something going off somewhere

"Gonna see the River Man, gonna tell him all I can" - Nick Drake

if there had been any sign of it
more tender
weeping amidst grocery

it was by god gone now
there in all her pieces she crouch not singing
squat somehow the way we thought
afterwards to describe it squat-dark
of itself gargoylular all sad
at the parting of such winds there
........................................................aloft
in her pieces and location like that
come off it, we, come off it, you
off it, off. and this ululated, this on high
..........................................this to no avail
................this a mapping rolled

apace grating sensations she forgot
by a end of some earlier dissociation
that got her thinned beneath, attenuated, envelopt
in dermal flag and sheath let us now look
...................let us now turn

(no your poetry is nothing but chaff
only the stuff of directories, invoices
stolen histories, unvoices, this, this, this
many times I got to tell you this
the real your unembodied
falls dead within you no without you
without it will not do will not do not)

it after is not all not to say not at least uninteresting

look at the mother they say look
you want to know look
here in the crevices of her dustbowl

a seasonal disaster spinning
...................................................chinooks
though she clutches, clutches, cries stop O stop
look so funny, so wide and flat so funny
.....................................O after all that of course we were entitled
.....................................
.............................................exhale/exhale(exhale)

..............[worlds soon to come will know
..............no tooth decay]

(Himmler was (exactly) this age when
...................................he crunched his
............................................................bubble
..........................but I am not pessimistic)
........................................my geology sings:

phreatic slits the padding planes slewed
.....times leached calcites, lactated rock-stuffs
..........—all glint and shear, glimmer of renewed
..................lime integrals in deep and dash, roughs/
......................smooths as though—as steep chymical-stewed
.........................—resolvèd ruin's dry-rearing cloughs

....................[feet in ancient time—her thigh-heart enter
...................,—the Sotadic (undead sephira Daath)—we wight
....................her topographic shift—quite the Red Preventer
....................—in its ancient time—sped tricoteuse light]

because we're here because we're here because we're here

vadose, she is, escutcheon, keyhole, wet
.....................lights below ground
....................................voices in her hollows

............................far-off in the streamways
...............................all that no sign of it now
.
.
.
.
.
.



..................^[joints still crarking—crows not shaping
....................up wind/rain across playing fields of daylight]
.
.

Basho's mind of Christ

it was that rainy morning
the trains oozed past like snails
clouds of shit stuck to their long heads
she said I think you should
go

talk
to this other woman
I said
you're on a martyrdom trip
sound like my mother
sound like chaffinches over
Dresden

should I light the fire
what other woman do

you mean
anyway
you know the one, she said
as the train blew a faceful
in the rain
the one that's always there
in your
mind of

Christ
the frogs around the green ponds outside the stations
thought Christ
fuck this

jumped

six days into the trip
we found them white-side up
legs wide apart
in our thick soup
like jokes

fat dead jokes

about Basho
n

.
.(Published in Ditch, 2007)

gas and gold

oh whether to go with gas or solid fuel

the foraging aspect of all this
delights her deeply and she spends a minute
parcel of thermal energy weighing
it in her so inherent hands
before she crosses
herself like a nun in a sad Autumn

through the thoroughgoing trees along
which she now her him not hasty travails
[......................]

so passeth the winds of cold gold
.
.
.

The Orzel Project in Admit 2

5 Orzel Project poems published in Admit 2. Start at page 19 (collaborations between Steve Parker, JR Pearson, Pam O'Shaughnessy)

radio radio

and all the windows in all the world
through all the cornfields
will not be enough
to crack open
this last remaining corncrake egg
that will never now rear a little head
gulping at golden air
.
.
.

Of Some Far Off Autumn Morning (a fractured prayer)

your ghost came to me in dreams

still young and confused
and asked me why I was gone

I said I looked into the future
and didn't find you there

I looked and looked
in the rocking and the creaking
of our mother's armchair
where your hair once shone

like a mat of gold stuff
and I couldn't find you there

and now all my days all my days
don't contain you

and I can't answer
and I can't not

and this is me forever
clutching at the last wisps of you
filled with this failure
of not standing firm
against that awful tide
that I saw coming
and that I too became

and it's Autumn now
and you won't be there
in caravans and campfires
and the orchard's low glides

you are a hole in the air
that no nature abhors
that nature elides

and I wish you would sleep
and I wish you would not sleep

little lost friend
not even a peep
.
.
.

Drapetomania (to Buddy Kwow)

"Expect a little turbulence, ladies and gentlemen,
for there are monsters in our midst" - Madeleine Shine


they have poisoned the water them
.......................their sickness you can't even
..................................sweet
the sensation like shade comes
.............................above waves
................she walks................... but slowly
....................................as traffic (swings low)
...................downtown at noon on Penny Lane
^{(homage to slave-ship captain James Penny)}
...........Penny Lane in your ears and in your eyes and in

the catch of the throat is the crying

.........................of the edges, the edges
...................dropping away into.gulfs

......................where you have not grown
..........(there are no clear pathways here)

—through unhealed frontal cortices still the Middle Passage
..........................................................urges to run
...........................feel the myth-gene
comin' for to carry you home

[a stroke he says (a)(dark) imagine stroke a (angel) [blue]down reaching
swinging stroking out [suburban] low [skies] imagine (wiping) so circuits he says
such an erasure (touching) in the unheard (such a thing) imagine]

..................(?)somewhere here, somewhere we forget(?)

................"there had to be some spirit at work"

.............................lilting sideways
......................................in early frets/mists
will sleep better than the gentlemen do on shore...
are built on purpose for this trade...
are accommodated with air ports and gratings
for the purpose of keeping...

................where doors found beneath growths
...............of ivy and unreason.
......................................unused for years
..................wayward and swollen
...............with fruit no one will now [look into]

............(O this the moment we feel it most
............................here behind the halftown draperies
......................where feral trees sing sweet
...............as rivulets of volcanic sand at dusk)

...................the moment we learn
................those pleiocene footprints—one adult
...............................one child—not strolling safe on a lost shore—
.........................holding hands at sunset—

..........................but one taking home live prey
.
.
.

in the way of things

pulls up outside the neighbour & hax into the POV stream
rips out the soundline like despining a living cat
overrides it with Gimme Pink Apocalypse Now
whupwhup she says sudden her eyes half closed whup
whup all ahead distant hedge cleaving as we steam up

the Queen

is 101st Hairborne Adagio average redhot black
East European junkie with a kid n-n-n-n-
nineteen babysteps to tha hart've stark Bell Huey in early
Snow fucking White Sleeping with extreme prejudice
Beauty waking the evil hedge Son of Sam Raiming her
apart who know he was even able to finish and listening

her such sudden templepig baby noises anyway
whup all down his wug-wires
.
.
.

Untitled 3rd place IBPC from 2007

Can be read here at about.com/poetry

wetting arc (à demi-flarf)

bead control, did you mean? maybe
she let her tongue travel
(deduced from heats)
in a Kirchhoff integral (WTF?) of stroking
repeated this a few times
a liquid-solid-interface
and soil cluster,
spreading wettability
and brazing the type of head
repeated stroking
any point
along the length, thickness
capillary, thickness:
'stroking equations'

Repeat: and what if she just shoved him the love
she craved?
.
.
(Published in Ditch 2007)

the level above sport

I can't write this
can only assemble artefacts
polygraph readouts intermediate or greater
(Please respond ASAP)
(one level above me right now, we the undersigned)
remove all associated physical effects:
tools (balls, bats etc), accessories, location
side by side in the air
A simple, easily-operated device is provided
by which a 'dead' receptacle at a level above

(fragments of grass whirring in sunlight)

Oh for God's sake look it's happening here again right now
in the air it is happening now!
.
.
.
(Published in Ditch 2007)

some heavy morning some sky will ring

momentarily that this event of eating breakfast
in a cafe alone (where no one else was
and where there was no sign

of their ever having been)
was almost a perfect experience of life in itself and now
briefly he allowed himself to smile down at the table
though it shook him to do it

and it was quiet now in his head
but then he changed and those things he conveyed
so easily into his mouth these
sick saccades appeared alien and vile
and he wondered really about

really about

it was only ten minutes to walk
from here to a station
where transports could be arranged
to carry his body home
but he didn't know if he could make it

with such gathering of sexual uncertainty
as swept over him now

he flung it from him
walked out of the room shouting

they would hold this against him, no doubting

such conventions as he were flouting

he clutched at his genitals as he went
and slavered into the street where

with great clouting and shouting

the car hit
and he sprayed for thirty metres
until he hit a tree
which took his head off
removing all ambiguity about the matter

shit
he said
for the final time
I've lost my fucking head

I'm now all spatter
and I wonder
does it all matter

most important meal of the day
they say
with cloudmouths of grey
don't they, hey?


.
.
.
(Winner of Poem of the Month Sept 08 at www.criticalpoet.com)

train

how the words are pressed down flat
as trains under snowclouds with a same

thin urgency none of the breaking forth how
we want to hear them lift out of this tunnel

of a barometric stifle how into some flood
downhill to how complex little life-stations

smog and history for the rushing

all along the valley dragging at live prey
sucking it in

a live burial

a sheer shriek tells you
if you know of such things

soon it will snow

a valley and a train and a words
flat out with the waiting
.
.
.

eyeless in...

Пусть он вспомнит девушку простую,
Пусть услышит, как она поёт,
Пусть он землю бережёт родную,
А любовь Катюша сбережёт - Mikhail Isakovsky

I see nobody—the Stalin Organs
shrill at night—on the road
—they fill the players
—said [.....]—with delight
—to be able to see nobody
(the river bank steep in the mist)
—clear black sky eyeless from al-Attara
to the Ashkelon dream-Kessel....Shhhh
............................=====>>>>...O

O—the road at night—I wish I
had such eyes— let him hear
Katyusha’s clear song—they fill
the players—to see nobody
^{(Russian manufacture 122mm BM-21 GRAD)}
—and at that (hush now)
distance—to see nobody
said the [.......]

("We will continue
to respond, to initiate and to harm...")
—the one whose letters
she has kept ............(Stalin Organs..................shrill

..............................................[of rivers]
..............................................................................at night

....................................................to fill .........[like a bird]

........................................................................we players
...........[homeland and their love]

.......................................................with ........................delight)

........................such eyes

.
.
.^{(This is a transtextual poem composed of reordered text fragments by Lewis Carroll, Mikhail Isakovsky, and Ehud Olmert, interspersed with original material.)}

some hushed fug of later days

where it dies already as though before his intent
he laughed at what would later crimp inward as evenly
and accurately coming like afternoon shadows
that weaving women under firelight
would yet though many of them had left
at such earliest bells those who remained
appearing awkward their movements set
to gain mechanism upon some galvanic episode
quite unimaginable to most
spectators all of them anyway suddenly
devastatingly such words anyway bereft

of shattering artillery all who survived
stunned and deaf some now all
but incapable of the most simple
decisions or activity clearly imperative
to get them all out quickly before they breathed again
though this process was resisted on all sides and here
now even the best amongst us
struggled to carry them to the dedicated transports
in such clothes as we had then

always, in such early days of acceptance,
some deep hushed fug after the moment
.
.
.

30 second poem of suicide

so stuff your foot in my mouth
let me watch you undress

your names are those of wild fields in the wind

yesterday this man this weird man I thought then with a large bag
I am an ex-offender he says buy some kitchen items from me

I well really I thought he says sex offender
couldn't get past the image of him pushing someone down
in wet grass

the house is tumbledown hillsides
little men cling to its sides

half-Japanese he looks to me
with bags full of torpedoes
I don't know what to say
I am a fool from the long moments of grass

I can't buy nothing I say I am filled with slime and wet gloves

what about that what about
he walks away watching me
lumbers back roaring

got to slam the door to keep him out

his big bag full of rain his implements
of afternoon prophecy
.
.

Epitaxy

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