poem - not sure this works, might delete later
I recently posted some notes I thought might turn into something on social media. I think I now have a poem from them, which I'm calling:
Maps are political. Maps
like art choose focus
and conceal. Simplify. Conditions
of advance. Only ever
partial, unsuccessful. I am
a very stupid man. Afraid
of what matters. Un-
afraid where it might be prudent.
Several red. No
spirits, not really. The
world is quiet.
Talk alone. Imagine
interviews.
Tell incomplete
stories. Not enough.
Where is the denial? Contradiction,
surprise, correction.
Trace the changes
in consciousness. Or attempt.
Constituent failure. Halfway. No
self. Retrospective awareness and
enjoyment.
A pause.
A shape, a
colour.
Inchoate.
A several stage
process of translation.
Physical abstraction and abstractions
of power. Relationships,
history. And this in dreams.
Disordered, changed,
forgotten. Journeys in
reverse.
Are we approximations, gathered
accidents? Sense of self
lagging? Distorted
at the extremities.
Further. Look
at a tree from every
side at once. Un-
folded. Stretched. Across
time, exploding and fracturing,
falling. Mediated by
inflexible systems. Compromise
and conflict. Lines
become barriers, descriptions
concrete. Begin policing our
own perimeters and expand
inwards. Freeze with
no reflection.
Not Sure This Works, Might Delete Later
I am absent for the
perfect moment. Present
and unaware.
Precondition. Dream impossible
geographies. Indoors
outdoors elide.
Navigating, retracing, working
out how the parts fit.
Unsatisfied. What is interesting
is hidden. Identify
the nagging something in
your brain. The absence
of a street or alley or
yard. Inexplicably
tired. Veer from absorption to
transmission. I mean,
months.
I am absent for the
perfect moment. Present
and unaware.
Precondition. Dream impossible
geographies. Indoors
outdoors elide.
Navigating, retracing, working
out how the parts fit.
Unsatisfied. What is interesting
is hidden. Identify
the nagging something in
your brain. The absence
of a street or alley or
yard. Inexplicably
tired. Veer from absorption to
transmission. I mean,
months.
Maps are political. Maps
like art choose focus
and conceal. Simplify. Conditions
of advance. Only ever
partial, unsuccessful. I am
a very stupid man. Afraid
of what matters. Un-
afraid where it might be prudent.
Several red. No
spirits, not really. The
world is quiet.
Talk alone. Imagine
interviews.
Tell incomplete
stories. Not enough.
Where is the denial? Contradiction,
surprise, correction.
Trace the changes
in consciousness. Or attempt.
Constituent failure. Halfway. No
self. Retrospective awareness and
enjoyment.
A pause.
A shape, a
colour.
Inchoate.
A several stage
process of translation.
Physical abstraction and abstractions
of power. Relationships,
history. And this in dreams.
Disordered, changed,
forgotten. Journeys in
reverse.
Are we approximations, gathered
accidents? Sense of self
lagging? Distorted
at the extremities.
Further. Look
at a tree from every
side at once. Un-
folded. Stretched. Across
time, exploding and fracturing,
falling. Mediated by
inflexible systems. Compromise
and conflict. Lines
become barriers, descriptions
concrete. Begin policing our
own perimeters and expand
inwards. Freeze with
no reflection.
Distribute memory, acts
of emotion, fragments of
ideas to place. Map
history, beliefs.
Not some fascist unity
with soil, more
promiscuous decentred
self through many places.
Dreams write and rewrite, smudge
invention and location. Self
is not self neither
an organ. A social
subject. Overlapping sounds
and stories, confusion,
an environment. The unexplained
drawn with seen and
solid. Unfixed fossils.
of emotion, fragments of
ideas to place. Map
history, beliefs.
Not some fascist unity
with soil, more
promiscuous decentred
self through many places.
Dreams write and rewrite, smudge
invention and location. Self
is not self neither
an organ. A social
subject. Overlapping sounds
and stories, confusion,
an environment. The unexplained
drawn with seen and
solid. Unfixed fossils.
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