Sex Appeal: A Found Poem

I was thinking about the confused mash-up of media, sensation, product and role in JG Ballard’s The Atrocity Exhibition. The impact of the snippets we take in without context; that we stitch together ourselves behind the scenes to create strange, private narratives.

The assault of information and imagery has increased immensely since that book was written in the late 1960s. Many times a day social media gives us an abundance of raw sentiments, adverts and articles, and we process them all in parallel to real-world stimuli, hungers and emotions. To take it all in we skim-read, we focus on what draws the eye or persuades the dopamine receptors. What kind of stream of consciousness does that create? Continue reading “Sex Appeal: A Found Poem”

Postliminal

C.R. Dudley author Orchid's Lantern Press Blog

Everything is not
All is
Still
There is a ringing
In the air though
The bell was struck long ago

Now

A cold
Without harshness
A void
Without disappointment
And
A pregnant pause
Like a rollercoaster
Suspended
Poised to dive

Then

Breathe with me
Make the sounds
Vibrate the
I…
A…
O…
Echoes
Of the rhythm of life

And Finally

Nothing is
Nothing
Is not
Nothing
But
Postliminal

***

Fragments of Perception and Other Stories is now available in paperback and e-book! For the full blurb and purchasing options, please visit my books page.

Animus

An obscure little prose You have to build your difference, they say. 
You are divided for love. 
But I don’t know who you are. 
Do you know who I am? 
I can feel your fingers reaching out to me, 
so close to having material form it hurts 
like an unstruck sound in my heart.

You are surely a reflection, 
but when I look for you in the mirror 
the only me there is I. 
I project the idea onto all of my lovers,
trying to understand the shape of you, 
then when they are gone, I retract you
back into the darkness of shadow.

I saw you in the theatre last night. 
Three stages, three shows, three facets of you. 
I danced with each in my dreams.
You had raw, bleeding knees from the crawl;
an attempt to save yourself from fiction, no doubt.
But one tug on my necklace, one cry from within
and I knew the fall was real. 

Like Osiris

How do I write you?

Your essence is somewhere

between the scribbled words

on the mountains

of screwed up paper sheets

in which I nest.

Are you a jigsaw?

I try a word from one attempt

with a sentence from another

to draft a new layout,

an alternative frame;

but still I can’t complete you.

Like Osiris, you are in fragments.

Cellophane

Pining, longing, desperate to grasp

But one gasp

And the connection is cut

The life supply removed

The flowers rot in their cellophane.

Distortions

image

We are the echoes
We are the distortions
Of the music
That reminds us of home
Of harmony
Of the centre
From which we emanated
But we can never actually be

We are embers of the fire
Us stars
We are short lived
Sparks of the main event
And yet
We glow

 

I am Shotgun

image

Out of the post blue
I am shotgun
At your side
Recurrently

We are forever entangled
Though we never speak
Of the oath we once took
It just is

A constant companion
In the back seat
It is no longer armed
But we still allow it
To hijack us

Across the uneven
Ground we go
For days at a time
Far from other souls

This is dry land
There is no nourishment
Here
But we come anyway

And then we go
Until the next time
I am shotgun

Eldritch

image

Do you ever feel as though you are looking directly at something, but it is just beyond your perception? An eldritch presence that you can sense through intuition and the hairs on your arms…

That is how I felt at the location of this photograph.

When I looked at it later, I saw a face in the bark of the tree left of centre. Then I saw two more in the same tree. Then I saw the outline of a figure by the tree on the far right hand side that looked ghostly or made of rock. Then I saw two or three shadows of people in the centre peering between the two trees. Each figure I saw felt more creepy than the last, because it had remained hidden for longer and therefore presented itself to me as more tricky and sinister.

This is the Pareidolia effect, which interests me so much I made a whole series of paintings to explore it.

Pareidolia is a psychological phenomenon involving a stimulus (an image or a sound) wherein the mind perceives a familiar pattern of something where none actually exists. Common examples are perceived images of animals, faces, or objects in cloud formations, the man in the moon, the moon rabbit, and hidden messages within recorded music played in reverse or at high- or lower-than normal speeds

It is the brain searching for something familiar in the obscure. In this case, probably searching for something remotely sensible to which I could ascribe this feeling of oddness and otherworld. Eerie the thought that there are not only things that are unknown to us, but also things that are unknowable.

image

Hanging on the edge
Of contact with the
Unknowable
It is the strangeness
That pulls you in
Not the phenomenon itself
But the eldritch aura it emits
It reels you in
The more you stare
The more it reels

To shake it off
Simply reaffirm
Your deep-seated belief
Of what is possible

To open unto it
Is to witness a thing
That will change you
Forever
Though
You may forget it

Instantly
(of course)
Due to its
Inherent oddity
That has no place
In a human mind

Allow yourself

To treasure

The peculiar

But

Allow yourself
To become fearful
And it will

Consume you

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