0158 rual-parts of us - poetry will be made by...
TRANSCRIPT
rual 158 / 1000
1000Books by1000Poets
2014
1B1P
6033707813129
ISBN 978-1-312-60337-090000
parts of us
miguelrual
p
mr
parts of us
parts of usMiguel rual
Poetry will be made by all!89plus and LUMA Foundation
0158 / 1000
First Printing: Upload:Time, Date Month 2014
ISBN 978-1-312-60337-0
LUMA/WestbauLöwenbräukunstLimmatstrasse 270CH-8005 Zurich
Published by LUMA Foundation as part of the 89plus exhibition Poetry will be made by all! co-curated by Hans Ulrich Obrist, Simon Castets, and Kenneth Goldsmith at LUMA/Westbau, 30 January – 30 March 2014. Cover design by Content is Relative. All rights to this work are reserved by the author.
This book edited by Mel Bentley.
Series editor: Danny Snelsonhttp://poetrywillbemadebyall.ch
We don’t do much ourselves but fuck and think FRANK O’HARA Crying when we are hungry and eating when we’re sad JORDAN CASTRO
AN ALTERNATIVE BEGINNING
I am none of your dreamt epiphanies.
I am a collage of misunderstood poems and I get easily obsessed about the pettiest things.
Truth be told, you were once one of
those insignificant things. Not anymore.
In this poem I’ve lied twice.
(from Irretrievable)
A LUTE OF HAIKUS
OKURIBITO (DEPARTURES) I shall let you go.
But do leave my love for you under my pillow.
LAST WILL
Black iris of fate. What thread will you cut this time?
Please, stab mine instead.
PARADOX I am in mourning.
For whom? You may ask. For Death: irretrievable
(from Irretrievable)
ONE DAY, I'LL BE THE TEMPEST
—Hey Lily, bring me another beer! —Of course honey, I'll stop ironing
your shirts and go get you some cold beer.
—They're losing the game. Damn!
Hey, kid, why don't you stop scratching that paper?
You're as annoying as you mother. —Do not you speak to my son like that!
(a slap; a boy runs to his room; a man gets up, drunk, red-faced; starts yelling; he's strong; a woman falls... I've already heard that story)
—I'm sorry I just... —Cut it. Can you see this bruise?
Touch it. Warm and swarming with life. —I didn't mean to hurt you...
—Can you see this blood running down my face?
ick it. It's still beating. Watch out. It has all the hatred in the world condensed in
every drop. —I... lost control.
—Can you hear this voice? Listen to it.
One day, I'll be the tempest.
(the night; a woman is wide awake; a snoring man; an empty bottle of Jack Daniel's; just one hit and it cracks; a
woman packs a small suitcase; a boy is taken out of his bed; a key turn; the
smell of an engine; a sunrise is about to be born; dawn's chill means freedom; in
the backseat, the boy sleeps...)
THE NIGHT DANCES
Garlic and sapphires in the mud T. S. ELLIOT
I’m laying restlessly over the drenched grass. The world’s breath mists the
night sky & frames its shy perfection. A star explodes
like a huge balloon & drifts around the universe
forever. The world’s spit licks the surface of the moon
to keep it spinning. Bugs hum in harmonic mayhem. The
universe imposes order inside its own matrix
without mercy. I must be a part of
this melody: my hands try to reach the sun &
the deepest ocean at the same time.
This thirst…— I could easily kill it if I scratched some
ice from the sun’s surface:
between my teeth bone & cold become sapphires.
Sanctified by the world’s spit, my
corpse lays over the drenched grass. — Flesh &
mud indistinguishable.
1.
I never meant to go back to the white city to which I belong,
a grey city with a brittle mane of ashes.
I never meant to go back and bury myself deep into the wet soil
in which I don’t recognize my body
but in that piece of swollen earth, a cry
bonds me […]
I will never go back to the city of ashes but for
my funeral.
(from alive is just another emotional state)
3.
I’m sad, I’m high, I’m ecstatic... I’m dying.
I’m dying not as a process, but as a reversible
altered state of consciousness,
a perception of the unfathomable in that narrow street that holds the
world like a kneeling Atlas. The static word weighs
more than the grey soil. a shoulder that would not
resist. a broken scapula, a crying clavicle
raping the white skin.
bones breaking with white noises, breaking the
texture of the self. take the white pill, you’ll feel alright. Kill
the lights.
death is a white dream, an insomniac
dream that bleeds night.
death as an expansion of the self, a psychological
dilution, as a rite of passage...
alive is just another emotional state
(from alive is just another emotional state)
Everything forgotten. My name, forgotten. My city, forgotten. Hopes and desires, forgotten. Poetry is the orgy of silence, and thus, forgotten. Everything forgotten. My eyes, forgotten. My tears, forgotten. My fears, forgotten. My lovers,
forgotten. when lips and skin remember all the rest, forgotten.
(from Bleeding polar flower)
THE POET SPILLS O’HARA’S LUNCH POEMS AND THEN TRIES TO STICK THE LINES BACK, UNSUCCESSFULLY
you’ll never be mentally sober there is no longer no ocean
and in the sky there were glistening rails of milk
I’m so damned empty
I can’t even find a pond small enough to drown in without being ostentatious
I just want to go on being subtle and dead like life
clasp me in your handkerchief like a tear
hands on ankles feet on wrists
naked in thought it is our tribe’s custom
to beguile
a lady asks us for a nickel for a terrible disease but we don’t give her one we
don’t like terrible diseases
well now how does your conscience
feel about that
when the tears of a whole generation are assembled
they will only fill a coffee cup we are all happy and young and
toothless the only thing to do is simply continue
we threw
sand in our eyes and ran naked
down the street of our awful
progenitors and that’s the meaning of fertility
hard and moist and moaning
we don’t do much ourselves but fuck and think
and the light seems to be eternal
and joy seems to be inexorable
if you don’t eat me I’ll have to eat myself
GET CLOSER
(THE POEM WAS YOUR MOVEMENT)
I WANNA BE AN ONION
and so even when you are happy I could make you cry
WHAT YOU ALL DON’T KNOW
What you all don’t know is that I am quite [accomplished at hiding At masquerading DOROTHEA LASKY
this is how i should feel:
green and exuberant i
am a gleaming sprout can’t you taste my
happiness? even my sweat smells like happiness. cheers, cheers! i raise my glass
for the two of us, for all of us today. i am loved.
i’ve got my job and a cat too and money
to pay my rent and buy food and poetry
books. so i feel green and
exuberant bright green and dark green
this is what i will tell you:
don’t worry i’m
tired but i’m ok
i just feel kinda green
this is how i really feel:
i have
everything i could wish for so
why do i still feel like
this missing everything i’ll
never have?
my beauty is a carnivore flower
don’t be fooled
by its common look
that it is not outstanding was its own decision
my beauty
is the plain looking bait
that won’t raise any suspicions
and whose only purpose
is devouring you
does beauty
resemble sadness
or
does sadness
mimic beauty
?
He felt huge and wrong. ANNE CARSON
Sometimes I feel like I’m everywhere.
(…)
Sometimes I am everywhere
at the same time and feel nothing.
(…)
Sometimes I feel I’m nowhere and it
looks like happiness.
(…)
I’m so full
of nothing.
DETAILS IN THE DARK
your hand in a stranger’s bed
around a stranger’s body
or
my hand in a stranger’s bed
looking for my body
if I know every form
is but an abyss
I can forget beauty
with a gesture
It seems like every part of my body misses someone. GABBY BESS I do not want to be a person. I want to be unbearable. ANNE CARSON
four earnest songs
FOUR EARNEST SONGS
Alles ist lebend tot.
All is dead while it’s living. EGON SCHIELE
VIER ERNSTE
GESÄNGE
I. THE BURNT Denn es gehet dem Menschen wie dem Vieh For that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts ECCLESIASTES 3:19 To burn posthumously, like a word. ARSENY TARKOVSKY
rites
held high above the landscape
dancing ashes
danceless ashes
hyper-symmetrical rapture upon the intimacy
charcoal grey
charcoal black charcoal velvet
of the night
brasses folding motherly
over the skin seeds
men & women hanging as equals
from the fire tree side by side
to every beast
an audience of mirrors
embers & the cross of mankind collapsing
between the jaws of vanity
so what happens to the sons of men?
after the fiery & furious perception of themselves
they burn posthumously,
like words
II. THE DROWNED Ich wandte mich, und sahe an I turned around and saw ECCLESIASTES 4:1 The drops cascading down the chilly branches. No word of comfort, tears undried… ARSENY TARKOVSKY
I turned around & saw the world spilt
like mercury across the universe
cities crawling like fungus on a Petri dish
iris multiplying
like bacteria
a flood myth on the palm of every hand a voice —such electricity strangles through the liquid
—fizzles till the ears of the deafened of the purple-blue deafened drowned their throats… no word of comfort, tears undried under the surface
a field of intermittent bodies
rooted like seaweed to the seabed
the unborn floating aimlessly:
sacred shards of an unreal unity, celestial krill
a voice alone —unheard pities both the living & the dead —& fears their violence praises only the ones that will never be
if water be the seed of life, rage on
—ocean let water be the end of it again
III. THE BURIED O Tod, wie bitter bist du O Death, how bitter you are SIRACH 41:1 I had long been the earth— Arid, ochre, forlorn since birth— ARSENY TARKOVSKY —strata of children playing over empty graves laying in one raising from another already old
cycles aren't necessarily stuck in linearity very often they break then bind
again after some twist over the helix —young again raising from a different grave man contemplates himself in awe ochre soil under his nails
deathlessness should be unbearable yet take a deeper look at it and you'll
see it intertwining with death itself
—distant-red birds of fear surround him vultures or cockroaches feeding on his keen he is left alone so it is continuum which is excruciating
but that would be a contradiction wouldn't it?
—man is forced to face his terrors the end of his existence not death what is death not death but the end of his existence life runs from a previous death towards
a newly bred one it is a matter of impersonation
—he understands that thought is a sub-product of our brain activity He gets the concept of infinity but how can he think about the lack of thought
hiding around the blank gaps death soaks life's vest fingers caressing live
skin
—in redness man is one with the mud and the clay he is dead yet death still terrifies him stasis is colorless taste it and you'll see
how bitter it gets now listen the poem starts here:
—under the mustard soil souls like cut in half worms lay; bodies like trodden grapes among the rip fruit smell...
IV. THE MUTED – Symphony disguised as a song Wenn ich mit Menschen – und mit Engelszungen redete If I spoke in the language of man and in that of angels 1 CORINTIANS 13:1 You can hear the old life breathing: […] all will be repeated, all will be re-embodied ARSENY TARKOVSKY
1st movement — adagio
// The patient refers several acute episodes (5-7) of distorted perception of reality during the previous two weeks: seeing ochre bugs of "silence" flying around his body; suddenly recalling intense sad or joyful souvenirs followed by deep & dense feelings of loss; interpretation of time as a twisted web that strangles his thoughts; etc.
His mother is very anxious during the interview so I ask her to leave the room while I talk to Eleazar. Before closing the door, she urges him to tell me about the "weird books” & the "artistic photographs". He tells me she has been suffering from insomnia since she learnt from his symptoms. When asked about those "weird books" he admits that he's been reading them on purpose but refuses to give any further information. About the "artistic photographs" he only adds they were taken by "dead people". No relatives have been diagnosed with any mental disease, but he mentions a deceased uncle whose house was full of "weird books". The patient shows concern about his condition but refuses to undergo the standard treatment protocol & suffers an anxiety episode when the possibility of brain surgery is addressed. We schedule a … //
2nd movement — andante
memory is a contagious disease
it affects 79 million people worldwide
and it is more frequent among young adults
prognosis: -- chronic – progressive --
irretrievable
3rd movement — molto adagio
Infinite, infinite—that was her perception of time.
LOUISE GLÜCK
4th movement — allegro assai
memory —distorting mirror of time— is based on silence
5th movement — moderato cantabile
there is a silence starving in every gesture
& the bell jars rang when no one was
there to listen that’s how it always goes
echoes of nothing
terrifying
oxen casted in absence of sound plough the frail throats
of memory
we were once told that transcendence was
unavoidable
—black serpents biting their own tails meaning nothing—
now after-life lays bleeding
as a cut-off tongue
it still moves like a tentacle but it can’t
reach us
grey dogs salivating, that’s metempsychosis
in real life
its teeth can’t bite us
so flesh is the end we smile we
share our pulps & depart
muted
by our own existence