remembering whiteness & other poems by Martin Bradley
remembering whiteness & other poems
For Pei Yeou
(who saved me when I needed saving)
Remembering Whiteness and Other Poems Š Martin Bradley First published 2012 First edition All rights reserved Except for small segments for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced without prior permission in writing from the author or publisher. Book design by Dusun Email martinabradley@gmail.com Dusun ™ Another fine publication by DusunPublishing UK and Malaysia 2012
Poems
malaysia
8 9 11 12 18 20 25 27 28 29 30 31 33 36 41 43
frog soup dharma baby i’ve become partial isbellabird malim nawar morning waiting for the buffalo remembering whiteness isabellabird back to the breast lemang to my chinese lover wednesday entanglement kl dogcatbird chow kit girl
43 44
apple i wanna change
tea and peacocks mother india chennai you have a very sharp nose hungry dogs
48 49 51 54 55
back to india
all over the place
colors of cambodia miss honey khor i wanna be a momentary whimsy in reflection when we were young breadfruit modern psychosis there is in the longing the journey of life estranger vomit outrĂŠ immigration blues rainyday philoophy something broken
57 62 63 64 65 67 68 70 72 74 76 78 82 85 93 97
malaysia
frog soup did I jump from the ayam satay into frog soup perhaps swept away on a tide of chok, char siew and bacon sandwiches. might I have slipped on a durian rind, fallen headlong into a kilo of lychee and, getting seedy and stoned spent my days fruitfully reminiscing, and drinking asam boi.
dharma baby sleep my dharma baby let the lotus guide your dreams may the eightfold path steady your footsteps and give you mindfulness sleep my dharma baby and in your dreams, rest may it bring you peace joy and love to lighten your busy life sleep my dharma baby and in the morning awaken with fresh eyes and an easy heart may a smile brighten your day as you brighten mine sleep my dharma baby the whole world is yours the sun and the moon shine just for you mountains rise and seas flow
may this day be the day of your dreams when all your wishes are granted and your heart is glad sleep my dharma baby rest easy in my love
i’ve become partial I’ve become partial to red dates Ginger Soy sauce I crave for the scent of five-spice Red wine vinegar I long for the essence of chrysanthemum Joss sticks And the soft candles At your altar But Most of all I desire the scent of you Fresh from the shower Your long black hair cascading As you turn With love in your eyes And smile
malim nawar morning surreal hummingbird morning garden papaya drips dew kingfishers flash blue against candyfloss sky judy collins sings of chelsea warming chill of my jeep cabin softening hard pangolin killing road taking me back to the three cat stooges in my compound warming sun brings bougainvillea bright golden helliconia jasmine and that mangy mangled one eyed thief into my kitchen stealing fish brighter hotter morning sky cleared to pale blue sun pounding grass to yellow bleaching paintwork sending cobras slithering for shade
another languid day in malim nawar post colonial lost tin town forgotten as the centuries and railway track passes leaving mrs hameed’s bollywood restaurant feeding post ramadan thosa eaters sitting between time and teh tarik another hot day in malim nawar malim nowhere sun pinches forehead furrows hand shades eyes shouty woman resumes after metal rabbit break mandarins roti cannai puffed and ready to go stray dog sleeps adjacent to rail line honda 50 bumps up and over footbridge stopping momentarily gawping at post colonial houses brick columns cats sheltering
children cockerels pecking colonial remains muezzin calling faithful to pray sweet sounds filling ears hearts emptiness left by materialism rivalling nightly hokkien karaoke another fine day in malim nawar ah lam nets mining pool fish pa yusop stretches tea cup to enamel cup glass to chipped glass dreaming of mecca 30 years passing children gone empty space of departed wife pregnant lady mountain pushes up revealing belly on another bright clear malim nowhere day as my jeep
rolls slowly on grandmother screams latah as I drive into the kampong past blind sisters selling kuih shed full of cats spilling onto the dirt track chasing golden necked proud cockerels into sun dried torch ginger always on puffing black smoke back down that memory lane carbide chimney sold brick by red brick dragon fruit weirdness fluffy bunny gardens
chinese school disgorging pupils bicycles cars everywhere noisy on a hot malim nawar morning a chases m m chases paper khalwat goons chase both slipping sliding greased palms fingers too fat to pull wallets drop cash sun shifts shade to shade bananas ripe papayas ripe coconuts fall split
pandan water cools thirst I drink from my old jeep cabin drive one handedly slowly ever on into the kampong on a hot malim nawar morning
waiting for the buffalo the buffalo are waiting eyes on tender shoots the buffalo are waiting for you to turn around the buffalo are waiting lest you leave your treasures unguarded the buffalo are waiting waiting for you you are waiting waiting there and watching you are waiting sharp parang in your hand you are waiting saliva running down your chin you are waiting waiting for the buffalo you and the buffalo are waiting as the hot sun rises you and the buffalo are waiting waiting in the grass you and the buffalo are waiting eyes on each other
you and the buffalo are waiting waiting on the clock
remembering whiteness equatorial sun bright, dazzling, burning down on the glass-fibre 4x4 cabin listening to quicksilver messenger service squeezed into mp3 in my wannabee jeep travelling the same roads his father must have taken back then back in the year he was born, the identical roads he would have travelled many years later to visit the grave of his father left dying in that year gunned down by insurgents in the emergency a bullet finding its mark leaving him fatherless to grow rebel drag me into manns music listening to the fool in the booth the music sending me into paroxysms of ecstasy hitting highs i would only know later through sex or chemicals leaving college at sixteen he was clued in street wise a pioneer the cool dude who showed me the way to ufo middle earth being hold up in jail over night only added to the mystique of this highway chile he was on the road again he was canned heat kerouac slipping away leaving me wondering reappearing as some amphetamine fuelled guru drinking smirnoffs red label vodka and puking nights away
it was not as if we were batman and robin simon and garfunkel lennon and mccartney dressed in our sgt pepper bandsman uniforms parading through the old roman town sometimes pink desert jacket black trilby adorned with chrysanthemum tight flower power trousers telling residents how different but how the same we still were riding in the back of the land rover knocking the tail light to fool inquisitive police we were abbot and costello pete and dud helpless hapless comedians caught up in the folly of lifes little joke pretending to be children of flowers and chasing the love that we all need over time we were both to come here not together we had lost the habit of doing things together somewhere in those halcyon days road tripping hitch hiking acid dropping ginsberg and sid rawl days we had stopped doing things together i say that with a modicum of sadness for the youth i was the bond we had the bells beads flowers and all the naivetĂŠ exuding from me enough to fill a world with but some when the need to be together the need to experience the world through each others eyes ceased and distance grew ever greater between us until together or apart was the same thing lost to
each other in the growing. once as a young dog before white hair and belly hanging to kick his waistband he travelled the length of america down to mexico spain poland japan and ended up equatorially orientally here not here directly but in the old tin city tupping young chinese girls and manipulating his language to gain cash for accommodation and fugs cds thats when i missed him he being in Japan holidaying with saki and sushi as i touched down at the airport seeking him out in the indian area around brickfields and him not being there because as i said we were never here together at the same time it was always separate apart the irony being that we were both here with his father he being laid to rest and unable to move so we were both here independently with his father but never he and i together and unable to recapture the closeness we once had chasing girls in the streets and never getting off with them because of the lack of a car in that old roman town the place where he now resides and i have long since left from to be here
amidst the mountains and jungles of south east asia now calmed from the murderous 50s i follow in his footsteps even though i was here first twenty nine years ago but didnt know where his father was buried until i came to stay six years this month and still the resonances shape the present as my father in law is discovered to be his fathers jungle scout leading the way through mining pool areas jungle hills dark mysterious places where insurgents would lay traps for colonial police but not now now serving sweet tea from behind his wooden counter with memories occasionally jerked back to life from the twinge in his legs metal plate with his former lieutenant dead these past fifty nine years yes it would have been good to see him metamorphose into an owl once more eyes static growing larger resembling glass box plates like some grimm story due to the drug fog both in the room and in our minds when we were reaching towards our twenties but these days though both crave dosa i eschew those phantasms for reality and he favouring other worlds with mushrooms leads to irreparable culture clash and i remain here
burnt by the sun turning browner and he there swept by snow and rain remembering his whiteness
isabellabird after mornings of heady jasmine tea i watch you gambolling through the rainforests of my mind prancing after raja brookes kneeling on the golden chersonese sultry days lusty nights inhabit me longing to touch you
your visage fading replaced by tabula rasa broken springboard locked doors closed traveller’s trunk roped and bound for the journey home
back to the breast seeing our passion a butterfly faints crashes onto pseudo grass tile buffeted by fan breeze amidst dust skinflakes dead cockroaches her big butterball breasts eyes for nipples smell of cameron highland honey smother me smiling i certainly am happy to be back to the breast
lemang you come to me all soft and creamy scents of coconut rice bamboo fire smoke and banana leaf i sense your firmness al dente taste your pliancy and succulent delights i want to drizzle you with wild bee honey drip over your sides bite into you your sweet stickiness dribbling into my beard while you kill me slowly softly
to my chinese lover you curl about me like some soft mammal your hair in my face brushing my beard tickling my moustache smelling only of you i want to climb into that hair hide myself forever amidst the folicles and odd strand of grey play hide and seek when you brush watching you as you watch yourself in our mirror i love the feel of your soft cheeks against me the firmness of your shoulders the curvature of your back
making promises that I know one day you will keep together we make a henry moore salvadore dali as we drip into\each other’s form washed by fate together to make the statue which is us sleeping
wednesday there was a strange feeling of dÊjà vu watching her spill from that crumpled bed, stretch like a young cat, knock strands of long dark brown hair from her tan shoulder, and smile. i watched her stand, naked, her back to me - slim, curvaceous, her mane brushing that indent in her back, kissing her rounded cheeks. i glanced as she brushed, feeling each brushstroke, transfixed with her beauty and my luck, understanding that fortune can, and did, smile that wednesday. in the mirror i caught her lustrous almond eyes, warmed by after-sex glow, radiant. the nakedness of her and the nakedness of me were in stark contrast. she was svelte, hardly a cherry tree in the breeze and i mountainous, a whole landscape for her to explore. i loved the ease with which we fitted, the naturalness in the way we fell together little spiderhunter kisses, then mouthfuls of hornbill passion flesh, drawing us closer until we were a rainforest. my joss was good. she had done that – turned my
life around, gathered me to her with passion and love, pulled me to her slight breasts and saved me. over morning beef noodle soup, dark brown coffee in that old tin city she blew rising steam, her cleavage rising, falling, catching my heart with her honesty, and holding it in her forever. it hadn’t been that long. sparks had flown between us in that country kitchen, igniting something deep inside, a karmic something bound up with the yinyang, ebb-flow of the universe, swept us up together on waves of passion, bonding our hearts, souls. i knew from the moment i met her that i would not end my days as a dying dog, front legs paralysed, howling for a merciful release, hot sun beating on my fur and my misdemeanours video looped until i passed.
entanglement you know sometimes its hard disentangling me from you you from me all those thoughts mine yours yours mine seem to slip like shared shower soap
washing you me me you slipperiness of thought aloe vera sliding slipping spilling essences of you me me you until it can only be we not
me and you
kl kuala lumpur city of breasts phallus twin rivers twin spires inspire conspire inflame my desires requirements beckoning to me verdant in your mystery lush plushly revealing your charms no qualms
have i loving the soul heart of you your vibrancy fecundity
dogcatbird a dog, cat and a bird sat on a pier jutting out into the clear blue ocean waters at times they would argue about who the pier belonged to at other times they were content to partake of the scraps of food laying on the pier one argument involved who had come to the pier first the cat always standing a little proud boasted that it had come before either of the others and that really the pier belonged to it the other two only remained on the pier due to the cat's own good graces often times the dog would bark and the bird would squawk, that this was not so i and my ancestors were here first the dog would say no mine were the bird would interject but with respect you both are wrong for this has been mine and my ancestors home long before either of you came to know of it the cat would say sometimes purring its words sometimes growling
them deep in its throat the argument raged on and off until such a time that the dog fell silent curled up and permitted the cat and bird to verbally wrestle on over time the bird too fell silent realising that there was no point in arguing all three remained on the pier watching other animals climb on and off the pier still the original three remained the cat now unable to remain silent since the dog and bird refused to argue argued by itself often times it would scream at the fish in the sea the planks of wood on the pier the rope holding the pier together long into the humid night the cat would continue its argument while the dog slept and the bird watched curious at the cat's need for argument one day when all three had eaten well of the produce on the pier the cat too fell silent it looked
into the far distance gazing out to sea imagining it was alone the silent dog and the watchful bird looked at the cat, then at each other shrugged then looked on gradually the cat turned looked at its companions and smiled a weak smile in the realisation that the pier was only the pier when all three were on it the cat sat curled its tail around itself content to be amongst friends
chow kit girl chow kit girl leaks from doorway smiles tall body siren call exile from day nights ally mascara war paint between outrĂŠ and other fringed disengaged hugs doorway trade slow she he drags blows smoke
drinks teh tarik puffs on wet nails accidently brushes five o clock shadow
apple it is morning misty dew caresses your cheeks the sun has brought a blush to your no longer green skin i want to touch you feel the smoothness of you taste of your sweetness smell your perfume in my mind is only my desire yearning urging me to possess you but i cannot the tree is too tall, and you are on the furthest branch
i wanna Change man i wanna change change my underpants change my socks change my t shirt if it dont rock change my address change my mind too man i wanna change man i wanna change change my girlfriend if she aint black change her into brown and change her right back cant change her white cause that aint right too light and shes too up tight but man i wanna change man i wanna change change my habits change karma change my cool like a deli llama change into a good man dont know if i can but man i wanna change
man i wanna change change into yellow cause that would be mellow say hello and change this government you can see what I meant change like in libya change like in egypt change like in tunisia is ya getting the message because i want change change with my poetry change the reality change it right now change not just anyhow change with the peace train change with samad said change the isa change all the way man i wanna change man i wanna change
change it with you hold my hand and well do it too change in small ways change what we can change the boy into a man change that frown into an erection change it all at the next election change it good and change it right turn from night into day stand up and say
i want this change
back to india
tea & peacocks fan brushes delhi heat i shelter waiting for tea a solitary peacock preens jumps down from his perch marches across parade grounds of my father lal qila once royal endures squirrels mynahs pigeons tourists the barbarians have come and gone and it is another kind of game
mother india delhi calling back to red brick heat and dust scents between sambar and jasmine land of my father lal qila calling chandichowk pale mausoleum celebrating difference similarity verisimilitude umbilical cord tying veena tagore mythical malguldi its in the games people play hold close hold back mother India enwrapped yet still open
welcoming remembering her antiquity cultural longevity motherliness
chennai city of assailment orefactory audible visual tactile screaming at my senses chennai 24 by 24 in a four by four where life persists resists where my way is the only way the ego way the way of life chennai green from the skies brown from the earth where feminine galleons drift multitudes of hues shades where jasmine prevails chennai
extreme copious abundant rich silk and satin beggared a paucity tattered sackcloth homespun cotton swirling latrite dust betel stained copies of last weeks the hindu chennai of gods and god temples churches mosques souls solitude chennai of sweet paan and sweeter chai masala land of soothing lassi fermented land of dosai and vadai
we strive and starve together chennai of breezy mota maris cooling coromondal breezes diluvian autorickshaws beggar mothers emaciated child wielding ambling to shelter madras reveal to me your flooded and drought ridden soul your ka your checked lunghi enwrapped atman
you have a very sharp nose you have a very sharp nose said the nigerian poet you are young and beautiful said the sharp nosed pregnant man my beauty may fade and i may grow old said the nigerian poet and whether you give birth or not you will always have a sharp nose she said
hungry dogs hungry dogs sniff waiting anticipating to sink teeth into waste stained narratives it is the scent of narratives narrator odour of metaphor sign symbol semiotic meaning correspondences a symbiosis of sniffer and sniffed each needing the other the representative and represented briefly bound tentative in their connection until waft of scent dissipates need expires recognition dies
all over the place
colors of cambodia somewhere there is the poem. i have been searching for all my life. is it between the roots, is it between the branches, between the stones, the faces, the images. will i find my poem there, between the lichen and the serenity between the blueness of the sky and the colors of cambodia? somewhere in the ruins, bringing us back to ourselves is the poem. it’s like a sketch by some younger artist’s hand. perhaps in the graphite, following the lines in her heart and the colours of her soul. could it be that my poem is somewhere, between the antiquity
and the modern, between heaven and the earth, apsara and stillness, dharma and karma perhaps there lays my poem. is it somewhere between the eight fold path and the essence of metta. between the first light of the morning and the jasmine fragranced afternoon or in the setting of the sun. for somewhere my poem awaits me. somewhere my poem awaits the effort somewhere my poem awaits the energy somewhere my poem awaits the heart, mind, soul of me. i seek my poem and my poem awaits me it is somewhere in the cicada forests resting in the colors of cambodia we search for our poems
and our poems await us. they await us in fields, in streams on rocks glistening in the heat of the sun they await us. somewhere in the shadow of a bird. it points the way somewhere in the fall of mangosteen it points the way. for we watch and we listen and it points the way with all our hearts we listen and it points the way in the colours of the fall we watch and we listen in the colours of spring we watch and we listen in the colours of summer we watch and we listen in the stillness of winter we watch and we listen.
the middle way points the way. in the cool of the morning and the heat of noon the middle way points the way with colours of passion the middle way points the way in the colours of love the middle way points the way in the colours of caring the middle way points the way in the colors of cambodia the middle way points the way. for if we are open, like trees to the breeze it shall point the way back to our poems
back to the middle way we shall find the way for that is where our poems await us and we shall find the way perhaps in the colours of our lives we shall find the way and perhaps in colors of cambodia we shall find the way.
miss honey khor i love you so much miss honey khor i want you so much and even more i need you till the sun comes up that’s when i see you close my door for dreams are dreampt at night it seems will i see you tomorrow night in my dreams
I wanna be i wanna be charles bukowski allen ginsberg ole lillelund spilling my guts onto paper standing in front of some beered up crowd in some badly lit room smelling of cigarette smoke and stale alcohol i wanna be jack kerouac gregory corso lawrence ferlinghetti wearing check shirt sleeves rolled looking every inch the free new man and poetry on my collar i wanna be some slip hip dude dragging cool on my root digging jazz and karma fighting alcoholism and syphilis not knowing who i shagged when or where but if i cant be a beat nicked on the road city lights poet dragged up in some shady dive i guess ill just have to be me and pray five times a day
a momentary whimsy you may then suddenly see me in your blue lotus dreams tipping my hat and smiling in iridescent scenes, or waving from an opaque mist and emulating clouds while you enunciate your hate and shout you out aloud or perhaps this is my brother mistaken now for me but gaze you at the tip of my nose and you shall surely see that i am fading quickly and may soon pass away look you even closer my friend for i am only here today
in reflection vibrancy reflect feel chi energy absorb the life force feel the vibrancy observe the texture curves lines understand the bonding bringing together bridging of distances ultimate harmony oneness of
a people moving futurewards unique in their individuality collective in their passion love unity this is the gift given in reflection
when we were young when we were young and hot we threw bed clothes to the floor now we are grown carefully i cover you with the blanket
breadfruit there were times i would sit and stare out at the spindly breadfruit tree knowing how hard the soil is and just how difficult it must be for those roots to push against the compacted earth aided only by infrequent rain and chicken drop pellets other times the harshness of the sun would prevent my gaze even as i cupped my hand over my eyes trying to shield them from its rays but still the blazing sun would strike through my pinkened fingers and pain my eyes making them dry in the evenings when it was a little cooler outside i would sit in the gazebo and listen to the children playing by the ditch i could hear their little squeals and squeaks of joy as they played with the water or traced patterns on the hard earth then running laughing up the road to see the two white ducks waddling im not sure if i missed her most then or all those other times she was away maybe it was all of them
maybe i just couldnt find one single occasion when i missed her more than any other they were all equally as lonely melancholy i couldnt tell her i couldnt or wouldnt put that burden upon her i didnt want her to feel bad about leaving us i wanted her to know that she was missed sufficiently enough but no more i felt in a way that was my duty towards her to swallow the emptiness i felt when she wasnt there i owed her that surely that day before she left again we walked in the drying garden as she pointed out a fruit bud on the breadfruit tree she smiled put her hand on mine looked me straight in the eyes and said i know
modern psychosis sorry if i seem a little vague only im not quite all here really my lights a little dim there are bits of me missing a hole where the whole used to be scraps of me are left scattered around the world wide web relegated to dark corners on servers dispersed throughout the internetwork of computers leaving fragments of me tucked away on facebook myspace blogger flickr deviant art well you get the picture only you dont do you you dont get the whole picture you only get part of the picture
it’s not as though you can google me collate the missing bits staple me back together make me whole again you see or dont see that i am a fragmented man a man in portions particles of parts spread out like some chips of shell waiting for some kindly soul to put this poor humpty dumpty back together again that’s why i appear a little vague blur not quite myself bits and pieces you know i really need to pull myself together sometime quite soon
there is in the longing there is in the longing something profound full and compelling urging inciting willing the wanting obliging the having and in the denying satisfies fulfils the observer left to yearn gazes appreciates learns cognition is gratified warmed within that glow of non possession the desired pulls back from objectification freed
permanently other untainted glowing unique but touched by the adoration
the journey of life consciousness stretch ambulate zeit escorting geist stride longer longer strides reaching brushing stars planets galaxies multiverses consciousness sojourn journey sojourn journey
be there dasein presence existence transcend consciousness self i me pack identity into smaller suitcases sail towards illumination completion return to cogito ergo sum
estranger you were cliff i was john we didnt belong on the same planet let alone the same family when you discarded lumberjack shirts and blue jeans i donned military jacket put flowers in my hair you stopped being a bachelor boy i became a walrus you had kids i had orgasms you weeding i weed there was no way that we were going to sit at the same christmas table and share wishbones you have your jag i an ageing rocsta somewhere hidden in rubbery veins
beyond red neck corpuscles runs the same dna one chromosome at a time you might ask
y
vomit you i your he vomits our they our
vomit vomit vomit
vomit vomit vomit
acidic
vomit
bulimic
vomit
vomit of doxa
ludic vomiting lacuna
vomit
texts of
vomit
journals of
vomit
soft carrot theses undigested searing
vomit
elitist
vomit
of
vomit
satre existentialist vomit phenomenological vomit lacanian
vomit
freudian
vomit
bataille emetic of breton surrealist pseudo intellectual acid reflux always
vomit
vomit
vomit
regurgitated
half digested nauseous
sick
outrĂŠ outsider steppenwolf isolated outrĂŠ denholm elliot punishing heat sweat moisture exiled alone ring-fenced encapsulated on the road to sans kerouac sans ginsberg sans crosby sans hope
rickshaws passed past trishaws car is king agong putrina putrajaya prince princess he she baudelaire languorous silent nights silent days rumput semalu not touching not touched solitary who loves the son
not everyone
immigration blues walking sitting standing bewildered back seared icy pain standing growing faint hungry rats of starvation gnawing intestines launching forth ridley scott’s alien beloved keeping me upright queue
endless queue
passing daylight trapped in rank
weariness minutes hours
doubting sanity reason rationality shuffle forward micro space by micro space time after time shadow of former being cheeks sallow once healthy plumpness
generous visage now stubble shadowy countenance eyes strained constant neon tube glare munchs scream dalis insistence the only difference between
myself and a mad man is that I am not mad ovids metamorphosis kafkas
forms forms
more forms constant forms forms to worlds end forms to the ultimate end of the multi-verse hidden mountain ranges of government forms written forms typed forms forms in duplicate forms in triplicate forms copied recopied
ink faded forms forms with lines
forms with columns miniscule
impossible forms forms in language of birds dialects long since forgotten forms on rag paper forms wood paper forms forms on pulp forms constructed reconstructed
appearing meaningful remain meaningless forms existing for forms forms as bureaucratic armament form warfare one last final plague of forms to obliterate mankind crowds cowed by forms browbeaten by forms
seething wading detritus paint of centuries peeling electric madness opening closing steel lift jaws spewing savants bright eyed newly arrived aspirants to and fro back and forth seeking searching
semiotic grail promise of salvation ever lasting peace swaddled infants septuagenarians
joycean bloom odysseus nomadic petulant dusk to dawn numbers given numbers called bottlenecked unmoving dust gathering spiders spinning hopeful webs
nationality transfusion tape compressing depressing lengths of tape acres of tape
tape links first to last tape from parameswara to us final form final wait heart pounding chest pounding on the edge of despair exhilaration visa just within my reach permission to reside
counter tutup closed photocopy tutup closed payment counter tutup closed
return monday sword of damocles to remain
rainy day philosophy plink
plink
plink
plink
plink
thuk thuk
thurum
thurum
plink
thuk
thurum
thurum
existence somewhere
between seamless seeming appearance and reality between the watcher and the watched plato’s cave existenz and phenomenon a long line of being
lightness heaviness the waiting weight of the wild wilderness an atom
caught in the augenblik of time
cosmic tantra constant mantra
om
sound of the universe consistant idyllic spheres purest platonic form universality of beauty urien’s voyage ulysses and joyce narcissus and echo weakness of man praise the gift of life thank the creator
thank the creator
plink
plink
plink
plink
plink
plink
plink
plink
something broken there’s something broken in my heart but i don’t know what it is or where it is so i’m unable to fix it perhaps i’ll leave it to bleed slowly to death that would seem appropriate somehow
Martin Bradley was born in London, 1951. He is a writer/poet and a graduate in Art History, Exhibition Making, Graphic Design, Philosophy and Social Work. He has travelled most of the known world and lived in Britain, India and Malaysia where he lives with his artist wife, her dog and a life full of colour - writing novels, poetry and short stories. He was Guest Writer at India’s Commonwealth Writers Festival in New Delhi (2010) and Guest Writer at Singapore’s Lit Up literature festival (2010); he has read in Kuala Lumpur and Ipoh Malaysia (2011/2012). Martin writes articles on Art & Culture for magazines and newspapers. He is the editor of Dusun – a Malaysian Arts and Culture e-magazine and was founder/host of Northern Writers – a venue for ‘readings’ in Ipoh, Malaysia. His first ebook - Breadfruit and Buffalo is due out shortly from Monsoon Books, Singapore. Another book - about the charity Colors of Cambodia, is out later in 2012 published by Ever Day publications.