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1. |
Show Illness
02:12
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Show Illness
Sitting cross-legged
in bed
waiting for the vomit to come.
I hope it is high-class vomit,
undisputed calibre of disease
that traders will offer me
a high penny for.
I will take that penny
and throw it away,
so that in starvation
and loneliness
further vomit will come.
Then I will return
to the traders,
and they will say,
‘but this is just like your last vomit,
we don’t want any of this’.
And having lost their interest,
I’ll turn away, penniless
frightened,
and then I will truly be sick.
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2. |
Explore the Angles
01:51
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Explore the Angles
There is nothing so repetitive as existing:
shave – growth
eat – starve
sleep – wake
wash – dirt
speak – hush
laugh – cry.
We go around in our little cycles
barely knowing where we are
on the circumference of things,
plotting our radii against dreams,
comparing diameters,
looking for three πs
to appear on a scratchcard.
Hold on to the events
that force you to form tangents,
the small miracles not repeated
day-to-day, those bits of magic
where time and space breaks out
from their rigid geometry
for God to move the Universe for you.
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3. |
Vacancy of Days
01:11
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Vacancy of Days
I perhaps have taken on too many words;
but within this vacancy of days
what else do I have at my disposal
to quell the hunger of time?
I count the books like pockmarks
on the face of the year; freckled chapters,
poems hidden in the cluster of moles,
biographies bleeding from the razor nicks.
The television holds unplugged mockery,
tempting me with reprieve from the silence;
if only silence was a viable entity
I could shoot it down to sleep with my pen.
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4. |
Hubris
02:34
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Hubris
At fifteen, they told me to restart me life,
conscripted into an imperialism not of my choosing:
their hometown, their great homecoming.
Lost in the great reunification of West-meets-East
and handed a wall of thirty miles between birthplace
and settlement, a border for youth.
Given a new straitjacket of identity and marched
into a classroom where I was taught to believe
that transformation was not akin to destruction,
expected to add the veniality of a neoteric sun
to our daily prayers.
It killed from above,
without the whites of eyes to trouble it.
On playgrounds, found kulaks resisting commonality;
seen as strangers, kept as strangers.
Taking place in the sharecroppers' breadline
of dinner queues, I was the great usurped of Guernica,
my hunger a token no one would trade for.
I was Abyssinia to this Italy, my infancy bowing
to an alien League of Nations: the League of Emptiness,
the League of Contempt, as I nodded along to all smiles:
their pride, my downfall.
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5. |
Bear the Frost
02:00
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Bear the Frost
The absent heat of November
stops you from reaching the train on time,
pinning you to the mattress, posturing
the abandonment of a new lower
while longing for the elegance
of the butterfly and its pins.
Morning passes, hours protecting yourself
from frost. There is no comfort here:
no cups of tea or warm smiles,
expansive conversation filled with fluff,
no glittering artwork to widen the pupils,
only the preservation of a passing comfort.
We must bear the season’s bite on our cheek
and charge stomach first into the world
to prove we are hungry for the day,
eat our fill from the orchard fruits,
then in evenings, rest well by the fireside,
knowing our labours at least shook the soil.
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6. |
The King Arises
03:45
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The King Arises
Go tell the king I am no longer dead
and have returned to claim my old throne;
let him throw his grey head around these parts
and flaunt his peacock robe throughout the land,
a paper emperor, now dog-eared and old,
unworshipped, unloved, and worst, unwanted.
In exile, I festered, with folk unwanted
like myself, skins of slow rust seen as near dead.
knowing what a curse it is to grow old;
stumbling down from my comfortable throne
and made to roam throughout a sterile land,
bagging to my chest the heart’s broken parts.
With each month, I would lose one of those parts,
not that any were ever unwanted;
now seeds, repatriated to the land,
some finding flower, others damned to stay dead,
soil taken as their grave or gallant throne
with some spat back, deemed sour and far too old.
Forsaken and dry, a statue to old
ways with no real moving or working parts.
But those stout pieces that found new throne
defied my status as grand unwanted
king of yesterday, refusing my dead
man swaggers and thirsting for homely land.
These flowers of fighting hitched from the land
and wove themselves around my limbs, grown old
but now regenerating; indeed, once dead,
now fresh warm blood flooded into their parts
and told my thick rust it was unwanted,
then marched me back towards my usurped throne.
I found the new king lain across my throne,
spitting cherry stones onto my sweet land;
proclaimed his reign now over, unwanted
by a people fond for a return to the old.
Handed him his own broken, rusting parts
and gave him his last rites: adieu, you’re dead.
I sat on my throne and recover the old
soft groove of its fecund land; picked off parts
of unwanted thistle dropped from the dead.
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DARDIS Northern Ireland, UK
DARDIS: Discord And Relative Depressions In Sound.
Ambient and experimental sound project
for Northern Irish writer, editor and sound artist Colin Dardis.
For enquiries / commissions, contact colonyink [at] yahoo [dot] co [dot] uk
... more
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