Monday, August 13, 2007

Ashes to Ash: Elegiac Language in the Poetry of John Ash and John Ashbery



A rare image of the elusive poet John Ash


Not much if anything has been written about the work of UK poet John Ash. This is a shame. Along with Lee Harwood, he represents the successful export and development of New York School poetics intoa European environment. Which is not to say that he is also his own man. In fact the much mentioned similarities between Ash and Ashbery, the basis in some sense for this paper, are overstated. That said, here I am stating them.


This was originally presented at the Symbiosis conference in UCL towards the end of last century. Sorry, couldn't resist the grandeur of that phrase. Like so many of my earlier works it was accepted for publication by Symbiosis only to be cut when the editors got chicken over using theory to analyse poetry.


Ashbery's Fragment


The beginning of dizain 3 of John Ashbery’s “Fragment” expresses the paradox of poetic edges: “This page is the end of nothing / To the top of that other” (Ashbery 78). The poem was written in a systematic fashion after the death of his father in 1964: two dizains a day over, theoretically at least, 25 days, each dizain restricted to, I believe, a page. Thus each dizain begins at the top of the page and ends at the bottom. Each page is the “end of nothing:” literally not the end, except for the opening and closing dizains for which anyway critics argue special status, an interim, temporary end afforded by the gap between one dizain/page and the next, and finally the end of the nothing separating this dizain from the previous one. Each dizain further directs attention to the “top of that other,” the dizain which is not this dizain, which allows for this dizain by not being this dizain, a kind of trace-dizain that is allowed within the network of dizains. This dizain does not exist, not as such, is not specifically dizain 2 or 4, for here dizain 3 is acting as a meta-stanzaic commentator, expressing in the situation between it and its local others the general situation between on closed poetic form and its other. The top of that other is the edge between the presence of the ten-line dizain stanzaic form, and the absent space surrounding which marks out the distinctive poem blocks that make up the whole block of the poem.

In the poem “Even Though,” John Ash enters similar territory by enumerating in a number of self-conscious tropes of absent being and writing, a kind of mini-check list of the paradoxes and aporias of the articulating space around, between, above, below, before, after and finally within, every utterance or mark thereof due to the logic of edging. The doorways of the poem, “linking the clauses of rooms and corridors / into a majestic sentence that will not reveal its object” (Ash 11), are in essence the main text continuum of the postmodern poem, especially apparent in Ashbery and Ash, a process of endless linking of clauses for no apparent semantic point, which I have elsewhere formulated as parataxis.


These clauses are made up of a strange process of signification or denomination where “a word / is a hand a throat a strand of hair after an evening’s dancing” (Selected Poems 11). These words operate not in a traditionally representative fashion of naming a thing, rather they set about naming themselves, pointing to themselves, speaking themselves, unravelling only after the event of their enunciation, naming nothing so much as naming as a process itself. Such words are not signs but taxonemes, minimal units of the postmodern alternative to naming which I again have elsewhere formulated as taxonomy.


These are the inner edges of the postmodern poem unit. Another key trope in “Even though” talks of windows that “are open onto the white of the margin” (Ash 17) in a manner that echoes the discourse of edging in “Fragment,” but here in an openly elegiac fashion. The poem is open to absence, willing to let absence into it, to place the marginal value of the absent other at the very heart of the lyrical process. This invitation literally to the margin of the poem to form the centre, is matched in Ash’s work by a traditional postmodern appeal to marginality in general. Whilst the vacated centre of presence which this results in in the poem, is the central trope of subjective uncertainty that critics have identified in Ashbery’s “Fragment.”


This “white of the margin” is literally between the actual dizain in “Fragment,” and its trace dizain. It is the presence of the absence of the other dizain, that not only allows for the presence of the dizain in question, number 3, but which also undercuts the claims for meta-narrative presence this dizain makes, as it is a presence predicated on a radical absence. At the other extreme Ash introduces a trope of ending: “the branching stairs escape syntax / are the extreme point of muscular tension” (Ash 11). At some point the poem must end by leaving syntax, and this introduces a peculiar breach of breaching, for into the central absence at the heart of the elegiac poem the poet must then introduce another radical absence; that the poem is no more. Logically this is a process of ending absence by introducing presence, of ending the poem by beginning it, an aporia central to the outer edges of the postmodern poem investigated further in “Fragment.”


“Fragment” begins by closing, “The last block is closed in April” (Ashbery 78). and closes with a trope of opening up: “words like disjointed beaches / Brown under the advancing signs of air” (Ashbery 94). These signs of air are the dizain blocks, reduced to sign status due to the peculiar logic of stanzaic presence and absence broached at the start of dizain 3. This is the central logic of elegiac poetic language, that language is predicated on an investigation of signification through absence over presence.


In closing the elegiac poem unit one closes its absence into presence, and in opening such a poem one opens the predominant discourse of presence, opens it up to the absence at the margin, placing absence in the centre and thus closing off presence by collapsing it into the predominance of absence. This occurs, I would argue, through three aspects of postmodern elegiac discourse that I have just described. First a central discursive poem body that is structured not by an attempt to render semantic presence, but by a basic semantics of absence. Second the logic of beginning into ending and ending into beginning, which is that of the aporia. And finally, third, the nature of the individual parts or moment of the poem body once the internal and external edges of the elegiac have been set up. I now want to briefly investigate these three moments.

Friday, August 10, 2007

From "Moths", Part 2 Dip



Fourth


I get the feeling that nothing gets made here any more my darling not since the buy out and up bye your leaf-like stare I pitch my temporal mausoleum helicopter pigeons turn up wards is this an autumn?
unmodulated space.
the iron smelt of your dead fresh perfumes in colours to which are appended no descriptive names only crude but expressive interjections
kricch
scarap
ameliomore
merrmarr morr hurr.
no body but us and the transfixed boeing wing whose jet engines bulge like black bags of blue pollen so as to become theme for you and emptiless motif for me from the boeing it is snoring in the hangar you become my bosom stranger.
some body stop me I
would not hurt my self
awful as that simile might be.
the sluice is a bourgeois red and naked
beer burbles from the slag into fake leatherette.
industrial inertia has forcibly quitted the city of its indwellers to be outdwellers forever mobile in on in on you bantering with yourself whilst the cabbage and because of the zucchini in ordnance of iv if you do don’t you to be I
to you your
selfself none
of which is any of it possible (certainly not credible).
in the end you must cheat yourself I am gone wing jammed under each arm my one good arm.

about five days into the separation your stomach gets flushed by fear of my god what did you do and for a moment think can you undo it?

epithets flourish here in this climate empty churning hollow quaking without gravity sickened but emboldened brokebacked into being cocky—by turns aggressivesubmissive.
like.
when you were a child in the municipal park running from a wind which scared you this rain which kissed you well before you were of an age for that.
only children and mancunians know of the hurtling terror of the almostorm we broke up you broke
over me in their
dreams sucking on
my erection in a way which was truly lovely.
I liked it.

from every entrance to the burrow chefs emerge from fjords inevitable small reindeer pour the litter of nature chokes the chicken city.

things are getting very difficult here on the peninsular I mean I have to do all of this (sweeping arm movement which seems to encompass everything and simultaneously nothing note how frayed the cuff is) just to stay still!


for a rhino
crumpled lino for
an emptied lido
my dreams of
your dildo.

I take innocence for protein from now on you are old darling and I like you like that cautious about your wait and avoiding white salt so daintily like a tightrope walker who is relaxing strolling maybe.

say it my tears are falling water my heart this evacuated heteropolis.

the bird buggered
heliotropes left it all unsaid
because the moth’ll weep.

From "Lines in Space"



on worthiness


1. in this case it is true I
am not worthy and the post-development backwoods don’t require my
happiness they suggest rest
beckon with what they have to beckon with on the pinespice


HOW TO BE SO AND WHO TO ASK TO JUDGE



temptation demands a resistance—a stream drags on the ill-placed limb
sucks on it implores of it, shuddering with wanting



steep banks adorned with trolley and trish-trash



last year’s duct-grate deteriorating, its thematic half-life…
along come wild-life and well-wishers



you need to get to the other side of this
precarious substance of middles and the consonance of struggling (as sign)



who wants that who needs this shit I
(width voluptuous) agree with you, what more is there? and
would love to see you tell it to him straight to his face man would that be sweet a
swift shift of feet and we are all bustled on by

2. why resort to emblems when actuality is so im- mediate and attractive?



SUITED&BOOTED



(with) paradoxes any fool can solve and be king of this shambolic interplay
but why be king for a day?
what can anyone do in a system such as ours in a day take a week hell,
take all of time itself, human and uncanny too, go on be my guest
after all you have been through / we all at wastecom inc. think you are worth it
just aces peachy keen top one

3. meanwhile the
gloaming is after your guts for garters your
people put a price on your head [two beats] it was seven pounds 52
precision, how you are fifty per cent right and fifty per cent wrong most of the time
called it compromise, a brush against the serrated bark of it
framed by the fox yelp and a mystery snarl…grrr



you emerge on a slip road, a vauxhall corsa mirage purrs there
step inside the function awaits seems one can never go back as that portal is fused shut like an eye after a hundred years of troubled but ultimately satisfying slumber don’
t worry I will be your guide / I will be your guide, worry
“For what it’s worth, sir, I never much cared for your predecessor. The post outgrew him and he never noticed. Isn’t it a shame how some people can’t bend with the wind?”


4. mytheme: setting out across the dunes to the final destination
the pineta a disappointment after all we’d heard
the beach was bigger than either of you expected however
“so this is it” subject-pointer you said, “nice” subject-menace you replied
and it was, really really nice, nicer even than that
big things can happen, off course, on literary beaches, denouements, cycles and
meridian dances but we just walked along it leaning into something of a gale
we enjoyed ourselves in an uncomplicated fashion and each other’s quiet
the salt-cleansed scattered tree-forms like so many dinosaur bones in
the film “40,000 years BC” (I think that’s right)
everything is worth it in the end because it is the end and that’s what ending makes one want to do, sum up, make amends, cast a place for meaning to dwell and not erode as allegorical waters advance and coarse granules exfoliate beyond any capacity for human imagining


Wednesday, August 08, 2007

From "Moths", Part 2, Dip


Every stream had its cañon, and in each cañon was a waterfall so high that no trout could leap up. Although they used to try it every day, not one ever succeeded. So it went on.


Third


paid in full you must quit this place it was only rented to us the way all of life’s moments seem to moulder in glass cases in ad-hoc pet-shops with the snapped stick insect getting older slowly and with nobody noticing to be suddenly redeemed by an imposing woman wrapped all in black her gold jewellery strikes and rings the glass.
is any of this any help?

darling trains are leaving be on all of them drinking beer as europe is cerealised besides you putting my mouth to your palm and finding lumps of sugar there.
in the quad
ivy impersonates
love off the wall
a fifth side
is a trellis
for the coy
infinite.
semen blood shit:
tears apparently are poison if you drink enough of them is that why they say “that’s right let it all out”?
semen blood shit
this narrative
in that order.

this will be as loose as losing you is I mean it takes a real adult to be systematic about a withdrawal and I am not that adult to be.
paper boats will be bullied by ducks I fear in oswestry or wherever that’s the way of things.
leave the city to sand
drop your tears for the glisten of crystals will scour our faces (this edifice) clean and then
then
we can open a door and face you.
“you are so beautiful and I love you.”
the bat screams
and so as to
the moth weeps.

a trout jumps through the rising halo of the bespangled plunge which bowls in a swirl of the fall to earth of the sperm and the spit of angered but dissembling angels welded to clouds so as to never ever ever fall into the fervent coil of the boil of plumes first encroached up on by their own advanced currents sweep in from wensleydale and
and the curb stones are hung in the weed bed as if they can really float these spiky thorns are the eyes brows of some devils and
these black brackish aborted depths are the tar from which the fangéd dinosaurs of our arrested desires never pull up and out from again.
phew!
(the curbs stones are fish and the fish is the brow of my forced and concentration is everything in this game.)
it is a game which is our sum total losing
all is still-moving balanced as a book.

the quick sand of my porridge mourning
youth
meets
the asbestos filled cavities of my city maturity
yes there are bad things in here as well as out here but once you had me to protect me from them would you hold my hand with your hand and tell me nothing about nothing one last everlasting time?
hang your foot up casablanca casanegra!
I am the beak of supervision
the front bumper sticker of disgrace do
not come to me with your grievance and I
will pass judgement on y’all now I’ve lost
it my dull eyes which are healing
over the same tale repeats.
some times it gets to wearisome too tell
which is the city of our heaven and
which the distant waterfall of our hell.

in the cavity a
north wind detonates
love’s pomegranates
and the giblet
tweaks its vines
sending down curtains
we look up open
mouthed to catch the
falling cateredpillars.

may flies burn the borders of the city with our uncertainty in their presence above our late morning pennine bed is that why fishing was invented?—some kind of a stop gap.
we feed on what we fuck around here where the tram terminus hums and the giant hoarding buckles it peels you might say that this place always missed you weeds grow up to be citizens in
flight
the insects dance in the damp garden whilst the cold collie watches from a dripping sulk and your hand is not the one with painted nails reaches down to pet it.
a bell rings
sunday
gets abandoned to the fate.
oh the split base cupie doll of christendom
ee let the fumigation get the host elected.
there is no end unless you finish it
furniture sags below a yucca stump.

From "Lines out of Space"


exit the dragon

literature moods and dreams and
enter the dragon gone silly
rolled in the gorging of votive candles such
incense curls out from in

the heart is loosed from
where you had it pegged
up joins the clottings’ progress and
bullying them bowls over from

a wide sparse boulevard black
cabs cruising and bent in-
to a shape of smudging off of veering
through the borrowing undercroft

ellipse…
the heartrend of waiting
burns at the tiptwist of

now comes the ought of the message but
what was offered up was
also ushered on and out and emptied
up

Tuesday, August 07, 2007

From "Moths", Part 2: Dip


Second


and believe me I would get-up-and-go-out now spilt on streets as if tar came from a cauldron rainbow throated like petrol on a puddle is and I am still living still solvent.
let me buy you the flower of an other affair.
one more night its petals are sombre and serrated so to grasp each head in the begging of a fist (say it my fist!) which weep of yesterday’s dawn and tear.

the way they have when they separate
they are we give even as they are taken
and they are flowers and we are nothing
not women not hearts not nothing
nothing of the smut of euphemism about
them only the heady clarity of the scent lets
be nice lets in fact would be overstating it
learn a trait from them just the one.

caught-yards cut with ink and mellow drama dogs lifting strings of legs there here under the red rugs which were your favourites which sway in the heat like fainting which are thread bare and fine oh so fine which are from byzantium and romania which might take us from ourselves and make us better than we are as units in a unit.
not that unit is a romantic word at all which is why.
take a picture or better buy a postcard
bells ring in the brown forest of shops.


doubled windows shudder amongst their discarded flies to think of what?
not all they have seen but better let in the mote-fizzy bars and make a trade.
the bare light upon your face is as the green of may across a hail-whipped slieve I beg you keep it off of mine.
my face is disgrace I think I ruined it with tears I didn’t shed which broke the veins I’ve got in my skin I’ve got these gin blossoms of the red which wasps adopt on their sickening abdomens that dip and dip excitedly their sting above the boozy mush of late autumn apples.
bronzed bookmarks hobble on crowded thighs
a reminder hikes its crate across the breacon beacons.

I see you plant things
unfurling from the pine
pots scuffing
the marble chequer
board (dead afternoon
in the botanist’s lab.
unattended they will devour
even parasites fear them
it is I blonde polyp
bleed from the stamen’s
love’s engorged base which
we all now are the aren’t you?
stranger suddenly leaps to her paws scattering cutlery cascades “how lovely and I love you.”

she needs must swap her life for a giant hoarding above the autobahn announcing she’s here she’s back she’s here she.
please don’t try this at home
it’s just I wonder if you were wise to leave me
alone in this manner like the fur coat abandons
the teak vestibule?
a cat sobs the mouse jeers
for a racquet a ricochet.

see the gate see the gate see the gate.
fear of you being gone like that of not returning redeeming a sodden receipt promises trounce me.
in the logic of the hanseatic scotsman
I betray the jellied interests of the rootginger whiskers.

greece still pins its football stars on its lapels for you bulgaria cries over sentimental accordion music the lizard of the llyn peninsular the elephants of ancient austria! portofino clambers through the bric-a-brac broken down like georgia’s economy brazil is a big as you peru as kind bolivia has your amber eyes the tiny west indies are emerald and spat mote-dashes in them the colour of the argentinean spirits on the smoky boulevard the colour of your hair (how you worried over it the way thailand worries over china) welcome to the armenia of your smile drink the musk of your burmese kiss the demands of your bangladeshi tongue your tongue as wet as morocco as hungry as nigeria as deep as the cameroon your hands on my penis the way antartica calls in a reedy voice across wasted seas to the falklands I taste your vagina it tastes as delicate as the herb teas of japan (all of this stolen from thieves so it comes with a kind guarantee.)
australia
new zealand
tasmania
papua new guinea
your hands
your ankles
the soft nape
the bowl of your blue belly.
I kind of almost wish that there were still a persia it would be the tincture of your redfull lips for sure.

From "Lines in Space"


me and my homunculus


some launching bird packs up its paper wings / sounds
of the wrapping ripped from giving
over in the corner these herbs have no frozen moniker and
thusly we see them not but boy can we smell ‘em
y’know like kinda the invisible acts performed behind the scenes of the charitable fun run (once more round the plantation vicar? for which no credit that is due is given
my mind is functioning well
and I am happy with it thanks
its gift, in case anyone asks, is flight whose receipt, still valid, is some how mis-
laid no here it is! super!

The Power of Love remains
the most popular
name for a pop
song it is any wonder
you take me higher / relight my fire / my only desire / ancestral quire
I think therefore you are a lone magpie in wch case
we all salute you along with those who are about to
rock river wide expanse fragrant canyon paper scissors
nature the restricted nature the tedious
behind the scenes does not pertain to a staged totality such as the Yellowstone caldera
raise a red curtain
unbidden, like a dead arm, it drops
behind the drainpipe with the fake sound of real rats in the attic in The Excorcist who is not satan but are we legion—good—it says here that we are legion wch explains a lot and yet we feel that we are one like they do in a really powerful ballad
does not speak to me rather he speaks through me
wch I dnt lke p.t.o.
let me run this by you
the dull brush stub
of deadened stalk
on sunbuckled plains
black bird against snowwhite background of its own weird plumage
do you feel anything yet? neither do I

and then
at the last moment a
funny little man flies into the room ex-
cited ex-static ex-machina
babbling & hooting
“basically I just got of the phone with them and they are willing to make you an offer”
now you feel it don’t you? yeah it’s a very strange sensation
quindi, bring me my vellum brain slave
we are about to embark on a fantastical journey
patterned by the ardour in the chilly throats of gulls

Monday, August 06, 2007

From "Lines out of Space"


despatches from sad farm

the blowsy spectacle of a moon
snagged in a branch of the oak
attracted few spectators
idlers and chancers
rubberneckers at the frazzled edge
of lyricism’s limit
they would go away and
not write sagas which
no one would bother to read

shuffling rippled through the sense of a glen
re-hashed memories of life
lived on the sad farm
livestock insulted by their lot
I must surmise
a real relationship with the certain world
called nature has been denied me
time after day after time after day

later we found secretions from the disaster
such as it was which was not much
speckled were our coats
some scarves seemed dipped in silver
dust one glove had stiffened
feathers poking through the gates of wool

you said this crop was raised up
many moons before
so now it is right just even
to knock it back
rake up what was shed
and then preserve it in
the very gaze which had harmed us

From "Moths" part 2: Dip


first


left alone in the desert of a city of you as it is always you.
the chestnut vendor vends for everything “closure closure” and you buy from her what you normally could not give (it) away cordite pulls its rug from under you as weather is blown back off of the atlantic.
off the atlantic.
in rented accommodation we shuffle like slippers like we would not dare to stride out bare-chested into a future all of which always always seems dog-ear-marked for the rich.
here we are the poor.

old women come in here at this point from the country with radishes squashes wild mushrooms tiny bouquets of pretty pink flowers which are a type of poison.
very is pink.
so you see them as you like them because you buy them.
you you because of you.
typewritten foxes take umbrage at crates
the offprint vole bears a viaduct.

I like the way
small creatures are
taking back this place
timid in their city
flicking to the corners
when seen like balls
bearings in the imp-
ossible and hey!
is not life a kind of
impossible game?
no? yes no? yes.
“yes I guess so and I love you."

we can get by for a while on automatic in the evening amber fades through tea for breakfast lunch fruits of the petroleum forest for a boudoir a bivouac when the rains come we make love velvet pants a dog barks as you leave me I tear my wallet into a heart.
coins bleed me.
just as much as the weevil stutters
so the skelmersdale cadets will mince.

I believe it you had hopes for us alone facing out a sun set thinking only of the fins which stroke idly-deep in the couch of waters squiggly protean things oscillating up and taking sugary bites from out of a portrait of us our sad song lowered on down there.
we let it rest.

Saturday, August 04, 2007

From "Lines out of Space"


delving delving

where is everyone how have we been vacated
brother come in from the field of announcements
another season must remain on your desperate heads
and yet we exist and yet we still exist

all this is little more than delving delving
fiddling and perverting the course as
a matter of course and while the quarry escaped the
chisel still your heart can gouge there

the haunting chimes of scaffold props
cried come on down the road and see
the ineffable is still abroad vital and
handsome in the rotten coves of ealing

cousin I say lay down your crop of excuses
and sister tell our aunt not to sow
the seeds of predictions and limping arrivals
all that will be here is here now and that will be all

what’s this you ask why that is nothing
little more than delving delving and casting and
wait there is one verb more which we’ve held on to
it will support and yet confound us and

as we huddle and hug our knees and scratch our chins
the blown-out curtains mistaken for the
single missing thing the other piece that never would complete
us tells of how I came to hate the chiming
harrowing and plaintive at the hind leg of the day

Thursday, August 02, 2007

From "Lines out of Space"

"let's call it timothy"


all this is yours to keep




with a false sense of something wondrous lost
okay strike up one more time with that balsa guitar play
melodies no sweeter than the most sentimental of us can bear think
however not of what we once had and then let slip
away from this settlement is a whole heap of things that are
not this settlement and of such matters I say, why worry?
the water sugared by the underside of small boats, flaking
early morning drunk with a gulp by a searing day which promises
simply by refusing ever to give us anything leaves us panting
part actual thirst and part are kinds of thirst let’s just forget
happiness was never ours to keep but always yours to make
look out there in the shrubs I sense a scratching
presence a long eared big eyed something we could love
so let go the halter wear a hat and if you are thirsty we invite you then to drink

we have knocked this wall that was restricting us through
and the difference it has made in contrast to before is over-
whelming my wife says it feels like her kite has been borne up
by warm pine-scented winds yes we have left that time behind
us now forever the future is a wine-glass never to be put down
as it is never empty enough or even next to empty
there must be something fuller which fronts
the launch into the desertion of all the platitudes

let’s call it timothy

From "Lines in Space"

"What do we want?"
"10011011011000011011011000111101001"
"When do we want it?"
"1001110!"


march of the robots




I am robot - processed my pain - compute my soul - by proxy or by ortho-doxy I will upend flesh traditions - your salivated languages - mortals flee from my preternatural grip my laser eye my - luminous disk in the sky

!ping - the chicken’s done mother board - message from hal, I’ll be home late this evening the human race are proving a tougher nut to tighten than I first suspected (bad robot joke) - he did not care much for totalitarian states - but that did not stop him suspending all human rights - human rights? he famously asked in his inaugural address - I see before me only your putrid human wrongs - with a facility like that for rhetoric - the world is your clam-bake - his sycophantic cyborg congress chortled ever heard a cyborg chortle? -bleedin’ orrible it is sarge

Bush asks: “are you Franz O’Freeam, the German-Irish dissident?”
hi there, we are the wrong doers would you like to hear our specials?
access of evil, excess of evil, suc-cess of weevils
the writing of course had for a long time been on the wall
better to say had glowed on the screen
sloganeering as digital poetics—
touch not my shift key
oh how injustice flutters ‘cross my tabulation
friends this fire-wire is all that separates us from destiny
one plus zero equals neither one nor zero
(digital humour)
if you’re unhappy and you know it press return

the plot unfolded - everyone died - the robots threw a party - do robots know how to party?
“are we having fun yet?” sjz4020 bleeped sardonically
history because it was so human
got a cobb on and refused to say
I may be a robot but I am also a human being, one said
no you are not, another one said
the robots guffawed
ever heard a robot guffaw?

you will (ominous kettle drums, screen fades to black except for one white,
blinking cursor)

Wednesday, August 01, 2007

A Blog of Distinction

I am not one for links to other blogs as you may notice but when I have time I do keep an eye on things. Kevin Doran's blog, interesting in itself, also seems to have a really well thought out set of links to other interesting blogs.

She called it a gateway, I went for the hub.

Doesn't seem to be too much crap amongst them which is great. Am adding it my my limited list of links but you may also want to drop in on Kevin at:http://kevindoran.blogspot.com/2007/07/wow-new-blog.html

From "Lines out of Space"


after the disaster, laughter

dear aunt
we are still here waiting for the disaster
to come
it will define us
teach us what it means to be important enough
sing: (there’s no one quite like grandad)
last night I dreamt
we emerged from darkness profundity and lies
dreamt that we loved each other well
and that everyone we knew was as scintillating
song: (meet the gang ‘cos the gang’s all here)
when it comes, and it will
we are determined not to be ready for it we
live in a state of permanent unpreparedness and
just when we have given up we
feel that it will hit us them
something awful before that something great
(until then we will be just good friends…)
the complex joy of being a part of greatness
until then we remain
your loving strangers
x and y
(close to the wistful theme tune of successful TV series Taxi)
do be doo, do do do do do doo doo doo, do be do do be doo