Wednesday, November 02, 2011

Ah Pook Is Here

Thursday, August 11, 2011

Love is a Lonly Star Which Past I Sailed One

Love is a distant star past which I sailed once on my lonely voyage
the warmth and caring
dried up as quickly as they gushed forth leaving me
to work and wander through days and years
Sex is a far off galaxy
once inhabited but now abandoned sleep alone
eat alone
only a dull ache
where once was someone special
you are a universe
remaining only in my imagination two universes spinning together the energy of love is gone
I am at lost forever in the vacume space is lonely
life is lonely
love is a distant star
past which I sailed once on my path into darkness

Bruce Eisner 1989 Santa Cruz California

Friday, June 10, 2011


Twin Flames

Wednesday, May 25, 2011


"...pulled out a cog of some sorts, wranted it from me (i forget the word); oddly kept the furrow in his brow though, as if it wa a a living creature, silvery, plucking at his brains, forcing him back towards the house..."

Friday, March 04, 2011

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Highly Tutored (Skype Mix)


Always she's falling over inside
never reaching the end, a hammer
smashing thin translucent glass

thin as the whisper, a fragile
promise she walks alone with, knowing
only outside, never feeling in;

never seeing through the surface
of half-hearted smiles and loose
passing nods, silent voices lost,

her eye-acknowledged madness
pleading in a basket by the door
she walks past without mouthing


into the wash of black granite night,
heavy, with only stars for comfort
she rolls back the collar of time

sinks below in whorling form
a soft blown drizzle in cool mist,
springtime sun, the despair running

through her head, some tune
of a funeral song she remembered
singing on that night before he left:

dark gifts, bleak memories, spirit
sleeping, a self-watching eye alloyed

above, holding at bay, truth, angels
forged white hot in the inchoate moment,
nascent, underfed, positioning logical

before us in the dust, our forgotten souls,
soldier-gods in the endless realm
of endless rain, in a time far off;

the mythic sun that once, on the shortest
day, briefly connected to a brow

of kings, the falling star, your cynosure,
annointed one.

Monday, February 14, 2011


image from here which also shared a picture of X found at Y which, in the circumstances, seems an impossibly unliteral link...


Think I stole this off Dissensus. Glastonbury circa 2010... cyberspace in stone circulars... Blade Runner being real and full of beardy robots... few pictures really capture the festival but this nails it... everymanandeverywomanisastar...

Tuesday, February 08, 2011

Friday, January 21, 2011


I watched this as a kid and was horrified. Rock Hudson is perfect. Even that it is Rock Hudson is perfect and tragic. The 60s re-aligned as wholly lacking in benelovence and empathy. As blank as they come.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Thursday, January 06, 2011

This Is Not America II

6 January DELETED

Facebook friends, colleagues, poetry pals, hip cool touché auto-mate race; oh fuk, forgive us, lost in a strange time, cyberspace's relentlessly attentive-to-choice playas, making up with language, stuff in prose; in this week's Guardian poem up for critical 'debate' in Forum UK, communicating the state-of-mind of its chooser, Carol Rumens, at the instant of her decision, perhaps; as much as it dazzles or enlightens us the reader with any sentient memories, or historical fact packed into light Hanoverian verse the witty George III satirists had on a brilliant run, until a Gay Swift Pope & Dr. Johnson, first speaking stuff in prose, song and satirical poetry, unheard of before, in the presence of princes and kings? The louts lowering the tone, outraging the public decency of their time, at once both very different and opposite from ours - in a puritan sense - yet exactly the effing same. Innuendo and intelligence, words well crafted, thought out, expressing conceits both at once ingeniously simple as they are compelling, to an audience who hear the same music of what happens, as we who write the words that make a whole world sing, who sing of love and everything, this wonderful, horrific, happy, joyously obnoxious song of self and same three dimensional humanity on a two dimensional page, some spiritual source, authorial impulse, imaginative force, and one's English imprimatur, psychic bones, something within us 'born slanted', the only one authentic bardic primer suggests, states, with an exact degree of reality, there, in the very fucking words of it: Answer to the ancient conundrum:

Where is the root of poetry in a person; in the body or in the soul?

Does anybody know?

You can start finding out by reading the untitled, anonymous Amergin text positing answers to the question at the link above, translated by Eryn Laurie; and after a few years of imbibing in the English language, our deepest draught from a 7C bardic mind, the poem unlocks itself before our very eyes, dissolves our mind into some ancient druidic blueprint, vibe, yet also, effectively, a brand new re-connection to the interior pattern where all is explainable within certain parameters of eloquence and communication, our realm of poetic equipoise perfectly balancing joy, sorrow, love, hate and a whole text of ancient bardic nous, translated and known now, for the first time since Shakespeare, since only 1979; culturally alive as an on the road vernacular eloquence, that Praed, this weeks poet, voted into being; a poster there, Melton Mowbray, suggests.

Is there any reference to that er, (fact?) in England, on the IoW, David, M'lud?