not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.

Friday, September 12, 2014


bête noire

each flawed and aching tendon
each depraved and rancid meat sac
each pustule, each boil, each canker, each cancer
each flower that rotters
each tree that mourns roots
each insect ground blindly into ground
each  each  each
each us
each ennui
each terrible happening and terrible consequence
each terror and capitulation
each tremor and corporeal lamentation
each thing blessed but tainted
each thing reviled, anathema
each absence of answer
each absence of power
each presence of question
each muscular thwartage
each muscular throe
each trashing in, thrashing on and thrashing up against
each damned thrashing

each - rise the next wave
each - possibility


  1. each us can say what you want, I can not add anything else.

    1. i hope what might be irony shows through, the bête noire or black beast being life only perhaps, or perhaps the person him or herself is the insufferable beast. it is, as it always is, perspective.

      but as life would offer coincidence i came across a perfect poem this afternoon to speak to this post and so i will go out and run through the woods first and then bring it here.

      i do believe, damaso, that you have everything to add. it is your distinctness which is of utmost importance.


    2. unfortunately the spacing, which is important to hilda morley's poetry, doesn't reproduce in this format:

      Hilda Morley

      Taste of salt on my fingers,
      that’s how
      I like it:
      the line of sea rising
      above the dark-green pine,
      the sea meeting
      the horizon,
      so always the eyes are lifted higher,
      the pulse buoyed upward
      with them
      So it
      should be for us all—
      to belong to
      whatever moves us outward into
      the wideness, for journeying,
      tales of
      distant places,
      treasures piled
      to fill our smiling,
      for us to know of
      along the travelled coastline,
      the mountains
      we can climb to,
      each port,
      each harbor
      another window to wash our faces in,
      pull us
      & made for us, made for
      all of us,
      as the birds know, who
      fly the continents, the oceans
      for their secret reasons,
      a map of the earth
      written inside their bodies,
      under their breastbones:
      a continuance
      of the now most fragile,
      always travelled
      patiently enduring world

  2. I love the contrast of your poem and Hilda Morley's. The ease and confidence if the natural versus the angst and ennui of the human. I guess that's why we are Gods.

    1. or, exactly why we are not.

      what if we could create that which did not complain? what if we could find ourselves truly in the center of awe? that is not to mean without suffering, but instead to suffer beautifully.



"Words at the limit of hearing, attributable to no one, received in the conch of the ear like dew by a leaf." (philippe jaccottet) or even a quiet presence is appreciated))