Cold it's on a warm day!

Cold it's on a warm day!

I remember only one, no two moments
when the topic was raised, packed emotion.

One, as a young child,
my Sister, my Nana, something about
a Tattoo. Shivering.

Two, older. My Mother
waited, with the video unplayed,
for me to visit, to watch it.
Spielberg film.

Also, I'm circumcised.
Do I qualify for a schism?

Out my Window, holes in the ground.
Men with wheel-barrows, spikes,
metal poles, sheets of sharp black mesh,
their smallest dimension: eight feet;
tools. All the ingredients
to make big fences

this is all happening now

big fences that begin and end
in other fences. Fenced in,
I'm witnessing it.
One is almost new, ugly, hated.
The other old, small, known..

Out my other window, The Wide Grass, cut
one eye to the other it goes, on
to where our copse of trees forms
a playhouse, guards the corner.
I see its future, rights-of-way squeezed
into a half-doughnut, backing
into bruised trees. Cursing.
Drunken detours.

Injury. Rough cuttings.
Something feels like colditz,
and did I get a letter? Maybe,
processed in some past recycling.
I had nothing to do with it, then.
Evidence eliminated!
The bag blew away!
But maybe I want to. Now.
Take some big scissor, and chop it down.
No! Paused there,
So that makes three.
I had nothing to do with it.

it's the price of peace,
I can work with it.

;o)

FRIDAY Nov 14, 2008


This is actually happening as I blog, watching the fence-builders; I remember a poem from my childhood, two farmers that meet, once a year, to repair the damage between the stone wall separating their land. Outside, being erected right now, is the third and by far the most ambitious, local fence, actually joins together two existing fences, struck me most poetic-like.

Sister, Mother, Nana. You got that, right? it's about me and women, and woman in me. it's about three individual barriers to being, that coalesce over time, in the mind. And more, when I can pin that stuff down (it's a bit like sketching moving butterflies, first time around).

Fence one is the part of the original Logie fencing, less than waist-high, simple boundary. The second, a semi-hexagonal blueprint for what-was-to-come-has, already encompassing three of four sides of the oldest, smallest (only two houses!) and most charming block in the heighbourhood, which, believe it or not, my Nana lived in as a child - Most locals don't even have this fact, by the way, so keep it to yourself as long as you can! Mum's the word. I'm trying to be humble in the real world, see; as balance. Anyway, they're gonna knock most of it down soon enough. And it struck me most poetic-like.

And so there you have it (I have this code where I aim to stick to my word, teaching me how to say "No", because when you do the numbers, you can't say Yes to everyone. As some emailers will know, I often say No in the politest of ways); actual, as-it-happens, shareware poetry. As promised. First Draft. In future, I may or more likely may not take up blogspace with this stuff, much more likely I'll create sections on-site inside /words/, drop stuff in sneaky0like, from the get-go, originals.

Actually, I already started that, some time ago, and do archive the trickle of mail it generates. Thank you. I'm keen to know about your feelings when you read it aloud. How it feels in your mouth and face, and/or in your other feelings and thoughts. I'm nosey, and know that in the indernet numbers game, someone will indulge me. Because I deserve it!

I'm also really keen; as with my other stuff; to see where you upload it! I promise I won't charge; unless you are mega-corp and take the piss. I like to be among the first to know when my jism is being spread around, as it were, if you've got a minute, ta. it's way better than all those, "Cor! Have you seen this site ripping you off!" emails. Tell-tales! No, please, keep doing that! I like that! heheh.

The banging is becoming irritating, my noise barrier on full, which is dense on the ears, and I'm getting chills. I must sleep.

I'll post this tomorrow.

:o) The Writing Entity @ corz.org

shareware poetry

it's that time of year again, where I count up all the donations and pay for my wee bundle of domains. I'm clearly gonna have to cut back!

And I really fancied owning shareware-poetry.org, too, cuz it's gunna be HUGE! Like software, only poetry. You get updates.

Okay, I only thought of the domain name just now, but still, the idea is sound. Also it's available, the domain, so feel free to piss me off and buy it tonight, which I won't be doing. I mean it, go ahead! I've only just gotten over the first time it happened to me, a decade ago, and I could probably do with a re-charge!

Seriously, words can change, shift over time, see, and not just for the reader. Getting a thing pinned down can be trapping wild animals, and learning something every day as we do, tomorrow can provide insight; you can change the past this way, and poetry, too.

You can grow out of poems, burn years of work in a single bonfire, and those words are lost, though a younger soul somewhere may care not that I was vain, or am now, or anything else about me, simply that those words, placed as they were, were as useful to them as they once were to me; or more so. Or rather, would have been. Sorry. Shareware poetry protects against data loss! The internet can work like a backup, see, sorta. it's amazing the crap people will archive. I know. More likely, I'll come back to something I've written and think, "that's total shite", and it's gone.

Unlike software, poetry's not 99% perspiration, by any means; sometimes none, popping out with all their fingers and toes, heart and brain fully formed. But it can be maybe Ninety, and that might be fun, for you, too, if the poet was up for it, which I am.

Anyway, There's still a lot of indernet land, real-estate-wise, and still cheap enough to start a fresh plot wherever imagination and whim might take us. Och, in truth, it would probably sit empty for a year, a Nine-Dollar post-it, looking like one of those signposts stuck in a field, "To Be Developed" or somesuch. I should maybe just buy more post-it's, and do it instead. It all seems to end up here, anyway.

Poetry is often developed, by which I mean nothing more fancy than the poet arranging their words into patterns that provide a clearer image, or greater clarity of vision, more better usefulness, or whatever else we're up to; sculpting, wrestling, and then writing that down. They can come full circle, in time. The act of all this arranging and writing, is doing poetry, I guess. The poem is what's left over, abandoned, for now.

I mostly like to think of myself as a maker of useful tools that I give away freely, and that goes for most of what I do. Ideas are bound by the law of attraction, like anything else, and cost nothing to have, well.. As with software, in the absence of a corporate team; I like to put work into the background for a spell, come back to it a different human. I don't mind a decade to perfect a piece*, if such were possible, There's always another meantime.

Note: If you meet me at a party and ask me "What do you do for a living?", I will instantly think you are boring. I'm sorry, it's just the way I am, it's a weakness. But I might have had a few drinks, stay and say, "I'm a poet" - because you have to be drunk to declare it. I don't want to say it; not only because I'm not entirely sure that it's true, or even what it means, but because I know that the next thing you will say, with 90% probability, is, "Are you published?". And then I'll know you're boring. it's a test, see. Then you'll miss out on all the freebie "Oh Doctor, I have this pain right here" stuff, and probably some free tech and fun. Or whatever. No, the problem is actually that I like to get 99% of other humans as humanly far away from me as possible! Actually, I'm quite gregarious, but rarely do I miss the opportunity for a good gag, which amounts to the same thing, really. Or maybe I'm deadly serious at all times. Who knows? Only the work can really stand, if it stands at all. Is this rubbish a part of that? I guess it is, now. And of course, you might not be boring.

To a slightly different question I might reply, "I'm an artist.". And at particular times of the month, "A singer", or "writer", even "songwriter". You see the dilemma. I might also say, "Developer", but not if your hot. My favourite reply is, "I'm a poet", because it's as true as anything, and quicker. Hey, life's short!

I used to put out paper, pamphlets in small print runs. And while that's good and fun and exciting and inky and more; it's final in ways that can kill a good lyric, at least stunt it. I like words free, like software can be, where updates are good, and you want them. Physical materials are no longer required to write a poem; like software; creative time given freely, is enough.

I would slip out the odd v2 or v3 in shorter runs, and Bwa Ha Ha! at how amazingly revolutionary I was being, what delicate anarchy! But it's not efficient, not like making desktop programs and web tools can be efficient, at all stages. Those tools I give away and people use. that's good. It all goes around. I want my software free, and bug-free, as do you, I'm sure.

And like software, maybe the journey to final completion is valuable, hence the idea of shareware poetry. I've watched myself cut whole chunks that I genuinely enjoyed, useful, pleasurable stuff that rolled off the tongue and rhymed Fibonacci-style, because it was slacking, or sitting no more than looking pretty, and maybe someone somewhere was meant to read that, and Oh FUCK! So maybe, depending, a domain, and then maybe something else.. Who knows what tomorrow may bring? Could be a Thousand Pounds! Or better yet, I just say, "Hey! Let's do shareware poetry, and then do some.". And that's what this blogis alla bout you'llsee.

Hey, I'm not fucking with ya! Most of these babies have nagged and sometimes screamed at me for months, some even years, a word or much more out of place, an image that screws with the math of the piece, topples it, functions returning incorrect data types! This means long beta periods! Poems can be like unwanted pregnancies you could wish away if you really want to, but don't, because having seen their soul, you know that with time and effort, their form could be magnificent, priceless. I mainly like to do things I know are beyond me, so someday soon they won't be. The "soon" part is flexible.**

To create the perfect hammer for a single nail, can be an infuriating process, agonizing, joyful; like making software good, and maybe even, who knows? Great. It takes time, and patience, and a lot, I mean a lot of work. I'm glad you like it, thanks.

The software, that is. You probably haven't seen a lot of the other stuff, relatively speaking. it's a long long story, though I have noticed myself more and more these days slipping random pieces up the org, tucking them away for seekers and stumblers. No More! I'm not fucking with ya - here's a free download, right now..

	Neighbours got a trampoline.

	Neighbours got a trampoline,
	like a wee Disneyland, where
	you can throw yersel up in the air,
	attract visitors. Boing!

	There is no such thing as perfect peace,
	if there ever was it got diseased,
	incessant din inventing centuries.
	Everything has a noise. Potentially.

	There is good noise, and there is bad noise.
	The bouncing, boing, the kids squeal, the
	laughter, and bumps, bruises, tears,
	these are good noises.

	Not Ghetto-blasters, though.
	
	© corz.org 05-08

Yeah, it still needs work.

for now..

:o) The Writing Entity @ corz.org

p.s. It really is like shareware, and it won't bite you! Feel free to rip it right off this page and print it***, even slip it through the door of an actual neighbour!