Thwock Associations
1. Pebble in well
2. Stone thrown into sea
3. New fangled drawer closing
4. Sperm fertilising a cell
5. Any aha moment - the penny dropping
6. A pattern recognised
7. The moment of connection Ali mentioned
8. Interesting sounds, thwock, etc.
9. A flash of recognition
10. A frisson or shiver
11. Ball of something dropped into a bowl of flour or icing sugar.
12. This click in my head when I move other muscles
13. The dragonfly dart
14. The settling - the quarter turn
15. Something about the ending of the sound of a gong
16. The last churr of a gecko
2. Stone thrown into sea
3. New fangled drawer closing
4. Sperm fertilising a cell
5. Any aha moment - the penny dropping
6. A pattern recognised
7. The moment of connection Ali mentioned
8. Interesting sounds, thwock, etc.
9. A flash of recognition
10. A frisson or shiver
11. Ball of something dropped into a bowl of flour or icing sugar.
12. This click in my head when I move other muscles
13. The dragonfly dart
14. The settling - the quarter turn
15. Something about the ending of the sound of a gong
16. The last churr of a gecko
Marks and Traceys
I have fallen for this poxy floor.
From where I'm standing it looks
Gloriously well-gigged.
The gloss of polish does no more
To hide its history
Than a lick of make-up on Mick Jagger's tv face.
Some Marks and Trace(y)s
I think I can remember.
There, catching the light under the window, I'm
Certain that's the beer that flooded
Remorselessly across the floor
At Maddy's wedding half way through the dancing.
And by the stage, where I kissed Rose on New Year's Eve in 1991,
I'm pretty sure how those heel marks got there.
If half the others had half the pleasure
In their engendering,
Then the tramplings that drummed out these myriad pocks
Were far more entertaining than the endless meetings
Of this and that commitee
That I had just supposed.
More entertaining than the drunken fossil monger,
Determined to leave his fucking mark,
Who I've just acted out.
Well that's my thinking
In the atmosphere
Up here at five foot ten.
But down beneath that memory
And those imaginings,
Where you've invited me to touch and feel and taste
The texture of the floor,
I find another world is waiting.
Down here, the pox means nothing.
No smooth complexioned carpentry aesthetic
Holds sway here.
And the memories are nothing fancy,
Just the groan and scorch and swell of timber.
But I can run my fingers over each,
Press my face against it
Explore the minute changes,
Intricacies,
Inch by knotted inch.
Here, just as my body is the fabric of my experience,
So, the floor is no longer some footprint,
Some palimpsest, some ass-rubbing,
Some historiographical record.
Now the floor becomes a simple fabric,
A tautish skin grown baggy over time.
And now there is no commentary
For acting out,
No joy or sadness to embody.
There's just planks and dents and grooves and scratches
And in return I find there's only joints and muscles,
Bones and skin and pushing on and pulling back
And always pressing,
As if pressing might melt the threshold
And allow me to commingle
Like the tiger who whirled himself to ghee.
From where I'm standing it looks
Gloriously well-gigged.
The gloss of polish does no more
To hide its history
Than a lick of make-up on Mick Jagger's tv face.
Some Marks and Trace(y)s
I think I can remember.
There, catching the light under the window, I'm
Certain that's the beer that flooded
Remorselessly across the floor
At Maddy's wedding half way through the dancing.
And by the stage, where I kissed Rose on New Year's Eve in 1991,
I'm pretty sure how those heel marks got there.
If half the others had half the pleasure
In their engendering,
Then the tramplings that drummed out these myriad pocks
Were far more entertaining than the endless meetings
Of this and that commitee
That I had just supposed.
More entertaining than the drunken fossil monger,
Determined to leave his fucking mark,
Who I've just acted out.
Well that's my thinking
In the atmosphere
Up here at five foot ten.
But down beneath that memory
And those imaginings,
Where you've invited me to touch and feel and taste
The texture of the floor,
I find another world is waiting.
Down here, the pox means nothing.
No smooth complexioned carpentry aesthetic
Holds sway here.
And the memories are nothing fancy,
Just the groan and scorch and swell of timber.
But I can run my fingers over each,
Press my face against it
Explore the minute changes,
Intricacies,
Inch by knotted inch.
Here, just as my body is the fabric of my experience,
So, the floor is no longer some footprint,
Some palimpsest, some ass-rubbing,
Some historiographical record.
Now the floor becomes a simple fabric,
A tautish skin grown baggy over time.
And now there is no commentary
For acting out,
No joy or sadness to embody.
There's just planks and dents and grooves and scratches
And in return I find there's only joints and muscles,
Bones and skin and pushing on and pulling back
And always pressing,
As if pressing might melt the threshold
And allow me to commingle
Like the tiger who whirled himself to ghee.