Body of Graves (new version)

Move my hands move my feet
Like a puppet in the street,
Be an act of violence
Be alive or be greedy
And steal money and steal emotion
Where the mind gives up
Where simple war ends and begins again
And kills in the middle of some
Sexual process their dreamy
Faces stuck like that for eternity,
And what they leave here
Is their senseless anger
And no feeling in words -

And no one worth saving
Is worth a thousand saviours,
I think,

And covered in sweat
You move me like a puppet
With no emotion with no music -
Be an act of violence
Be an act of living -

The process of giving
The priceless ohm,
The Vajra Mantra
The old Buddhist Vajrasattva
The fat Buddistattva -

Be an old begin again;
Take my life take my choice
Steal my money steal my children
And pray for Earth pray for rain
Your senseless anger and girth
Your senseless pain feels like shame,
Shall no one be worth saved?
Where another simple war
Comes to an end
And concrete pours over soldiers
Like dead men and women beneath
Pompeii the colour of guns,
And kills and killing in the middle
Of this new land of war
Brothers of concrete fighting alongside
Body of graves,
Boddistattva;

This that we are in
We slide out and in -
We stab and sympathise,
It is OK for you to murder
You are born again you are
Not even human anymore -

Shall no one be worth saved?
Save the words for someone who cares -
The concrete has been poured and
The rock is catastrophically set hard as Earth;
The process of giving
The process of killing
The process of dying -

The senseless simple war ends
And the process begins again;
With no emotion and
With no music you tower over
Me like a God of guns
With breasts and everything and world's
Sexual process begins and I die
And you die and kill me and
kill me
and kill me




*The structure is supposed to be one long-running piece with indents to show line-breaks, but blogger is being weird and I can't fix the html, so I've just broke the lines so it looks like stanzas.

Heavy

Her perfume smells of alcohol,
Eyes are black until white
Eyes of liquid spill onto carpet,

Smoke above and below
Heavy air hoods head,
Settle down heavy as stone,

This opponant's skin of cobalt,
Hard lustrous grey,
Produces a radioactive tracer,

Which moniters me all day,
Tonight I am dead -
Metal of gunpoint,

She glides towards door
Thick voices come uncalmly,
Motionless leaves me,

Air the colour of arsenic
Jilts her red dress
Until first of escapes,

Once again she's at the door,
She stretches upwards
And stays like porcilain,

She is blue and green dust
In Bronze age paints,
She will not come through the door again



**This is something I've just edited like crazy. I wrote it about october 2007. It reads completely different from the original, which is good because the original was rubbish. I wasn't going to do anything with it at all, but now got this poem.

It's about when I first met my friend whom I lived with in 2007/08. She'd just moved in the flat. I wanted to describe her and the atmosphere, but couldn't do it. Only now - a year and a half later - I can write something about it.

The cobalt image comes from two places (three including my head). The University interview 2 weeks ago where I was told to read The Road by Cormac McCarthy (which I am) and it's use of the image of grey and how he keeps up different images of the same colour. And 2, I just bumped into a Sylvia Plath poem that does what I was trying to do. In her poem 'Jilted' she has images of acid and vinigar and lemons, whereas I have cobalt and arsenic and metal.

I don't often put poems in stanzas. But I sort of like it. It will be edited again sometime. It's the 15th in a file of poems I've collected and edited. Of which will be halved and probably the end result will be my best poems.

Piece of Writing from few months ago.

He can't feel a thing. He lay down on the bed after removing his clothes and miserably gazed up at the milkly dots in the ceiling. He reached above his head and pulled a pillow out from underneath his hair. He put it over his face.

'Shit fucking place.' He stares upwards with a pillow over his face and then subsequently removes it, seeing the dot of the lightbulb.

'So the lightbulb hung itself.'

Just then a wet crash and a solid bang came from the room next door as if someone had fallen in the shower. He kept still, listening for movement, but heard none. He didn't get up. His stomach began to itch.

At that moment, his left thigh itched and the itch wouldn't leave. It felt like a burning in a pin-prick. The pillow, which he tried to suffocate under, was on his chest, making him a little too warm. In one instance he felt a slave. An itch on his left foot. A flashing light off to his right going on and off ...

It was only at the turn of nine o' clock that he could remove the pillow and sit up straight, stretching; cracking his bones into place and allowing a warm breath of radioactive air into his lungs.

Hypertext Production (Postmodern Poetry in Progress)

Hypertext Production

*Copy These Words*

The process of writing
Permanent rush
Premium muted lights;

Those lights fill skin
With thrill and decay
Horizon in my hand
Prism long plain -

The grass itself exists by sight alone

Again the process of killing;
Universe Karma loves killing,
I hear your little flavour of talk

You walk a slow drogue,
An assembly of writers

Uttering 'LIFE'
Time shifts < http://thehyperkarma.blogspot.com/ >
Time shifts again - Word: "HYPER" > hypersonic
Hyperspace, hypersurface, hypercube,

Greek prefix "uttep-"

Forward in time excuse the clear
Shimmer; excuse me my sweet your

Sexy clone of another ego
Electricity instead of blood

Again the glass light personalities
What we cannot believe is after we work;

21st Century paperkiller
a 'hell';
b 'o, w';
c 'orld';>

This tint of vile green plumage fills the waters,
Unclear grass ages the wrinkles
Swap beds and kiss gratuitously

Your God is buried with his or her

Laugher in his or her grave.

MA Writing - and Fascists

I got offered at place at John Moores University to do a Masters in Writing. After an hour long interview, and the guy criticising almost every word of my portfolio (which I'd written almost 2 years ago) he says he would like to offer me a place and I gladly accepted.

What got me down was all the stupid mistakes in my work (fiction) that I should have known about. And sentences cluttered with nonsensical metaphors that I used to use back then, which my old tutor got me to stop using. I've been re-writing my fiction portfolio so the wording is much more professional and readable. I'm keeping the stories becuase they were the best I'd written (which was the only reason I submitted them).

I won't submit them here. But I have shorter stories that I might post.

In other news, the elections have just finished here. Was for UK and European Parliment. I didn't vote. I usually don't because I always disagree with every political party. And the politicians make me sick with this recent expenses scandel, using taxpayers money for themselves.

The BNP won 2 seats in the European Parliment. They are the fascist nationalists that most of us are against. They talk about having a white country and kicking anyone with darker skin out the country, pretty much.

They didn't increase in votes. It was the decrease in non-voters and the percentage of Labour's huge loss that got it for them. So they should be gone by next year.

I saw a clip on Youtube (I don't have the clip) that has the leader of this party talking about white people being the founders of this country, while pictures roll past of black and Indian soldiers in WWII uniforms. My granddad was Indian and fought as a Ghurkah soldier on the front line in France, he ended up living here in the country he fought for. He married a woman from Liverpool (my nan). That makes me one quarter Indian, (and quarter Irish from my dad's side) which I am proud of. Now does this make me less British? No.

I saw a programme, I think it was on BBC one, and Robert Carlyle was in it. A politician rose in power after manipulating the public, after gaining success in the polls he took over as Chancellor. With this extra power, he let the public want him more and more until the Government gave in and let him become leader. That was Hilter and his Nazi party in Germany. No one wants this to happen again. Let's keep the fascists out of politics altogether.

Automatic Writing (Without Looking at Page)

This was a piece of simple experimental writing that I wrote last night, which can be quite annoying because not only do you not see what you're writing, when you do look you can't even read it. It's mostly scribbles and you can sort of make out a couple of letters.

What I got from it was this:

People the way
a dog a
a go g rag
Rog g and dande
Reaper up MR.
OEPt yur -

Your word
ler quickly there
Milk + + ho
Christina is now
him and (on) doorstep
Me of home.

I changed it just before to this, something that vaguely makes sense:

People in the way
Of a dog
And go a rag
Rog and a dande
Reader go up Mr.
Adept yur -

Your word
Is quickly there
Milk and who
Christina is now
Him on doorstep
Me at home.


** I found out "Dande" is a town in Angola, a place I've never been to, but another spelling "Dandy" is a flamboyant man. "Rog" is Hindi for Malady or illness, which is interesting.

I kept the spelling of "Yur" like that because it goes on to use the spelling of "Your."

Christina is a frind of mine, I lived with her for about 3 or 4 months last year. I like the two sentences in the second stanza. They begin to sound like this:

Your word
Is quickly their
Milk, and
Christina is now
Him on a doorstep,
With me at home.

I don't know who "him" is supposed to be. Why would she be "him"? I'm thinking it probably means the guy she was with the whole time I knew her and I was jealous of him. Or maybe the "him" means me.

http://www.justgiving.com/michaelholloway