Poems by Inchiki



in the quiet room
i sit and fester in my indolence
whilst a slight movement
of air outside
and a birdcall, and a fly
passes me by
like it were a hurricane

my little finger
feels slightly sticky
from the silver teaspoon
tea is brewing
the cup is empty
and waiting a hot
message from the teapot

an elaborate structure
seems to be
cruising my mind
i look at it:
but it avoids the direct approach
the real world has no place in here

"there is so much i must do
before i am dead"
- i try to motivate myself with my own death
how base and miserable am i

the tea is poured
into the cup
hot and sweet
i like drinking it
in the pause between sips
i develop my thoughts

the corner of my minds eye
contains the thing
that must be described at all costs
i would tell you what it is but it despises directness
i could tell you what it is not but that is indirectly direct
instead i must stay in a zone where things either may
or may not be

and yet it must be sufficient to gain a purchase
on the wall
it must cling and grasp onto something
or like the fly buzzing across the window pane
i bash miserably at nothing
and cannot get through to you

already i am in too far and have become abstracted to you
but it is still
just this
the empty room
and the tap of keys
-- i let the fly out

is like a wall
upon which i perch
-no- nothing like a wall
i am like a wall
indolence climbs me
what horrible logic tricks are these start again

is a potter
crafting us all from clay
we are its bricks
drying out in the light of day
when it is tired it smashes us

even now i feel the hand pressing
my soft form
with a purpose beyond my comprehension
and a familiar comfort results


is just mad
a strange chaotic ordered force
which we can understand
only as well as certain tools enable us
(how clever that we have such tools)
but it did create us of itself
in a mindless careless way
and despatches us just the same
without even knowing
that we are so many
eyes and ears
but we have been careless too

yes this is a familiar image
i wonder if anyone else out there
has had a similar idea

i once witnessed an argument about time
about whether it existed which ended with the unassailable:


all thought is old
my boot is off
my tea is cold
and now my story all is told

go to part 2...

unpublished  2010