Nalizok Poem Collection

A Nameless Universe

2006-11-14T17:30:00.000-08:00

In the Beginning

In a swirling mist
Where evil gaseous islands glow
from afar, faintly green
There is only spectral dust,
And Anti-Matter, the other side of dust.

The Forming of an Idea

Someone decides, or maybe no-one,
Maybe a nonentity decides not,
That this world of aimlessly floating particles
Is too little, or too much of it.
Organization is the key!

Grains group

Particles have a tendency to get together
Grouping. Sociophysical forces.
Gas becomes dust, dust grains
Grains group and form spheres
Ellipsoid shapes, flattened at the poles.

The Dawning of a Universe

Boiling lava things, bubbling
Spurting jets of incandescent plasma
Yawning abysses, vastness of black space
The very big bodies are suns and stars,
The smaller ones, the planets!

Coda

This is the universe, a tapestry of matter,
Woven on the black background
Of perfect nothingness, and dark matter, and gas.
The Universe, ever expanding, yet always collapsing.
A breathing place. A promising place?
I like it, says the professor, my son a student here.

The Silent Mould Man

2006-10-12T15:23:00.000-07:00

Mycelia,
Masses of spores,
a downy coating,
on patches furry, even.

The silent man of mould
Greenish-glowing , sickly-smelling
Constant rot, from time to time
A leg comes off, an arm,
Or part of his face.

He carries on,
Sits by his record player
Listening to Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau
In his cave.

The mould man,
The starry one.
A man with dreams,
A man of few words.
His son is a student.

The Cave under the House on the Island

2006-10-10T15:45:00.000-07:00

The sea is a sea of swirling mists
A strange, high house sits on its island, a rocky one
The Rocky Island in the Sea of Mists
hosts a cave, under the house.

This is a cave with walls of rock
Entered through a trapdoor
In the oaken floor of the strange high house
Which sits on its island, the rocky one.

At night, when the mists swirl slightly more,
And the house groans and creaks,
And the sea winds play around the dark gables of the high house.
The cave stays quiet, except for dripping sounds.

Drip, drip, drip,
And then a pause.
Drip, drip, drip, and drip
A hushed silence, then it drips again.

The house is dark, and wet, and cold,
For no-one lives there, only spectres.
The cave under the house is wet and cold
But not dark, for the fungi living there emit a greenish glow.

The fungi light shines not unheeded,
For there are mould-creatures,
Who walk about the many forking paths,
Who walk about so silently, and never speak a word.

The Ego's Host

2006-09-03T06:28:00.000-07:00

"The Ego
Will never let you kill it's host."
Someone said that to me
And I will never forget.

Let me ask you:
What exactly is
"The Ego"?
And who is the Ego's host?

And where is the House
Where the Ego's host dwells.
A house in the Woods of Id
Where the Ego and its host sit.

Oh Ego!
What a kind, benevolent being
You must be!
Fierce protector of your host!

Am I not
My Ego's host?
Will I be forever protected
By my Ego?

Gardens of Machine Culture

2006-08-07T13:44:00.000-07:00

These are the Gardens of the Machine Culture;
They are peaceful, proud, serene.
No cars, few roads.
Transportation of goods or people
Has no importance.

The cycleopean rocks
Are there to protect the factories,
The trees clean the air,
The factories make music.
A low humming, which fills the air.

At night, the cicadas sing their song,
Accompanied by winged transistors.
The song of the Mood Organ Factory.
Nearby the Clavichord Manufactury,
Which emits slight clanking noises.

Of people, there are few.
They do not go moving about.
They know that they must do their work.
Like the trees, the rocks, the factories.
Their work: to read old manuscripts.

The old manuscripts are stored
In climatized libraries.
Libraries in the disguise of rocks.
This is where the humans spend
The longest parts of their days.

Only in the evening mists
One can see them having their strolls.
Very soon, when the night comes,
They go to their quarters,
Where they sleep,
A quiet humming noise singing their dreams.

The Dweller in the Cave

2006-05-02T16:00:00.000-07:00

I live in a cave
A deep, cavernous cave
With grey walls
Covered with fungi
Of all sorts, and of evil smells.

My long white hair covers my behind
My long white beard covers the front of my body
The amassed hair makes me look bigger than I really am
I look like a hairy body with half a face
And horny feed, which portrude
I kill every one who enters my cave.

But people have stopped entering my cave
They use the entry phone to rile me.
Their voices sound hollow, booming, resonant,
Inside the cave.
My voice sounds tinny
through the cheap loudspeaker
Outside the cave.

I spend my waking and my sleeping hours on a sofa
When I dream, I dream of railway stations
When I am awake, I think about death.
The sofa will absorb all of my wetness
I will remain a furry bag of leather
And my bones will rattle inside, when I am shaken.

Civilization

2006-03-03T05:23:00.000-08:00

The Bible has known
For aeons
That civilization is bad
The cradle of evil.

It is bad when people sit together
On one spot, for too long.
Nearly all cities in the Bible
Are bad and rotten and sinful

Like Enoch, founded by Cain
After having slain his brother
Because he was loved more by God.
Founded, before there where people around.

Gadara, Gehenna, Sodom, Gomorra
Hellfire, Sodomy, Adultery
Dancing around Idols.
Foolery of all kinds.

These are pastimes
Enjoyed by O so many people.
They want to make it in the cities.
They dislike solitude.

They prefer a swirl of artificial colours,
And the ever-changing world of technology,
To the gently shifting daylight,
And the timelessness of art.

The Insurance Salesperson's New Pitch

2006-02-19T05:32:00.000-08:00

I used to go to people
And ask them
What will happen,
When you die?
Your friends and relatives will mourn,
Unconsolable grief.
But for little money a month,
You can give them wealth,
A house, security.
You will die, but they
Will be happy.
Is that not worth
The small expense?

I traveled from town to town
And seldom found a customer.

Then a friend told me:
How you proceed is wrong:
Do not tell people
they must care for others.
Tell them: by insuring your life,
You cheat death.
You control others,
Even when dead,
With a little money.
With testamentary stipulations.
You can force someone
who survived you
To tend your grave.
Look after your pet.
Shingle the roof of your house.
A house, unlived in,
But ever in good repair.
This way, you will live on.

I have tried this new pitch.
And it has worked well.
Now I am a successful salesperson.
Look at that little emblem on my lapel.

But happy I am not.
For, by taking the fear of death from others.
I have now become afraid
Of death myself.

The House of The Murderer

2006-02-18T17:10:00.000-08:00

"I want a house"
Says the murderer to the contractor
"With thick walls, so that no one
Will hear my victims scream.
And I want a cellar
With many rooms
which I will call
The dungeons,
dark and clammy,
With rings of iron
Set into the masonry
So fast that not the most
Crazed of fright will
Be able to come free,
Once attached to one of
Those rings with the
Heaviest of chains.
In one of those dungeons."

"I can do that."
Says the contractor
"But it will cost."

"Because one house
With one cellar will not suffice.
Has that occured to you?
What will you do when your
House is filled with dead and
Mutilated occupants?
You will need another House.
And another, and another."

"No that won't do."
The murderer says.
"Just build several stories of cellar,
As many stories of cellar
Under ground,
As floors above."

In the Company of Clowns

2006-02-18T04:57:00.000-08:00

Clowns,
While having fun,
Are also sad.
This everybody knows.
What about mass murderers,
And sociopaths?
What is it with them?
Have they fun at work,
And sadness overcomes them afterwards?

Or is it the other way round,
Asks the clown with the square nose,
And the tin can on his head.
Are they sad and miserable,
When doing their business,
And do they elate afterwards,
When they are alone,
Cackling with glee over their deeds?

This is a mystery,
And cannot be solved,
Says the white clown.

Coffebreak at the Circus

2006-02-15T07:14:00.000-08:00

The clown says, weary
"I always make fun".
The lion-tamer:
"I am never afraid".
The magician says:
"The truth is, I always cheat"
The lioness, in her cage, growls:
"I want to eat people,
but above all,
I want to be left in peace"

Degrees of Brilliance

2006-02-14T16:46:00.000-08:00

Somebody fails,
But in a brilliant way.
While someone else succeeds,
but without a special idea.
Why would people say,
Someone is brilliant,
Someone else has mere technique.
Why would they rate
Mind more important than matter,
Idea stronger than fact.
A questioning child looks at that
And knows immediately,
What works,
And what not.
It is only grown up humans who think
To fail brilliantly is more brilliant
Than to succeed with no idea.

What is more brilliant?
A trainwreck
Or a living blade of grass?

Degrees of brilliance:
To fail.
To fail in a special way.
To succeed,
To succeed in a special way,
To find failure in success.