{"id":755,"date":"2013-04-14T22:55:13","date_gmt":"2013-04-14T20:55:13","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/?page_id=755"},"modified":"2013-05-03T02:07:01","modified_gmt":"2013-05-03T00:07:01","slug":"4-in-camera","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/teksty\/teksty-oryginalne\/teksty-ph-solo\/4-in-camera\/","title":{"rendered":"4. In Camera"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/a>
\nFerret & Featherbird<\/strong><\/p>\n

Time has come between us:
\nin the passing months I’ve felt you slip away
\nas your words and mine came like nursery rhymes
\ntill there was nothing left to say.<\/p>\n

Distance came between us long ago,
\nas our memories faded away…
\nover the miles I ceased to smile
\nbecause nothing felt the same.<\/p>\n

That’s how it seemed a week ago,
\nfar off in time and space.<\/p>\n

Time and distance are between us now,
\nthey form a bond to make things sure.
\nNothing ever shatters,
\nyou know what happens:
\ntime and distance make a love secure.<\/p>\n

<\/a><\/p>\n

No More (the Sub-Mariner)<\/strong><\/p>\n

In my youth, I played at trains: now all steam is gone.
\nIn my dreams, brief shelter from the rain,
\nI try to catch the fireglow….
\nWith Dinky Toys, I thought that I was Stirling,
\nwith cricket bat, I saw myself as Peter May;
\nnow, with all these images returning,
\nI wonder who I am today?<\/p>\n

As a child, I refought the war
\nwith plastic planes and imagination:
\nI sank Tirpitz, blew up the Mohne dam, all these and more,
\nI was the saviour of the Nation!
\nOh! To be the captain of a ship of war!
\nThe pilot of a Tempest or a York!
\nTo hold my trench against the Panzer Korps
\ninstead of simply being one who talks
\nand reminisces of his fantasies,
\nas though life was nothing but to lose…
\nthese only antecede the knowledge that, eventually,
\nhe must choose.<\/p>\n

It’s a hallmark of adulthood
\nthat our options diminish
\nas our faculties for choice increase,
\ntill we choose everything and nothing,
\ntoo late, at the finish.<\/p>\n

In my youth, I held belief: my faith and thought were strong.
\nBut now I’m stripped of every leaf,
\nand it robs me of the sight of right and wrong.
\nOh! To be the son of Che Guevara!
\nOne unit in the serried ranks of black!
\nA Papist or an Orangeman, a eunuch…
\nthen doubt would never cast the dagger in my back.
\nOh! To be King John or Douglas Bader,
\nHumphrey Bogart or Victor Mature!
\nWhich one is false and easy,
\nwhich one harder?
\nOf that,
\nof this,
\nof me
\nI’m really not too sure.<\/p>\n

<\/a><\/p>\n

Tapeworm<\/strong><\/p>\n

When I was a child they made me read
\nword-daggers of quiver and squirm;
\nnow in the stumbling dark I see
\nI am a worm, silently fruiting your garden,
\nmy sister ,my child .
\nNight casts ominous meanings on the purity of my soul
\nI feel devilish leanings I’m beginning to lose control
\nand the vortex sucks me in.
\nSteeped in sin I die
\nbut am reborn.<\/p>\n

I want to see the cosmos slip,
\nplanets and moons collide,
\nfeel gravity lose its grip…
\nit’s all inside
\nAll the dead husks are shattered,
\nmy life-blood, my world ripped apart
\nin the laughter of space
\nit’s all chaff blown out and lost.
\nNow I am making the pace
\nalthough I don’t know what tape I’ll cross…
\nmaybe catastrophe.
\nWhen I cross the line
\nI know that I will find myself
\nor maybe you.<\/p>\n

I am a man from the country of destruction,
\nI am a man a woman and a god,
\nI am my own weapon of kamikaze
\nand will one day cut through the
\nhidden knot<\/p>\n

Feed me honey and watch me rise
\nto the bait lying on the knife;
\nif you let me I can hypnotise your life.
\nIt’s all really so simple,
\nmy lover, my twin.
\nHand in hand, sprinting down the highway,
\nrunning over the edge,
\non and on into our doomsday;
\nthere is no saving ledge
\nnor outgrown shrub.
\nIs this the way?
\nOut in a blaze of glory?
\nSome day I’ll find the answer
\nsome day I’ll
\nend the story.<\/p>\n

<\/a><\/p>\n

Again<\/strong> \"Przek\u0142ad\"<\/a><\/p>\n

I stretch my hands,
\nclutch vacant laughter
\nin silence and sweet, sweet pain;
\nwithout demand,
\nbut with a longing
\nfor what will never come again.<\/p>\n

I smell your perfume
\non the sheets in the morning:
\nit lingers like the patterns
\non the window after rain,
\na past that lives,
\nif only for the present,
\nbut which is gone and will never come again.<\/p>\n

To your sad eyes,
\nturned away, mine say
\n'Do you? Did you? How?’
\nAs the darkness
\nslides away the day
\nshows what was
\nand makes what is now.<\/p>\n

I see your picture
\nas though it were a mirror
\nbut there’s no part of you
\noutside the frame
\nexcept the change that you gave to me:
\nthis will never come again.<\/p>\n

I am me,
\nI was so before you,
\nbut afterwards I am not the same.
\nYou are gone
\nand I am with you:
\nthis will never come again.<\/p>\n

<\/a><\/p>\n

Faint-heart and the Sermon<\/strong><\/p>\n

With my face drained of colour
\nand my brain of blood,
\nlike Billy Budd
\nI’m lashed to the grating.
\nWith senses growing duller
\nand with quaking heart
\nI make a start
\nat temperature equating
\nand my lungs suck useless air.<\/p>\n

Like paraplegic dancers
\nin formation team
\nmy understanding seems
\nhidebound in its movements,
\ncontemplating answers
\nthat could break my bonds –
\nto be half wrong
\nwould be, in me, improvement…
\nbut my comprehensive faculties are impaired.<\/p>\n

And it seems absurd, but now all I’ve heard
\nfades in empty words and is worthless
\nas the Human Laugh rocks the cenotaph
\nbut the joke is half-true, and mirthless.<\/p>\n

Trying to trace a reason
\nfrom the spinning words
\nbut all I’ve heard
\nseem at odds with their meanings,
\nphonetically pleasing
\nbut delivered in such haste
\nthat in their place
\nmy mind commences screaming.<\/p>\n

On the verge of belief I crash onto the reef
\nand a cynical thief steals my senses.
\nSo I cling to the pew with dimensions askew,
\nand recognition refuses present tenses.
\nAll the lives of the saints demonstrate that my faint
\nis a minor complaint, but the end is
\nnowhere in sight.
\nWhy can’t I find me a way to go?<\/p>\n

I don’t want to die in the nave,
\nbut I know it may be with me some day
\nso I’ve got to find a way I can save up
\nmy energies, and find a cause to pray
\nto something for something
\nto which I can give my creed.<\/p>\n

I’d gladly succumb to the wave,
\nif I thought the water taught a way to light;
\nI’d gladly succumb – I’m not brave,
\nand it’s easy to believe what the preacher says
\nexcept for the conflict raging between my head
\nand my brain.
\nI don’t want to die, but just the same,
\nsome day….<\/p>\n

Waiting for a moment
\nthat I know will come
\nwhen I’ll have to run
\nand find another sermon.
\nEveryman and Norman
\nand the talking priest–
\nstill, I am at least holding all the doors open.
\nInside me all outside is shared.<\/p>\n

As the cracked bells peal it all seems unreal
\nbut the seventh seal stays unbroken
\nand the Offertory plate tenders no escape –
\nstill I refuse to scrape up a token
\nof esteem for these false
\nalleyways of the course;
\nI must try to divorce sense from sensing.
\nTell me again,
\ntell me the way to go.<\/p>\n

So when I talk to myself
\nalthough I take good care to listen
\nmy heart grows ever more faint,
\nthere’s something missing?<\/p>\n

<\/a><\/p>\n

The Comet, the Course, the Tail<\/strong><\/p>\n

They say we are endowed with Free Will –
\nat least that justifies our need for indecision.
\nBut between our insticts and the lust to kill
\nwe bow our heads in submission.
\nThey say that no man is an island
\nbut then they say our castles are our homes;
\nit’s felt the choice is ours, between peace and violence…
\noh, yes, we choose, alone?<\/p>\n

While the comet spreads its tail across the sky
\nit nowhere near defines the course it flies,
\nnor does it find its own direction.<\/p>\n

Though the path of the comet be sure,
\nits constitution is not
\nso its meaning is possibly more
\nthan the tracing of a tail
\nin one brief shot at glory.<\/p>\n

Love and peace and individuality,
\nso order and society are man-made?
\nWar and hate and dark depravity,
\nor are we slaves?
\nChanneling aggressive energies,
\nthe Death Wish and the Will to survive,
\ninto finding and preserving enemies,
\nis that the only way we know that we’re alive?<\/p>\n

In the slaughterhouse all corpses smell the same,
\nwhether queens or pawns or innocents at the game;
\nin the cemetery a uniform cloaks the graves
\nexcept for outward pomp and circumstance.<\/p>\n

There is a time set in the calendar
\nwhen all reason seems barely enough
\nto sustain all the shooting stars:
\ntimes are rough.
\nI’m waiting for something to happen here,
\nit feels as though it’s long overdue…
\nmaybe a restatement of yesteryear
\nor something entirely new.<\/p>\n

And the knowledge that we gain in part
\nalways leads us closer to the very start,
\nand to the founding questions:
\nHow can I tell that the road signed to hell
\ndoesn’t lead up to heaven?
\nWhat can I say when, in some obscure way,
\nI am my own direction?<\/p>\n

<\/a><\/p>\n

Gog<\/strong><\/p>\n

Some call me SATAN others have me GOD
\nsome name me NEMO…I am unborn.
\nSome speak of me in anagrams,
\nsome grieve upon my wrath…
\nthe ones who give me service
\nI grant my scorn.
\nMy words are
\n'Too late’, 'Never’, 'Impossible’, and 'Gone’;
\nmy home is in the sunset and the dawn.
\nMy Name is locked in silence,
\nsometimes it’s whispered out of spite.
\nAll gates are locked,
\nall doors are barred and bolted,
\nthere is no place for flight.
\nWill you not come to me
\nand love me for one more night?<\/p>\n

Some see me shining, others have me dull;
\ngun-metal and cut diamond -I am ALL.
\nSome swear they see me weeping
\nin the poppy-fields of France…
\nin the tumbling of the dice see them fall!
\nSome laugh and see me laughing
\ndown the corridors of power:
\nsome see my sign on Caesar and his pall.
\nMy face is robed in darkness,
\nsometimes you glimpse me in the shade,
\nAll friends have gone,
\nall calls are weak and wasted,
\nthere is no more to say.
\nWill you not crawl to me
\nand love me for one more day?<\/p>\n

Some wish me empty, others will me full,
\nsome crave of me infinity – I am NONE.
\nSome look for me in symbols,
\nsome trace my line in stars,
\nsome count my ways in numbers:
\nI am No One.
\nSome chronicle my movements,
\nmy colours and my clothes,
\nsome trace the work in progress
\n– it is done.
\nMy soul is cast in crystal
\nyet unrevealed beneath the knife.
\nAll wells are dry, all bread is masked in fungus
\nand now disease is rife.
\nWill you not run from this
\nand love me for one more life?<\/p>\n

<\/a><\/p>\n

Magog (in Bromine Chambers)<\/strong><\/p>\n

In Bromine Chambers
\nthere can be no mercy,
\nno bitter flagellation for your sins;
\nno forgiveness and no sackcloth
\ncan cease the dance
\nof ashes on the wind.<\/p>\n

Too late now for a wish
\nto change all wishing;
\ntoo late to change, to breathe, to grow.
\nToo late to smother out the tell-tale footprints
\nwhich mark your passage through the greying snow.<\/p>\n

\"Przewi\u0144<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Ferret & Featherbird Time has come between us: in the passing months I’ve felt you slip away as your words and mine came like nursery rhymes till there was nothing left to say. Distance came between us long ago, as … Czytaj dalej →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":659,"parent":519,"menu_order":4,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"sidebar-page.php","meta":{"_sitemap_exclude":false,"_sitemap_priority":"","_sitemap_frequency":"","footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-755","page","type-page","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/755","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=755"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/755\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":758,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/755\/revisions\/758"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/519"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/659"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=755"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}