文案,个人收藏。转自 凡一

iCow与多多
2008-07-29 看过
   You say to the boy open your eyes
   When he opens his eyes and sees the light
   You make him cry out. Saying
   O Blue come forth
   O Blue arise
   O Blue ascend
   O Blue come in
  
  I am sitting with some friends in this cafe drinking coffee served by young refugees from Bosnia. The war rages across the newspapers and through the ruined streets of Sarajevo.
  
  Tania said 'Your clothes are on back to front and inside out". Since there were only two of us there I took them off and put them right then and there. I am always here before the doors open.
  
  What need of so much news from abroad while all that concerns either life or death is all transacting and at work within me.
  
  I step off the kerb and a cyclist nearly knocks me down. Flying in from the dark he nearly parted my hair.
  
  I step into a blue funk.
  
  The doctor in St. Bartholomew's Hospital thought he could detect lesions in my retina - the pupils dilated with belladonna - the torch shone into them with a terrible blinding light.
  
   Look left
   Look down
   Look up
   Look right
  
   Blue flashes in my eyes.
  
   Blue Bottle buzzing
   Lazy days
   The sky blue butterfly
   Sways on the cornflower
   Lost in the warmth
   Of the blue heat haze
   Singing the blues
   Quiet and slowly
  
   Blue of my heart
   Blue of my dreams
   Slow blue love
   Of delphinium days
  
  Blue is the universal love in which man bathes - it is the terrestrial paradise.
  
   I'm walking along the beach in a howling gale -
   Another year is passing
   In the roaring waters
   I hear the voices of dead friends
   Love is life that lasts forever.
   My hearts memory turns to you
   David. Howard. Graham. Terry. Paul....
  
   But what if this present
   Were the world's last night
   In the setting sun your love fades
   Dies in the moonlight
   Fails to rise
   Thrice denied by cock crow
   In the dawn's first light
  
   Look left
   Look down
   Look up
   Look right
   The camera flash
   Atomic bright
   Photos
   The CMV - a green moon then the world turns magenta
   My retina
   Is a distant planet
   A red Mars
   From a Boy's Own comic
   With yellow infection
   Bubbling at the corner
   I said this looks like a planet
   The doctor says - "Oh, I think
   It looks like a pizza"
  
  The worst of the illness is uncertainty. I've played this scenario back and forth each hour of the day for the last six years.
  Blue transcends the solemn geography of human limits.
  
   I am home with the blinds drawn
   H.B. is back from Newcastle
   But gone out - the washing
   Machine is roaring away
   And the fridge is defrosting
   These are his favourite sounds
  
  I've been given the option of being an in-patient at the hospital or to coming in twice a day to be hooked to a drip. My vision will never come back.
  
  The retina is destroyed, though when the bleeding stops what is left of my sight might improve. I have to come to terms with sightlessness.
  
  If I loose my sight will my vision be halved?
  
  The virus rages fierce. I have no friends now who are not dead or dying. Like a blue frost it caught them. At work, at the cinema, on marches and beaches. In churches on their knees, running, flying, silent or shouting protest.
  
  It started with sweats in the night and swollen glands. Then the black cancer spread across their faces - as they fought for breath TB and pneumonia hammered their lungs, and Toxo at the brain. Reflexes scrambled - sweat poured through hair matter like lianas in the tropical forest. Voices slurred - and then were lost forever. My pen chased this story across the page tossed this way and that in the storm.
  
   The blood of sensibility is blue
   I consecrate myself
   To find its most perfect expression
  
   My sight failed a little more in the night
   H.B. offers me his blood
   It will kill everything he says
  
   The drip of DHPG
   Trills like a canary
  
  I am accompanied by a shadow into which H.B. appears and disappears. I have lost the sight on the periphery of my right eye.
  
  I hold out my hands before me and slowly part them. At a certain moment they disappear out of the corner of my eyes. This is how I used to see. Now if I repeat the motion this is all I see.
  
  I shall not win the battle against the virus - in spite of the slogans like "Living with AIDS". The virus was appropriated by the well - so we have to live with AIDS while they spread the quilt for the moths of Ithaca across the wine dark sea.
  
  Awareness is heightened by this, but something else is lost. A sense of reality drowned in theatre.
  
  Thinking blind, becoming blind.
  
  In the hospital it is as quiet as a tomb. The nurse fights to find a vein in my right arm. We give up after five attempts. Would you faint if someone stuck a needle into your arm? I've got used to it - but I still shut my eyes.
  
  The Gautama Buddha instructs me to walk away from illness. But he wasn't attached to a drip.
  
   Fate is the strongest
   Fate Fated Fatal
   I resign myself to Fate
   Blind Fate
   The drip stings
   A lump swells up in my arm
   Out comes the drip
   An electric shock sparks up my arm
  
   How can I walk away with a drip attached to me?
   How am I going to walk away from this?
  
   I fill this room with the echo of many voices
   Who passed time here
   Voices unlocked from the blue of the long dried paint
   The sun comes and floods this empty room
   I call it my room
   My room has welcomed many summers
   Embraced laughter and tears
   Can it fill itself with your laughter
   Each word a sunbeam
   Glancing in the light
   This is the song of My Room
  Blue stretches, yawns and is awake.
  
  There is a photo in the newspaper this morning of refugees leaving Bosnia. They look out of time. Peasant women with scarves and black dresses stepped from the pages of an older Europe. One of them has lost her three children.
  
  Lightning flickers through the hospital window - at the door an elderly woman stands waiting for the rain to clear. I ask her if I can give her a lift, I've hailed a taxi. "Can you take me to Holborn tube?" On the way she breaks down in tears. She has come from Edinburgh. Her son is in the ward - he has meningitis and has lost the use of his legs - I'm helpless as the tears flow. I can't see her. Just the sound of her sobbing.
  
   One know the whole world
   Without stirring abroad
   Without looking out of the window
   One can see the way of heaven
   The further one goes
   The less one knows
  
   In the pandemonium of image
   I present you with the universal Blue
   Blue an open door to soul
   An infinite possibility
   Becoming tangible
  
  Here I am again in the waiting room. Hell on Earth is a waiting room. Here you know you are not in control of yourself, waiting for your name to be called: "712213". Here you have no name, confidentiality is nameless. Where is 666? Am I sitting opposite him/her? Maybe 666 is the demented woman switching the channels on the TV.
  
   What do I see
   Past the gates of conscience
   Activists invading Sunday Mass
   In the cathedral
   An epic Czar Ivan denouncing the
   Patriarch of Moscow
   A moon-faced boy who spits and repeatedly
   Crosses himself - as he genuflects
   Will the pearly gates slam shut in
   The faces of the devout
  
  The demented woman is discussing needles - there is always a discussion here. She has a line put into her neck.
  How are we perceived, if we are to be perceived at all? For the most part we are invisible.
  
  If the doors of perception were cleansed then everything would be seen as it is.
  
  The dog barks, the caravan passes.
  Marco Polo stumbles across the Blue Mountain.
  
  Marco Polo stops and sits on a lapis throne by the River Oxus while he is ministered to by the descendants of Alexander the Great. The caravan approaches, blue canvasses fluttering in the wind. Blue people from over the sea - ultramarine - have come to collect the lapis with its flecks of gold.
  The road to the city of Aqua Vitae is protected by a labyrinth built from crystals and mirrors which in the sunlight cause terrible blindness. The mirrors reflect each of your betrayals, magnify them and drive you into madness.
  
  Blue walks into the labyrinth. Absolute silence is demanded to all its visitors, so their presence does not disturb the poets who are directing the excavations. Digging can only proceed on the calmest of days as rain and wind destroy the finds.
  
  The archaeology of sound has only just been perfected and the systematic cataloguing of words has until recently been undertaken in a haphazard way. Blue watched as a word or phrase materialised in scintillating sparks, a poetry of fire which casts everything into darkness with the brightness of its reflections.
  
  As a teenager I used to work for the Royal National Institute for the Blind on their Christmas appeal for radios, with dear miss Punch, seventy years old, who used to arrive each morning on her Harley Davidson.
  
  She kept us on our toes. Her job as a gardener gave her time to spare in January. Miss Punch Leather Woman was the first out dyke I ever met. Closeted and frightened by my sexuality she was my hope. "Climb on, let's go for a ride." She looked like Edith Piaf, a sparrow, and wore a cock-eyed beret at a saucy angle. She bossed all the other old girls who came back year after year for her company.
  
  In the paper today. Three quarters of the AIDS organisations are not providing safer sex information. One district said they had no queers in their community, but you might try district X - they have a theatre.
  
  My sight seems to have closed in. The hospital is even quieter this morning. Hushed. I have a sinking feeling in my stomach. I feel defeated. My mind bright as a button but my body falling apart - a naked light bulb in a dark and ruined room. There is death in the air here but we are not talking about it. But I know the silence might be broken by distraught visitors screaming, "Help, Sister! Help Nurse!" followed by the sound of feet rushing along the corridor. Then silence.
  
   Blue protects white from innocence
   Blue drags black with it
   Blue is darkness made visible
   Blue protects white from innocence
   Blue drags black with it
   Blue is darkness made visible
  
  Over the mountains is the shrine to Rita, where all at the end of the line call. Rita is the Saint of the Lost Cause. The saint of all who are at their wit's end, who are hedged in and trapped by the facts of the world. These facts, detached from cause, trapped the Blue Eyed Boy in a system of unreality. Would all these blurred facts that deceive dissolve in his last breath? For accustomed to believing in image, an absolute idea of value, his world had forgotten the command of essence: Thou Shall Not Create Unto Thyself Any Graven Image, although you know the task is to fill the empty page. From the bottom of your heart, pray to be released from image.
  
  Time is what keeps the light from reaching us.
  
  The image is a prison of the soul, your heredity, your education, your vices and aspirations, your qualities, your psychological world.
  
   I have walked behind the sky.
   For what are you seeking?
   The fathomless blue of Bliss.
  
  To be an astronaut of the void, leave the comfortable house that imprisons you with reassurance.
  Remember,
  
  To be going and to have are not eternal - fight the fear that engenders the beginning, the middle and the end.
  
  For Blue there are no boundaries or solutions.
  
  How did my friends cross the cobalt river, with what did they pay the ferryman? As they set out for the indigo shore under this jet-black sky - some died on their feet with a backward glance. Did they see Death with the hell hounds pulling a dark chariot, bruised blue-black growing dark in the absence of light, did they hear the blast of trumpets?
  
  David ran home panicked on the train from Waterloo, brought back exhausted and unconscious to die that night. Terry who mumbled incoherently into his incontinent tears. Others faded like flowers cut by the scythe of the Blue Bearded Reaper, parched as the waters of life receded. Howard turned slowly to stone, petrified day by day, his mind imprisoned in a concrete fortress until all we could hear were his groans on the telephone circling the globe.
  
  Mad Vincent sits on his yellow chair clasping his knees to his chest - Bananas. The sunflowers wilt in the empty pot, bone dry, skeletal, the black seeds picked into the staring face of a Halloween pumpkin. He is unaware of Blue standing in the corner. Fevered eyes glare at the jaundiced corn, caw of the jet-black crows spiralling in the yellow. The lemon goblin stares from the unwanted canvasses thrown in a corner. Sourpuss suicide screams with evil - clasping cowardly Yellowbelly, slit eyed.
  
  Blue fights diseased Yellowbelly whose fetid breath scorches the trees yellow with ague. Betrayal is the oxygen of his devilry. He'll stab you in the back. Yellowbelly places a jaundiced kiss in the air, the stink of pubs blinds Blue's eyes. Evil swims in the yellow bile. Yellowbelly's snake eyes poison. He crawls over Eve's rotting apple wasp-like. Quick as a flash he stings Blue in the mouth - "AAAUGH!" - his hellish legion buzz and chuckle in the mustard gas. They'll piss all over you. Sharp nicotine-stained fangs bared. Blue transformed into an insectocutor, his Blue aura frying the foes.
  
   We all contemplated suicide
   We hoped for euthanasia
   We were lulled into believing
   Morphine dispelled pain
   Rather than making it tangible
   Like a mad Disney cartoon
   Transforming itself into
   Every conceivable nightmare
  
  Karl killed himself - how did he do it? I never asked. It seemed incidental. What did it matter if he swigged prussic acid or shot himself in the eye. Maybe he dived into the streets from high up in the cloud lapped skyscrapers.
  The nurse explains the implant. You mix the drugs and drip yourself once a day. The drugs are kept in a small fridge they give you. Can you imagine travelling around with that? The metal implant will set the bomb detector off in airports, and I can just see myself travelling to Berlin with a fridge under my arm.
  
   Impatient youths of the sun
   Burning with many colours
   Flick combs through hair
   In bathroom mirrors
   Fucking with fusion and fashion
   Dance in the beams of emerald lasers
   Mating on suburban duvets
   Cum splattered nuclear breeders
   What a time that was.
  
  The drip ticks out the seconds, the source of a stream along which the minutes flow, to join the river of hours, the sea of years and the timeless ocean.
  
  The side effects of DHPG, the drug for which I have to come into hospital to be dripped twice a day, are: Low white blood cell count, increased risk of infection, low platelet count which may increase the risk of bleeding, low red blood cell count (anaemia), fever, rush, abnormal liver function, chills, swelling of the body (oedema), infections, malaise, irregular heart beat, high blood pressure (hypertension), low blood pressure (hypotension), abnormal thoughts or dreams, loss of balance (ataxia), come, confusion, dizziness, headache, nervousness, damage to nerves (peristhecia), psychosis, sleepiness (somnolence), shaking, nausea, vomiting, loss of appetite (anorexia), diarrhoea, bleeding from the stomach or intestine (intestinal haemorrhage), abdominal pain, increased number of one type of white blood cell, low blood sugar, shortness of breath, hair loss (alopecia), itching (pruritus), hives, blood in the urine, abnormal kidney functions, increased blood urea, redness (inflammation), pain or irritation (phlebitis).
  
  Retinal detachments have been observed in patients both before and after initiation of therapy. The drug has caused decreased sperm production in animals and may cause infertility in humans, and birth defects in animals. Although there is no information in human studies, it should be considered a potential carcinogen since it causes tumours in animals.
  
  If you are concerned about any of the above side-effects or if you would like any further information, please ask your doctor.
  
  In order to be put on the drug you have to sign a piece of paper stating you understand that all these illnesses are a possibility.
  
  I really can't see what I am to do. I am going to sign it.
  
   The darkness comes in with the tide
   The year slips on the calendar
   Your kiss flares
   A match struck in the night
   Flares and dies
   My slumber broken
   Kiss me again
   Kiss me
   Kiss me again
   And again
   Never enough
   Greedy lips
   Speedwell eyes
   Blue skies
  
  A man sits in his wheelchair, his awry, munching through a packet of dry biscuits, slow and deliberate as a praying mantis. He speaks enthusiastically but sometimes incoherently of the hospice. he says, "You can't be too careful who you mix with there, there's no way of telling the visitors, patients or staff apart. The staff have nothing to identify them except they are all in leather. The place is like an S&M club". This hospice has been built by charity, the names of the donors displayed for all to see.
  
  Charity has allowed the uncaring to appear to care and is terrible for those dependent on it. It has become big business as the government shirks its responsibilities in these uncaring times. We go along with this, so the rich and powerful who ****ed us over once **** us over again and get it both ways. We have always been mistreated, so if anyone gives us the slightest sympathy we overreact with our thanks.
  
   I am a mannish
   Muff diving
   Size queen
   With bad attitude
   An arse licking
   Psychofag
   Molesting the flies of privacy
   Balling lesbian boys
   A perverted heterodemon
   Crossing purpose with death
  
   I am a cock sucking
   Straight acting
   Lesbian man
   With ball crushing bad manners
   Laddish nymphomaniac politics
   Spunky sexist desires
   of incestuous inversion and
   Incorrect terminology
   I am a Not Gay
  
   H.B. is in the kitchen
   Greasing his hair
   He guards the space
   Against me
   He calls it his office
   At nine we leave for the hospital
  
   H.B. comes back from the eye dept
   Where all my notes are muddled
   He says
   It's like Romania in there
   Two light bulbs
   Grimly illuminate
   The flaking walls
   There is a box of dolls
   In the corner
   Indescribably grim
   The doctor says
   Well of course
   The kids don't see them
   There are no resources
   To brighten the place up
  
   My eyes sting from the drops
   The infection has halted
   The flash leaves
   Scarlet after image
   Of the blood vessels in my eye
  
   Teeth chattering February
   Cold as death
   Pushes at the bedsheets
   An aching cold
   Interminable as marble
   My mind
   Frosted with drugs ices up
   A drift of empty snowflakes
   Whiting out memory
   A blinkered twister
   Circling in spirals
   Cross-eyed meddlesome consciousness
   Shall I? Will I?
   Doodling death watch
   Mind how you go
  
  Oral DHPG is consumed by the liver, so they have tweaked a molecule to fool the system. What risk is there? If I had to live forty years blind, I might think twice. Treat my illness like the dodgems: music, bright lights, bumps and throw yourself into life again.
  
  The pills are the most difficult, some taste bitter, others are too large. I'm taking about thirty a day, a walking chemical laboratory. I gag on them as I swallow them and they come up half dissolved in the coughing and the spluttering.
  
  My skins sits on me like the shirt of Nessus. My face irritates, as do my back and legs at night. I toss and turn, scratching, unable to sleep. I get up, turn on the light. Stagger to the bathroom. If I become so tired, maybe I'll sleep. Films chase through my mind. Once in a while I dream a dream as magnificent as the Taj Mahal. I cross southern India with a young spirit guide - India the land of my dreaming childhood. The souvenirs in Moslem's peach and grey living room. Granny called Moselle, called 'Girly', called May. An orphan who lost her name, which was Ruben. jade, monkeys, ivory miniatures, mah-jongg. The winds and bamboos of China.
  
   All the old taboos of
   Blood lines and blood banks
   Blue blood and bad blood
   Our blood and your blood
   I sit here - you sit there
  
  As I slept a jet slammed into a tower block. The jet was almost empty but two hundred people were fried in their sleep.
  The earth is dying and we do not notice it.
  
   A young man frail as Belsen
   Walks slowly down the corridor
   His pale green hospital pyjamas
   Hanging off him
   It's very quiet
   Just the distant coughing
   My jugs eye blots out the
   Young man who has just walked past
   My field of vision
   This illness knocks you for six
   Just as you start to forget it
   A bullet in the back of my head
   Might be easier
   You know, you can take longer than
   The second world war to get to the grave.
  
   Ages and Aeons quit the room
   Exploding into timelessness
   No entrances or exits now
   No need for obituaries or final judgements
   We knew that time would end
   After tomorrow at sunrise
   We scrubbed the floors
   And did the washing up
   It would not catch us unawares
  
  The white flashes you are experiencing in your eyes are common when the retina is damaged.
  
  The damaged retina has started to peel away leaving the innumerable black floaters, like a flock of starlings around in the twilight.
  I am back at St Mary's to have my eyes looked at by the specialist. The place is the same, but there is new staff. How relieved I am not to have the operation this morning to have a tap put into my chest. I must try and cheer up H.B. as he has had a hell of a fortnight. In the waiting room a little grey man over the way is fretting as he has to get to Sussex. He says, "I am going blind, I cannot read any longer".
  
  A little later he picks up a newspaper, struggles with it for a moment and throws it back on the table. My stinging eye-drops have stopped me reading, so I write this in a haze of belladonna. The little grey man's face has fallen into tragedy. He looks like Jean Cocteau without the poet's refined arrogance. The room is full of men and women squinting into the dark in different states of illness. Some barely able to walk, distress and anger on every face and then a terrible resignation.
  
  Jean Cocteau takes off his glasses, he looks about him with an undescribable meanness. He has black slip-on shoes, blue socks, grey trousers, a Fairisle sweater and a herringbone jacket. The posters that plaster the walls above him have endless question marks, HIV/AIDS?, AIDS?, HIV?, ARE YOU INFECTED BY HIV/AIDS?,ARC?, HIV? This is a hard wait. The shattering bright light of the eye specialist's camera leaves that empty sky blue after-image. Did I really see green the first time? The after-image dissolves in a second. As the photographs progress, colours change to pink and the light turns to orange. The process is a torture, but the result, stable eyesight, worth the price and the twelve pills I have to take a day. Sometimes looking at them I fell nauseous and want to skip them. It must be my association with H.B., lover of the computer and king of the keyboard that brought my luck on the computer which chose my name for this drug trial. I nearly forgot as I left St Mary's I smiled at Jean Cocteau. He gave a sweet smile back.
  
  I caught myself looking at shoes in a shop window. I thought of going in and buying a pair, but stopped myself. The shoes I am wearing at the moment should be sufficient to walk me out of life.
  
   Pearl fishers
   In azure seas
   Deep waters
   Washing the isle of the dead
   In coral harbours
   Amphora
   Spill
   Gold
   Across the still seabed
   We lie there
   Fanned by the billowing
   Sails of forgotten ships
   Tossed by the mournful winds
   Of the deep
   Lost Boys
   Sleep forever
   In a dear embrace
   Salt lips touching
   In submarine gardens
   Cool marble fingers
   Touch an antique smile
   Shell sounds
   Whisper
   Deep love drifting on the tide forever
   The smell of him
   Dead good looking
   In beauty's summer
   His blue jeans
   Around his ankles
   Bliss in my ghostly eye
   Kiss me
   On the lips
   On the eyes
   Our name will be forgotten
   In time
   No one will remember our work
   Our life will pass like the traces of a cloud
   And be scattered like
   Mist that is chased by the
   Rays of the sun
   For our time is the passing of a shadow
   And our lives will run like
   Sparks through the stubble.
  
   I place a delphinium, Blue, upon your grave
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