JiscMail Logo
Email discussion lists for the UK Education and Research communities

Help for BRITISH-IRISH-POETS Archives


BRITISH-IRISH-POETS Archives

BRITISH-IRISH-POETS Archives


BRITISH-IRISH-POETS@JISCMAIL.AC.UK


View:

Message:

[

First

|

Previous

|

Next

|

Last

]

By Topic:

[

First

|

Previous

|

Next

|

Last

]

By Author:

[

First

|

Previous

|

Next

|

Last

]

Font:

Proportional Font

LISTSERV Archives

LISTSERV Archives

BRITISH-IRISH-POETS Home

BRITISH-IRISH-POETS Home

BRITISH-IRISH-POETS  1998

BRITISH-IRISH-POETS 1998

Options

Subscribe or Unsubscribe

Subscribe or Unsubscribe

Log In

Log In

Get Password

Get Password

Subject:

a process and about process

From:

"I.Lightman" <[log in to unmask]>

Reply-To:

I.Lightman

Date:

Tue, 7 Jul 1998 15:38:44 -0400 (EDT)

Content-Type:

TEXT/PLAIN

Parts/Attachments:

Parts/Attachments

TEXT/PLAIN (105 lines)



		for friends work
		on happy un
		remedial strike out
		pp          or
		find work n
		hap n remedia
		strike out yourself


The truth of a process makes sense to and among those at the end of the         
process, where the transcription of thought on the page is a clean mirror       
to both writer and readers, writer as s/he writes, reader as s/he reads;        
the book unwritten is the look that speaks volumes between and among such.      
                                                                                
This so rare that most of us do in the name of more, ever more, vocal and       
verbal, dropped out of empathy then yanked back, the lack of us in "you-you"    
the vocation of study, time out.                                                
                                                                                
Oscar does not believe that art is being and thought is ugliness. He says so    
as in his day was no art and thought. Those who use Freud as if he were         
himself as benign and liberational as they do what he did not put sex against   
the ban on sex, power against stable.                                           
                                                                                
Such sects! Lift up hearts, prey on. The dream can only create if sleep is      
not for the provision of rest, o day for rest and night for study. Bade the     
body. The good faith goads the intellect setting the church of our agenda       
which, fulfilled, burns. We digest the stone and break into a jog.              
                                                                                
Dream breathing. Think, your very heart beating is bleeding and the blood       
next to come is bleeding into your heart, the oxygen is bleeding to become      
blood, the folks with beating blood are beating the air only. Dream wing.       
                                                                                
All every night walk by the venue in their heads where perfect truth of         
process plays the energy of creation. All have greater artists than             
Shakespeare to meet, but avery eye, don't converse, few attend, few             
remember, we are special in knowing we're special not especially.               
                                                                                
The perfect dreamer in all, in each, not a speaking to us all. Few go to        
sleep with the energy to mingle. I know I'm not alone in this. Shakespeare      
the artist in history, fifty of the sixteenth and seventeenth hundreds of       
years, everyone is Shakespeare.                                                 
                                                                                
The dead can dance. Dreams trot through our excuses, scared to knock such       
vital guards. The fear's not explained till the dream's not come back           
against twenty such sentries. Step out of the stage and into the tubes.         
                                                                                
Stick to your gun till you blow off your head, walk again on your legs no       
one else's, carry your seed as she grows in your arms, out of your pain, let    
her, away from your pain. Think well of yourself, use your hands, get a grip,   
on the non-carnal gun.                                                          
                                                                                
So many arms, swinging under the noosed throats, the unspoken carried on so     
many legs. Like dream life's accidents, vile, we dream nearer and nearer, the   
guard hangs in the air, twitching, tapping. We feel bumped into until, joy,     
we are alive.                                                                   
                                                                                
The ambient never wake up. Like you don't. You begin to ban humour and          
alcohol, the mares buck and head for the guards in new hope. Rest is not it,    
without truth towards process towards truth.                                    
                                                                                
If you're still reading, no-one's got anything. Some *should* let thoughts      
fester in the mind, process the festering. I know mortally the years from       
when I was born, each day the unit of measurement cuts history into me-sized    
portions, knowing ledges. I dodder to think the art of it.                      
                                                                                
Sophocles mortal braved Freud, now so less winning. The Freud-led walk through  
him, more to hurt that if they'd gone by him, on every shelf in every           
flame-stricken library? Mind how you go. Excavate Plato, afraid to go out,      
for dream research.                                                             
                                                                                
Nothing like life to keep you from dying, the nerves are steel strings, loud    
acoustic. Song begins the vibration, words reason the entry, into society,      
largely worthy of nothing so clarity!                                           
                                                                                
Be you once, the harsh heart sooner or timely, a slick into two dimensions,     
of prose, this nuisance is losing its once fascination, the pattern returns     
to its usual dynamic. Think in the two, drink in the third, things they don't   
want to reveal indicate why do you say that.                                    
                                                                                
I get it. Draw on planes, repairing the prairie, the gasses from the busses,    
the hole us. Destroy two to save three. The hurt behind the face understood     
yields to surf on the face again.                                               
                                                                                
The month from a flame that took our collection, from our senses, and           
flashed a banner over a dish of a dominant hemisphere, the northern, a cap      
with the bill right in front of our eyes. A missable interactive experience,    
a miserable sky made it so.                                                     
                                                                                
Is cool holodeck sky? I sensed it cambe back to my name, but a short therapist  
circuits the patient, tree dimensional. I'll take my "clumsiness", I didn't     
dream "it" up, I ride broken in the bumps of a world I ought never to have      
believed was mine only thought. Alive-in world.                                 
                                                                                
The process of a sense makes truth to and among those at the head of a          
process, where the transcription of truth on the page is a claimed mirror to    
both writers and reader, writer as reader as utter; the book unsmitten is       
the look that speaks volumes between and among such.  




%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

Top of Message | Previous Page | Permalink

JiscMail Tools


RSS Feeds and Sharing


Advanced Options


Archives

April 2020
March 2020
February 2020
January 2020
December 2019
November 2019
October 2019
September 2019
August 2019
July 2019
June 2019
May 2019
April 2019
March 2019
February 2019
January 2019
December 2018
November 2018
October 2018
September 2018
August 2018
July 2018
June 2018
May 2018
April 2018
March 2018
February 2018
January 2018
December 2017
November 2017
October 2017
September 2017
August 2017
July 2017
June 2017
May 2017
April 2017
March 2017
February 2017
January 2017
December 2016
November 2016
October 2016
September 2016
August 2016
July 2016
June 2016
May 2016
April 2016
March 2016
February 2016
January 2016
December 2015
November 2015
October 2015
September 2015
August 2015
July 2015
June 2015
May 2015
April 2015
March 2015
February 2015
January 2015
December 2014
November 2014
October 2014
September 2014
August 2014
July 2014
June 2014
May 2014
April 2014
March 2014
February 2014
January 2014
December 2013
November 2013
October 2013
September 2013
August 2013
July 2013
June 2013
May 2013
April 2013
March 2013
February 2013
January 2013
December 2012
November 2012
October 2012
September 2012
August 2012
July 2012
June 2012
May 2012
April 2012
March 2012
February 2012
January 2012
December 2011
November 2011
October 2011
September 2011
August 2011
July 2011
June 2011
May 2011
April 2011
March 2011
February 2011
January 2011
December 2010
November 2010
October 2010
September 2010
August 2010
July 2010
June 2010
May 2010
April 2010
March 2010
February 2010
January 2010
December 2009
November 2009
October 2009
September 2009
August 2009
July 2009
June 2009
May 2009
April 2009
March 2009
February 2009
January 2009
December 2008
November 2008
October 2008
September 2008
August 2008
July 2008
June 2008
May 2008
April 2008
March 2008
February 2008
January 2008
December 2007
November 2007
October 2007
September 2007
August 2007
July 2007
June 2007
May 2007
April 2007
March 2007
February 2007
January 2007
2006
2005
2004
2003
2002
2001
2000
1999
1998
1997


JiscMail is a Jisc service.

View our service policies at https://www.jiscmail.ac.uk/policyandsecurity/ and Jisc's privacy policy at https://www.jisc.ac.uk/website/privacy-notice

Secured by F-Secure Anti-Virus CataList Email List Search Powered by the LISTSERV Email List Manager