Dyslexic Dada

pokkadots

and

abucu

sses

words

i never knew what words were til i met one

all bottled up and confused and i coexed itmade it open up to mei remember how at first she was afraid,

reluctant and acquiasent saying you have got me all wrong

i am prenounced si-clic-cal not sick-li-cal

im not linear, i dont make senserole of your tonguei am out of context

there is nothing essential about me

i only make meaning in contextit is just about the way that you use me

situate me, without a user i am usless

i am just a word sisterdont be fooled

write now

if i can follow (or endure) the random dreaming strands of thinking

there are points which wasnt where the linear streams were intending to fall

those delicious tangents filling my gob with spit

sugary like lemon squash a bitter sickly loss of meaning

lubricated in succulent disjointed rhythmscomforting and homely

pure oceanic intense but lackingcertainty which bumps

jumps jolts on every rock of the roadon a long unrecorded journey

move me as quick as it becomesa handful of honey, dropping into stops

so lost stomachs are synchronisedby ruptures invited

by shared imprecise humourmaking us alone unable to believe

hunted by motionless repetitions of answersleading us to ideas mapped in consumerable satisfaction like a film that documents us

as subversive angels of other worlds

transgression

the self-reflex makes luminosity loop in talk shifts to continue among playful competitions

that adumbrate alterity by the tongue we chose after it decided us

for speech is a trap and a nooseupon which

identity acts like tax

for the symptoms of freedomcollapsed into symbols resisting and provoking compositions like a book

with new tales on every pageas if a narrative dropped

leaving lack of order without indication toward ideas imprisoning repetitions reconstructed by a readers rhetoric

misinterpreting irony swollen simplicityfor desire to communicate in clarity

like a lung full of lost breathless speech

we are so lucky

to have time that tells us what we should do that we have feelings that guide us

instincts that help shape us in this culture that moulds us

into the likeness of the other

who is strange to me, as i look to them

or even myself, when i stare in a mirrorthey told me i must become one

with the grand body of the languageto be in tune with the feelings, the sensations,and where i was confident i became doubtfulwhere there was motivation, i was bored and i slipped through every happy discourse realising now that everything i knew

doesnt make sense to me, or to you,

i cant float like a balloon and i will not popbut i must squeeze into the space there is for me

i am so lucky because i have to create a way to be yet i never know whether i am good or bad

i dont even know what these words meani cannot become the body of words

even if i try, i may never even please them,for i am not discourse, i cannot speak, i lack punctuation, focus and postulation

i am only a body flirting perverted by silence

aesthetics

marked in quotations by a letter left unopened speaking of internal transformations

that cannot be fixedaltering circles as if they persistfor coreless apple decaying in the soilsare now fertilising the roots of new crops

peeled by the fingers of peopleabsorbed on their deliberations

born, inspired and identified in a state of fluxlike a harbour of verses shifting in stops

deforming clarity before it reaches the climaxfor her ink is drying in the waiting time

while tones imitate the echoes of pretext- with a chorus of vibrating suds to draw on your imagination as they are singing in a language translated yet unheard

drift

themes are colliding in my mindchanges are closing in finding timelike truths in eyes searching

without resolve to evolve and capitalise

on words as they bleed

and become

the expression

that seeps out of mythto encapsulate

a pastiche of soundamongst

this

dynamic

dialogic Drift

this

so much is certain and so much is there to be described there are so many relations and associations to discern

only with a can of paint and a fresh wall could i showwhat i would do without the freedom to take apart the rules

i compete against my silence, challenge my need to talk,

and precisions mark penetrates into this uneaseas its complications define and break in a wave

heavy and weighted like the sea crashing into its own mass,unlike feathers, with their details, that fall light and enchanting.

inelegantly, i long for the absence of myself: to knowhow to not be missed or missing -or miss- for i detest

the menial straightness that undermines my love of clarity yet obstinately

i dont want to change, conform or be configured

as i reject this principle: while i crave and desire cleannesslike a broken lock on a vacated house offers shelter

for a door which is hinged and swings without a catch, is open - as is choice - without

singularity of reason

leaving ideology

i rebooked the appointment,but then suddenly

i had something to do i cant remember what now,

but i am sure it was important. so i am still unemployed

going down to the bottoms lines of over drafts looking forward to the glimpses, the opportunities not substantial

enough to put on a cv which blinks blankness

recording my non reliable ness as i have never done anything

that counts for a job no monotony, no stagnation, no routine,

time keeps goingall juxtaposed and composed

and released into boxeswith their sticky tapes and paper

bags and collections in categories,important for being

slow and having quickness in momentary organisation thats playing futures as it reiterates

itself into the memories that suddenly incomplete me

self

that there was someone who thought what they said was not often what they felt

and what they felt was not what they thought they ought to feel,and so it goes on.

i felt some time that what i do is not what i thought i ought to do

what i ought to do did not seem right.

every time i said somethingwhat i felt was

its not what they wanted to hear.

and sometimes i feel thatim not true to myself

yet i always seem to do what i wantand i read somewhere aboutself-improvement

on how to do every-thing rightbut i though what they said

was just be yourselfbut i think what that is, is to just carry onnot knowing whom it is i am.and i continue to be not what i ought to be

redefining all the time what it means to become the other

to normals

viewing

parked in front of me was somethingi reconsidered, not much before i started

back at what it was

that got me there.i paused for breath, calm with the heartbeat

putting a hold on the gasp on the backof my throat that came, as i looked,

and as i stared, lost at what it was that

i was facing, as the background becamesome sort of film flat, as it was sheer.

music in my headphone projected me onto another place were my breathing was somethingi listened to, and the scenery became weird.

smiling reassuringly, to myself, at the

same time it was people looking at me, and i had to try not to be.

my muscles relaxing and the smiletaking over me and seeing the cars move in the traffic and the dog defecation,

the sun moving into the cloud, and startingto be real, beat harmony and givethe time that homogenous empty feel.

so silently, out of the darkness that camethis pain; a haunting that would never

be believed in isolation; like the same. where we pass through and sum up, in a

less depleted way, that while poetry cannotcorrect it self; the message will not get through

frameworks

different frameworks interposes how it exists

in my many me.

you said before something approaches

the third dimension that we see,

ah! but yes, looking back, looking over

is the third and final three!

what i read becomes the perspectiveof over all angles.

connoted correction balancing

the lines connecting between making up

all in the being words

last youve seen.

dyslexia

searching for the story to write you better

looking for that sentence that in reach becomes

part of you concluded adding up

knowledge as full as well that without partdisarray is in bid as in

shackled made order.towards making the completion within the assertion

the message procrastinated

in hope of teachingstanding behind words to say

they speak me i am the lesson learned

to give and

let give

everything that you handle spokento be beside as you

look onwards lost of learning in the face of mirror void of voice

and writing is your lesson.

art

it all started with a little bit of french

linguistically replaced humour:

from the outset we never determined the time to insure positive forward progression,

it was primarily more a moveable, a syllable of choices:

so dada darling! this world of illusion brought to a head,

strung up quite literally, seeing her face blank with immoveable expression, all that relishes.

what a pretentious preposition! it is

not abou