swallowing sound (11/April/18)

marbles in the night…… a rumbling, comes out of nowhere, suddenly there when before it wasn’t, my growing awareness gradual beyond its start point and then… when it begins I’ve never been certain seething out of silence as it does… it strains and sustains monotones somewhere not near enough though not far enough away that it can’t be heard, rarely changing pitch or tone or hue, continuous its sine wave leaching through the air with abandon, abandoned by its source… an undifferentiated applause……
… and then it’s gone…
… never hanging for too long but long enough to wonder… to make me wonder… but almost like a star which died millennia ago and whose light remains regardless… gone… returned to… nowhere, and a silence quickly crumples in on itself, retreating to a claustrophobic distance, enough to make my ears pop…… swallowing sound… press the button: reset……imploding assignations, a tryst unrequited, an impermeable impermanence, one fist clenching… … … .. .. .. . .

© 2018 robert greig

measuring a thought (14/March/18)

the wind is like a scratch, an abrasion, a graze, gusts are contusions bruising the skin of the air that I breathe black and blue…. the wind scrapes and sores and scours… the wind weeps and cries and bellows, then yawns and dies and dies a last breath forgotten… the wind shakes, shudders, shivers, shambles and breaks, consumed by tantrums then resigned to exhaustion, sweet surrender… the wind grasps, grapples, scuffles wrestles only to conceded and recede… the wind is querulous…… the wind clings for dear life, a shape as undetermined as the sky… the wind is unrefined, cantankerously undefined, from one end to the other is like measuring a thought… the wind is a vandal, a hooligan, a thug… the wind is an artist, a sculptor, a dancer, sprayer of Aeolian graffiti, composer of the tonal and atonal…… the wind is a linguist, an acrobat, a juggler… the wind is a fugitive, an anarchist, a misanthrope… the wind is mischievous, flippant, diffident… the wind if serious, intentional and often inconsolable and never confessional… the wind is push and pull, give and take, heave and ho, warp and weft, wilful, disobedient, irascible……there’s wind that sometimes comes with rain, sometimes on its own, whipping waves, stripping soil, sweeping sand in scatterings of dust as it throws itself away… the wind is suicidal… the wind is well-groomed, unkempt, orderly,  ill-mannered, organised disorganised, well-versed and unrehearsed… the wind is inviting and ominous, coiled as a snake unravelling, in a spiral in a gyre down the chimney fans the fire, sleep and wakes, sleeps and wakes and while it sleeps it waits… the wind is hesitation and impatience…

© 2016 robert greig

ghostbusker (17/Feb/18)

…. from out of nowhere but not nowhere… here I go again with my ‘wheres’… came adrift, detached, homeless, a tune, a song yes, a song it seems apparently apparitionally from nowhere… not nowhere, from inside of the locked and closed shopping mall drifting down a spacious empty between shop now finished for the day lifted as it seemed by the absence of hearers, of listeners, of audience to bear witness, leaking out between the rails of the black painted wrought iron gates, each with a single tiny fleur-de-lys adorning unforgiving swirls burdened with their padlocks denying entry to all not made of air or tiny cats perhaps… there were no tiny cats…… the ghost of a busker played singularly mournful for no one and yet anyone, as it happened, me stood as I happened on by at this time of night…
I couldn’t place its source or point of origin as I peered through the gate straining, even when I cocked my head to the left and then the right, as owls do to locate prey pinpoint precise, I still couldn’t locate this emanation… I’m not an owl… I stopped my breath hoping for greater clarity, to glean a little more of why this tuneful apparition chose to play that tune at this time, feels the need to busk it so at that time of the night with no soul else in sight and oblivious to me…
as mournful as a pibroch this phantom of the busk swept away the silence that would otherwise have been the only inhabitant at that time of the night and instead filling it with fragile hues of melody as though out of nowhere, and yet this wasn’t nowhere… it was somewhere, a where where the ghostbusker haunts his or her tunes weaving molecules of air from absence…

© 2018 robert greig