The Nutshell

The Nutshell is a creative collective under the government of Holly-Rose and Hannah-Rose with ODD and SPONTANEOUS tamperings by Logie-Bear; made up of writers, musicians, and artists. Here teacups are rife and insanity is always technicoloured.
 
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 Two poems of airports and airplanes.

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Hannah-Rose
Goddess Devine
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PostSubject: Two poems of airports and airplanes.   Wed 28 Oct 2009 - 18:59

1. Air-Born

Cyclic thinking stalks confined spaces,
but the omnipresence of air
(see, see the slits of horizonless sky)
could denote a sense of liberty
that, despite the cattle-movements
of lines of restless spirits, is not entirely a lie.

That perfect sense of movement
that fills and lifts – it’s absolutely a kind of joy,
filling itself into a smile that seeks into features so carefully set
on an acceptable level of ennui.

Dollhouses condense under the weight of so much space
but the air is lighter against this window – thought on this side
the space seems to get smaller and smaller,
muscles cramping under the pressure of thick, syrupy-hot air.
The sunlight from where the sky is clear
seems to filter through a gap in dimensions
to this separate reality, where sound travels slowly
through a dissociated concept of time.

Is it just the groaning, moaning sounding of too-tired engines
that pulls the earth closer?
Growing more tangible at the window before
quite suddenly enfolding everything once more – everything
pulled back into the usual perception.


2. ‘Thoughts in Transit’ or ‘Airports make Hannah a little more batshit than usual.’

I’ve been thrown completely out of all sense of time, place and reality.
A definitive point in favour of the Everlasting Airport Theorum. Here,
we are transported into an entirely separate micro-dimension
where the windows throw up illusions of different countries
and lie about the movements of day and night.

And the fabrication is irrelevant anyway,
everyone knows time has no real meaning here;
it exists only as the space stretching, yawning, between me and ‘Go to Gate’.
Me and every other floating, restive ego
(id/spark of life/residual notion of a conscious being)
repeating a series of meaningless movements to mark little separation points
between the passages of apathetic disengagement.

And why the hell does every airport in the world
have those godforsaken painted white poles? Some architectural conspiracy
to whisper to us that we’ve willingly walked into the belly
of most bizarre, pan-dimensional beast,
by delineating in thickly painted metal bones
the skeletal structure of the glass organism
(glass and metal and something that looks like wood but is almost certainly plastic).
The skeleton is shining now
in the sickly late-afternoon sun, and the polished floors show up
a thousand scratch-marks from every suitcase and too well-worn high heel.

It’s too well-worn and too well cleaned,
that’s its problem. It’s that horrible anti-aesthetic
of something that’s neither charmingly decadant
or shiny brand new – like that fifty year old woman
who thinks she can fool people
with a white mini-skirt and nauseatingly pink lipstick;
except that a least her attempted illusion pleases her.

This place is empty of all feeling,
denied any grip on the absolute by the absolute transience
of the milling, mildly disorientated population.
No personality can be held where the only purpose
is to leave or arrive but never actually be.

So here’s this unseeing, unfeeling , residual notion of a human being
falling through the gap
of this eternal transience and taking to defined movement once more –
taken back up to reality by a tired boarding call.

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konnichi wa, bitches
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