WAITING TO HAPPEN

 

by David Rushmer

 

 

 

 

                  threatened

         an other                          

reaching

                  close up, impossible        

infinite

the edge of

                                             without being

yet to come

                           every arrival

                  comes upon

                           withdrawn space

                           detached from night         sleepless

the circle

reforms                           a centre

                  of unity,

         Writing

                  separated from the star.

                                    disorientation

                                             a fall

                                             unlimited

                                    and simple loss

                           purity of destruction,

                  if all things

                  returned to absence                  if nothing were

                                             renders death

                                                      for withdrawal

         abandoning ourselves

                  we would escape it.

The disaster, depriving

death,

the tragic dissolving

                                    all internal movement,

to entertain this

edge

                   to forgetfulness

                           outside

the condition

suffering

goes under                  utterly passive,

drawn from all sight

                                    carries us,

                                                      untouched,

                                             face to face

                           we forget, endlessly.        

                                             forgetfulness

                           does not come

                                    ,one dies

                                    it invites escaping

                                             as return

                                      absolute;

                            It comes                  , and yet

                                             would come to us from beyond.

to write,

outside passion

                  of forgetfulness.

         It will speak in you

                           of silence

                   passed beyond danger,

                                    the mark

                                             under threat

an unspoken thought.

         I do not know how I arrived

                  without knowing

                           the advent

                                    outside being

drifting away

flight of thought

limitless space

delivered of stars,

                                    whoever dreamed

                           would liberate us

                  at the twilight

         disrupts and overflows every silent affirmation

                  the singularity

                           does not disrupt solitude,

immobile forgetfulness

                                             in the passivity of

                                    all words                  ,as if

         the burn                  ,the annihilation

                  like someone who would no longer enter

penetrated

                  remembrance

of gentlest difference, and this difference

         only as impure loss.

                  the disaster is thought

         of the outside

                  already touched a silent effect

there is not explosion except what escapes the very possibility,

                                    the limit of writing.

it is dark

                  the movement of anonymity

                  in the present.

writing is

surrendered to a boneyard

                           I fulfil myself

                  in the anonymous continuity

                  between the encounter with death

point where we abruptly dissolve

         the chance of being

                  without body

         before words separated from meaning, broken

                           this desire to lighten of tears

         lets himself go

                           speech that flows and flows away

                                             broken reserve, a deep

                                    capacity

         in advance of a sign

         at a distance to words.

 

 

 

 

 

 

David Rushmer says, “This new work was written through Maurice Blanchot’s ‘The Writing of The Disaster’ and follows on from my most recent pamphlet publication, ‘Blanchot’s Ghost,’ published at the end of 2008.”  He has work in E·ratio Issue 12.