Scenes indebted to clichés (and perhaps Alain Robbe-Grillet)

It was a typical scene. She ordered a conventional drink. To avoid the reflective curves of her eyes, he stared at the condensation marks each time the glass was lifted. The full view of 2 overlapping circles is the view of 2 incomplete orbits: rubber bands on the table, 100 Plus, Olympic Games, 2 rings left on top of the low bookshelf, for 2 years. What he murmured was sweeter than the few drips of diluted juice spilled. What was said would be sweeter than the orange blotches on the white of her dress.

It was a conventional scene. He ordered a typical drink. He no longer noticed her glossy eyes. The condensation mark that appeared, when the glass was shifted, caught his attention instead. The circular print eclipsed by the circular glass stamp, the full view of 2 incomplete circles is the picture of two overlapping orbits: her hair bands on his table, silver and gold rings on the white bookshelf close to the window. What he uttered was way bitterer than the coffee that seeped his tongue. What he answered was much colder than the cold and sour coffee which was served close to an hour ago.

It was a hot day, yet he insisted on a hot drink. Her eyes were a red pair of soft, moist rims. The tears that trickled down… the heat… the arguments… her hand, she wipes her face… spreading the tears… her cheeks… her soft wet skin. The memory of eyes brimming with tears is merely a synopsis of two intersecting loops. Her hair on his face, the bed, his pillow, on the floor… well, everywhere in his bedroom. The warping bookshelf, he used silver and gold markers to draw the ‘landing pad’ for the rings. What he has written, nothing but a postmortem of these words for two. What else were etched and stressed than the two insignificant blotches, a sheer white dress, and many circles that came in pairs?
* * * * *
It was at the crime scene. He needed more time to think. One of her eyes was really swollen. It is only dried-blood trails that he feels numb to, not the fresh red pool

You mentioned your disinterest

You mentioned your disinterest in current politics, and I took a detour to explain why I agree. I began with photography: the people who took pictures excessively are very much the inversed reflection of gunmen in those trigger-happy countries. Shooting, shooting, flash is gunfire, how the images of all Alpha-males, smooth-skin females, theirs poses and expressions, on posters and billboards; the scenic views of fireworks, landmarks and beautiful hills from dramatic angle and light are all distasteful at the moment – their fetish for immediacies.

I want to assault every tourist and journalist, and step on their cameras.

With relation to that owl of Minerva, of old Hegel, your smiles and nods, the wings in the evenings, I didn’t understand until I spoke about it. I said nothing about why the sound, if not the look, of an owl frightens X., because it has got nothing to do with you.

I said nothing about a book by Mary Midgley, which was another postponed desire to browse. Preservation is essentially destruction. I hated my use of such expressions.

Borges contra Neruda, a the reminder of the contradistinction between detachment and the world… you and me, we went on and on, but what are than merely non-profiting merchants trading more names and ideas, in short.

This morning, the person next to me was chatting via the mobile. It is not because the stranger is of another race, or of different God and aspiration. A stranger chattering, loud, is loud enough to make me hear the difference between two ways of breaking silence. Talking and writing. Now I am sure, every conversation is profane. This includes what’s mentioned above, perhaps.

I referred to X. as a friend who once refuted me. ‘No matter how well your diatribes against photography are equipped with ethical or aesthetical insights, you can’t deny how you enjoyed looking at old photos.” And that was precisely my point. I appreciate only photographs fermented by time, of politics mediated into history, of all the mundane or exciting conversation turning into vintage trinkets for nostalgia.

I made a decision to swing between silence and incoherent clichés, the set-meal options of either muteness or madness, for oral use only.

Still Life

on the surface,
of earth, perhaps
the wish to be removed as an appendix

at her whim

a box, of the new fridge
big enough,
no we were small enough
climbin, close the flaps from inside
a cave? a cell?
whatever two could imagine
for about less than a minute
suffocating

this is the conversation we were now trapped in,
last evening

his thoughts, like that technician's old trolley,
we have to steer it back to the right direction

it is an imperative to stab him

In this erratic plight known as life
I cut out the miserable length of my time on earth,

Shut up and listen!
If I have time, I would explain why the length is miserable later.

Shit! With this knife and my clumsy fingers,
the jagged outline suggests another use, the proper use of this burnt sienna blade
some idiots I have to stab, many idiots who deserved to be crippled,
and one idiot who won’t be around soon

it eases me a bit, the mere thought of this
So where is he?
Where the fuck is he? Son of a powdered, wrinkled whore!

two short, broken pieces

the picture
a piece of inaction
you must learn to see
reverse
not just the other side
reverse the time, chronological order
study, the negative of a photo
when it was developed
before the picture was printed
all the negatives of my actions


the rhizomatous nature
of an idea
the pain
from the fall
Idea hits
headlong
not something flying towards you
but you plunged onto
the concrete floor
the cracks
like roots
in the many worlds of many silly cartoons

to explain the anxiety,
scattering my attention,
when another idea is fighting for existence

Fuck, the clouds again

Renaissance clouds,
high as another ancient arch,

a puff of Magritte Cloud,
so low, very close
right above, my love said ,
like in a painting.
she was there,
somewhere the painting, the sky, their mutual possession
I mean, the sky like the painting, or painted like the sky…?

was thinking,
how we adore the view of the clouds

and before I describe, in unbearably dramatic tones, the clarity of the blue
envelope without folds that the floating puffs have been eclipsing…

but the view of everything right beneath,
when we are shadowed by one, below one hovering low,
spells impending, Medieval doom
of lightning and strong spiral wind
of rain and thunder

I know what to falsely accuse, like how I know who to blame,
it is the fault of stories and cartoons I was fed as a child

No.
it is still the traffic here, the people around, and the type of conversation they held