry, Traces, Writing7 Comments			

					


		

			
The bestial want


is it ever more?


Evermore.


.


Ache beauty


its terrible


hunger


.


The voyeur


at what is not


“mine.”


.


What can be taken?


What “had”?


In the seeking,


the peeping,


the glimpse


or the glance –


its desire?


.


Such beastly want,


evermore,


grasping


.


forth or out


I reach –


a solid pane.


.


I am limited


constrained


delimited –


.


it would seem


I see clearly


but it cannot be


touched.


.


‘I’ is alone


with-out.


With-in


comes from ‘you.’


.


So ‘I’ scopes –


a feral yearn –


and gazes…


.


tapping at windows


of words.