Simple Screw by New Zealand artist – Paul Hutchinson

A

Punch

Line

Always swollen with predetermined

Characteristics: the inevitable end-of-the-night

Black eye from that fight

You never

Never

Intended to start with my great

Uncle’s boots. Where is

The cyclical and the permanent and the

Show? Yes! That one, remember? When

We all stopped to watch you; in awe

(but me; afraid)

As you climbed ceilings, staged

Parades, ever tidal.

The waves ride

Out

Of our funny chase for daydream elixir

And through this salty mess

You pick me up, swell

Meaning.  Some talk in the language

Of foamy ocean caress

I am

Locked

Down sore. This humour

Of the world won’t tell it all. Oh,

These Hippocratic humours are what I work

with. Wish,

In three-four-time, to actualise the world as it

Stood.

I never

Could find the right point in the repeating beat

To jump the slapped skipping-rope street

And run on

Through.

Through

With each and every personality theory rule, I

Try to find that poor,

Raw

Floor; all buzzing with the testing charge of

Zestyness.  There

Is quiet, darkness and a calm mix

Of fairylight and foreclosure. Flyer-lined

Walls echo

Past ‘claps’ and roars

Mishaps

But not chores. We bought into it, clinging, it

Was so tight to our

Chests: some brand new rare vinyl.

Have we a little ‘circle time’ left? Maybe…

If the library is

Still

Breathing; failing lung of our condemned

Town, a town

We share. No

Matter:

You don’t paddle that pool these days.

Created = 1st June 2009

~*~ “WE MURDER TO DISSECT” ~*~

(The title of this poem is a line from a William Wordsworth piece, entitled ‘The Tables Turned‘ )

How  to be a passive observer

Abandon the mastership

Of my contrived musing

§

Now I understand

I had too keen a hand

In making monsters

Through mountains

§

If I build it up

Nature will knock it down

It knows my failings

And I fear to fall

Better to bury myself

In the earth

Than lose it all

§

What utility

Is there really

In manufacturing dreams,

When they open

So effortlessly

As sunrise casts her beams?

§

Compositional goal

§

It was listless

Food for fools

But now the intelligentsia are come

To reclaim

Their tools

And my goldfish brain

Forgot where I buried them

~~~~~~

How  to be a superfluous learner

Start my turn from

The culture-coalface

§

Now I understand

I had too harsh a plan

In making monsters

Through mountains

§

If I build it up

Nature will knock it down

It knows my failings

And I fear to fall

Better to bury myself

In the earth

Than lose it all

§

What benefit

In art of counterfeit

When joy is in the natural state,

When the collective

Unconscious

Is awaiting my blank slate

§

Compositional goal

§

It was listless

Food for fools

But now the intelligentsia are come

To reclaim

Their tools

And my bruised brain

Mistook where I buried them

~~~~~~

Compositional goal:

If a bud starts to rise

From behind the darkness

Of my eyes…

Compositional goal:

If I start to reflect

The impossible dangers

Of my intellect…

Bury me

(Poem inspired by Radio 3′s The essay , broadcast on Thursday 29^th april 2010 and entitled “the scientist and the romantic – the songbird and soi-fa”)

Nightingale song

Like a drug;

Long metaphysical treasure hunt

For a psychic hug

Pulled down to join thuggery

And sweating out my rural poetry

In some overambitious city

Where

I used debased meanings

In my longing to find

Mozart’s starling:

A sweet, soothing darling

*

The feathers crumbled in my hands

*

Now I skim wings on new plans

Bigger and brighter than these thematic stars

Leave

Whisky to jars

In draughts that passed bars

No more tumbleweed tunes

But a moon made

Of cheese, to choose

Something more solitary

*

Since birth,

A murmur made my rate irregular

Since death,

My heart movements

Are faster,

Shinier than the most metallic

Spectacular

Melodic

Discontent

*

Found my personal blackbird;

A national spring moment

I fly a unique middle third

In keen architectural comment

And

In removing the thorn from my side

Cried

On beds of petals and horse hair

To shake through fear,

Now I am clear

To care

Again:

Mended this broken harp

*

Dictation lesson died.

Dialed…

Every G natural cranked

Up

To

G sharp

Universe whispers my Out

Of Time tune,

No need

To find it, like before:

One day, someone, will want

To read my score

Friday’s Matches by New Zealand artist – Paul Hutchinson

Capricious captioning:

Dark and suspect,

Like the Brothers Grimm

Although having never met

Two

True

Interwoven inter-stories of regret

Now fashioning new understanding

And tolerance for other

For forfeit

For patronisingly patriarchal

Him

Since I smother

Whim

I found

I am made brighter from your imagining

I rise; unbound

*

Paint to cover

Played pleasantries

Twisted by these

Overfed

Reserv’ed

Niceties

*

Reversed

By our travesties

That we pretend we’re not troubled

By

*

Bypass

Bye: last

Longing

So self-destructive

It’s sweet

Wrapped up in rapturously neat

Complaint

*

Paint to cover

My delight

Paint me out across the skies

Of night;

Your heart-stopping lullabies

Surprise

Me with their structure

So sweet

Wrapped up in rapturously neat

Complaint

*

A man who weaved into a physicality

A divine combination of madness and sanity

A delicate balance of the masterful masculine

And the freshness of femininity

He,

Who took that lint and splint and ran

A fine finger across my metaphorical torso:

In abandonment, the discovery of control

*

And this here now, my tale of woe

Is, somehow,

Driving to find a home and a hoe

That I might be able to return to plough

Fields

Of fertile dirt; trapped ‘neath fingernails

Suffering

Is, somehow,

Divining through

Wheat-lined trails

Of happiness

*

Forlorn in frames of woollen wiles

Still not sure if we’re more wise

Or wiley

Maybe just more ready

To be foolish

Kiss

Our sighs

As we’ve ushered in so many goodbyes

In the hope that our world might be repaired again

*

Love’s not lost, but rediscovered

In friends

Tacit, tacit, tacit**

There is a memory of arms

Folded.

Stacks of books, binders, magazines;

Detailing a livelihood of lessons and loves –

Folded

Into

A laugh

And little, compactly cunning stories:

A shiny hubcap

A comically-acquired chassis

Crustless sandwiches made to lighten,

To soothe

A weathered and waxed bonnet.

I’d pin a car badge to my jacket

I’d string a hood ornament through a chain

I’d stake my name

Upon it

But I never understood that world

And I must now forsake it

Despite

±

A father worn down with the demanding

Endurance test

Of a bountiful, business

Plan:

Always

Almost

Realised.  Materialistic but,

Never quite materialised

±

Nature

±

Crept in with its concoctions

Its predestined desire

To throw

A metaphysical

Spanner in the works

±

±

±

* pater familias: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pater_familias (The term is Latin for “father of the family” or the “owner of the family estate”.)

** tacit è an adjective… to describe my dad

1.  Not spoken: indicated tacit approval by smiling and winking.

2.

a. Implied by or inferred from actions or statements: Management has given its tacit approval to the plan.

b. Law Arising by operation of the law rather than through direct expression.

3. Archaic Not speaking; silent.

Lashes

Long

Across the sun and moon and on

Backs

Strong

*

If I am to feel this way:

A licked bowl

A cleaned soul

Dreaming now of impossible

Grounded-meat sorrowful,

Filled with the fat of juicy potential,

Then,

Well, I think I’ll feel it now

Not in two days or two ways or somehows

But here, in this moment’s beauty

*

This horrific beauty of our

Deconstruction.

So terrific:

Beams shine on

The failing herbs of Causticum

These woodland words of children

Not born to fatigue

*

Destruction through creation won

Yes, as Kleinian object relation

Not like Burroughs’ loaded gun

Shot funny risk

To frisk my fresh gums

As if some examined

Straight-from-the-horse’s-mouth prediction;

Tipped and timed

And

Fumbling for one…

One

More

Brawling battle-run

*

Response to a sigh

Through our death and our drive

To save up all the honey in this seduction hive.

Work

Of wrestled wrought lesson,

Drawn

That it might be sketched to stretch to life.

Created = 19th March 2009

~*~BLESSINGS ON THE FROSTY POW OF ST. IGNATIUS~*~

(Inspired by Rabbie Burns)

It’s become a hunger, a need

Something I have to feed

No longer a dream space or a charm

It’s starting to feel

Like it’s causing me harm

It guides me when I’m not looking

It stalks out my weaknesses

And prises them open

Finding inside

All the lies and misguidedness

Festering there

It doesn’t care

It doesn’t discriminate

Like silent, steel-eyed witnesses

To an irreparable fate

±

Night after Night

Are they watching my back

Or enjoying the fight?

±

Some John Doe come rescue me

I’ll not push you for truth

I’m babbling

At the frustrated face of youth

I’m bubbling

I’m mumbling through

I’m worrying now, about

What I might do

Or say, or feel

Beyond feeling, beyond physicality

I know it’s not real

But it’s demanding and destructive

It’s loose and carefree

Beyond morals, beyond reasons

I know it’s beyond

Me

±

And if it’s not me writing…

Then… who can it be?

Are there answers

In the words

I’m now allowed to see?

Are they from my worlds and my thoughts

Or beyond my control

But within my comprehension

Now I am let go?

Are they now guiding me

To my next destination?

±

I keep stopping

At the same station

I keep finding

The same invitation

±

Day after day

Are they messages of madness

Or fashioned word play?

±

Some John Doe come rescue me

I’ll pull you from death’s jaws

I’m trying to crack the code

Figure out these laws

Still scared to ask

I’d envisaged clear solutions

Like

Little pots of gold

Quote

Unquote

Question Mark

Asked

Asked

Ask our selves

Our lives

Running low on time

±

And so to some conclusion

Or, at least, to some reform

Packed shelves

Of dreams, of alter egos

I’ve not yet tried on

Crashing through crises

Inventing life without scorn

Yet

Instinct after Instinct

One force rides

On

Galloping through histories,

Through bodies, through brains:

One master,

One slayer

Of unworldly gains

Even after deconstructing Eutopia

Still a brent brow remains

‘White Pill Two’ by New Zealand artist – Paul Hutchinson

(Poem inspired by my old friend Timmy B; a HMHB** fan (who asserts it’s okay to be right) and the night I met a new -self-)

Tease

Words of artistry,

Pitfalling ploy isn’t so funny

When she wears

“-‘Self-Righteous’ by Anita Roddick-“**

Swears in thick

As thieves accent

To ridicule a musicman’s patience

§

A toast… to old friends

Sing ‘Capital! Capital’

§

Once upon a time,

I read The Times

When

Should have been more guarded *then*

Than when

Playing beyond kitsch

In my unflinching

–switch-

To all things blood red

Now, it has to be said:

§

A toast… to old friends

Sing ‘Capital! Capital’

§

Still…

Stubborn will.

I was a little silly,

Stumbled over spinning –top- ;

Sold to me

As versatility

§

Deep jostling to hide

In different cars

Ride to reach stars

Already sinking

§

I’m thinking

§

A toast… to old friends

Sing ‘Capital! Capital’

§

T’was pandering to pawn some votes

… it’s no excuse,

Relished to feign obtuse,

To confuse comfort

For abuse

§

Nevermind

§

Broken love tryin’–a-sell me a line:

None want to *talk* to you

They’ll make their bed to lie with you

Lie to you

Line for you

Yep, powered up that powder

§

Nevermind

§

A toast… to old friends

Sing ‘Capital! Capital’

§

I’ve made the necessary goodbyes

Finalised

Final rehearse

Oh, to rewind to that first

Moment, blow

The motherf*ckingdust across the room

Yes, I would, and watch

The stars come to life

§

In our eyes

Abyss

Abysmal

Set, we are, in some delusional

Tale

*

The story starts…

Choked up Mario-Karts

Revving in one place;

Hope is almost burst through

An insistent intent to pace

Through this race

*

Wait

*

Wait

*

Wait

*

For

The

Signal

To begin this battle

Go!!!

To source codes

And analogous thought nodes

Right, here goes!

We’re well within this Steeplechase

Now

Rallying round this place

Somehow

Bends and Curls and Capes

Dust bubbling up through SnakePit

HairPin

Laps,

Snaggle-toothed-time leaps

And bounds back

Are drilled into track:

Draught and wind and tyre

Fuel and Fire

All

Blistering up some coal-black slack

*

The heat of burning

Rubber rise

Through my limbs on this

Stretching Rack

-x-A Patchwork Quilt called ‘Exotic StaleMate’-x-

My

Whole

Being

Pulsates pure with your question

Sure

That these stars; at which we have

Curtly carved

(Courtly-Love-Starved)

Are all at once new

But still, cruel

*

We are renewal:

So not unique

Or, indeed, rhetoric

Suggestion

*

We, us, them

All remain…

Noisily unheard worth

Bawdily bound up in brevity’s birth

*

I really hate these short,

Quip-jibbed

Turns

*

Harsh emotives

Replaced by

Harangued expletives

And soulless meetings, that snip-up

Our carefully cuddled-up

Collaborations

*

You don’t seem too

Concerned…

Overtook, overlook, overlearned

I will overturn

This pattern; now I stitch

Myself up

*

Try to show I can be a new quilt-like path

Still don’t sew good enough:

Patchworking experience with cotton thread

Of aftermath

*

Threads of red:

Copper and Crimsons

Some fanciful flame

*

Inside my embroidery frame

Of worn-down understanding,

You feel maddened and tough…

Tired…

Of my pointless, dry-mouth

Existence?

I reach to be more

Than some quivering matchstick-girl song

*

Blow me out

Like you always do…