Saturday, May 30, 2009

fruchtnoten: the crunch of chitin body parts

how summer was a great orange beetle
spreading itself on the land
making it sweat making haymaking

men coat themselves making whirring flecks
all dead as doors shake white shake with it
the house of dreams
the obsolete work of making and shaking

hay that shone in the mouths
of the giant cattle
there by the wet ...................................................................................or dry river

of which we did not speak
with such mouths stuffed with hay
of how a man who went into a bar hollow with thieves

said what do you call a parrot
with three beaks
how all of it like that
will fade gibbering fixation
upon body parts
here because death

lonely death knows love better &, uh, wetter

now all your hollows will speak again


dolls in the attic

trees shake in low light
words poems I slept with
fragmented upon waking
into things I couldn't

get to work
birds were there
not singing
peering out

in the lower branches
where the foliage
was thick
all of it shattered and silent



Latin thrush

in Yorvik are some copralites
rich in frozen parasites
fossil bran we also scan
in those historic Viking shites


now shut up and do it

get a load of this
while it's still free motherhead a rapture
with which a teenager claws his first

is it after all you that sends me these messages
while I sleep? no that is some turtle fantasy
of irises of wet erections bursting

in bed so bloody so ugly in breakage
listen now to these trees in early summer light
midnight has not taken
meaning from them
you are a woken cannibal at prayer

starting like hares standing my senses
why all of this is so young
why I gladly roll into you
dream figure at the end
of silhouette alleys singing
swells and ways and swells within

Friday, May 29, 2009


drag him into the woods
this scared boy
beat him
call him names
tie him to a tree
pour on the petrol
by now he is begging
do it, pour it on
play with it
there is nothing in you
that can stop this now
get your lighter out
light him up
stand back
watch, listen
even you will be wide-eyed now
in this shrieking incendiary moment
how long does it take
for the screams to stop?
only a minute, probably
now you can go forward
to this better life
free of this irritant
you have felled your adversary
you have buried him
in shallow loam
you have conquered
you are free
you are the sound
of one hand clapping
in a woodland fire


cows of a the causeway

Ross point wide open to common slap
back skerrs cow-samphire to the swab the granary the snook
waders look the puffin ternburrows overarch nessending
here a deaded whale a heave of keel heads
the sandham the sand ham the holy head braes

shivering chapel, bride's hole, cockly knowes
aloft broaches allover allmouth squalls of reeled sandeels
from oyster scaps neaped without a flood-end we have it
burrowed as cow-caving Cuthberts on the causeway
of the sea's waste Jack's waste sand's waste south lows

at long batt a seacow levelling troughs
seaweeding of a heading reach into the guile
the stiel of parton and fold soft transports caught out late
beneath the laddered outer safeties
of the skate road at neely and madge sea campion

all dead reckoned the midnight at three tide-race welled
back again curling as wave-cows into the cush-place
of holy island and all at slow sussurating cow-claps
of harbour itself harboured gathered and held face
as only whipping dawn would elapse


Wednesday, May 27, 2009

grey mist heads off archaic daylight

to the thuawking spring of jackdaws
at dawn
as if only this mattered
how now they cry and try
a gormless silence battered
to a longing squawk
a cartoon-reared auk
of some council tattered
of beaks that hang fry
festooned and scattered
to an awkward ring of slack jaws

Monday, May 25, 2009

a crane fly crashes
in my drink —
you ugly swallow

Monday, May 18, 2009

a walking Emily

sacred sacred Emily is not a rose but rather
...................a hole in which no rose is a rose
but is not anyway a rose
..................................................but rather
the evanescent shove of the but
that stops you from further growth
all senses ..............paralysed and overtaken
at the proximity of this vacuum/language
it is a moment in which
...................................nothing just nothing
not even potential or difference
look into this ........................ for it is startling
in all its vivid shriek of unknown absence
it is only that place where you have not grown

it is not a hole but only a hole in possibility hole at all for it has no substance
within which to hole it is just the stop the cessation
of that which has not started there are no gasps
no flavours only the child of you looking down

from below seeing its own .............................outline
and nothing within it
................................................that corresponds
only projections live here in this only imagined
where your next imperative stamps at dawn
forever uneven off balance Emily shifts

her head her head her blueblack upripped head
into your pale moment in the mirror wind wind
go home wind go before the end has passed
under wet grass at morning shimmer your holy
holy .............................................................. tail

Sunday, May 17, 2009

a flicker into flux

so from this the stream issues
its fascinating tide
sometimes this or that
I have focused upon your salience
but really I mean
some sort of overall engagement

is no diminution
I suppose is what
I meant to say
to you at dawn in the still firelight
like the sky presses down
can I do that also
I mean can we get serious here

for a moment
can we just stop
and get upended
with each other
can we transpose and uncurl
all of our meaning
into another saxophone entirely?

Hauser Windsock

no one was more doggedly aware than she that a revolution
of some quiet sort had occurred through not least
her own daughter in law which consciousness was written into
the expression upon her own currency from which
she regarded her people with the mild hatred of a mother
watching a dog drown in her toilet

her son himself of an unconvinced on all levels canine
species given to early baldness and similar acts
of emotional drowning unhappily divested of the power
to behead and rape at will to shore his genetically resentful
demeanour must content himself with peevish
assaults upon architecture and farming both

lands which he has colonised and now squats upon
straining ruddily to purge himself of the bloody
she-god in whose shade he still flounders his silly grin
attempts at gravitas and exaggerated sensory apparatus
as recognisable testament to his Hanoverian lineage
as his enthusiasm for a good sausage and a flat joke still

they hunt foxes as though it were a duty to be seen
to be pursuing at least some of the subjects
after which the rubbing on of blood and the taking
of a nip or two in these rites are they allowed
to look at themselves with pleasure and pride
steaming there a little flushed and lordly astride
some large animals of roughly similar intellect
and political persuasion O to be allowed the levity

to be monarchical again to talk indignantly to trees
to piss purple piss to scheme and connive and talk
of Spain but the first war stopped all that that family
feud that killed off the Wettins and Goths
the Saxe-Cobourg Gothas these halos were shed in shame
Philip Battenberg came running still Greek back then

to embrace the Elizabethan proboscis he's so English now he
would insult himself if he could just remember who he was
amidst all the tampons and slitty-eyed squidgy sense of occasion
it's all so arch isn't it all just so arch so they creak and crark
they mutter they roil in their hobwebs driving slow the last
crested landrover into some lingering comic seizure

Saturday, May 16, 2009



moorland intake
float away

this soft shift of air

discharged of all
spread nimbus

if you should
me there
thing of air
vapour feel free
to katabat
in zones
of asperatus

I'll be lost
in need
cumulative guidance
rising below

billows atomic rain
dry cool
float boulders
heather whirs
lone cloudheft

dream it out
bite soft anabat
bite slow wet
upon high


at you

his face was a book
in which you could read
quite clearly
once upon a time
and the end
all the other pages
had fallen out
through his nose
during a violent sneeze

Friday, May 15, 2009

Milton-Homer stirs a blind beard broth

brooding all night the beard squatted
until out from it a man grew

whirled in birthstorms
he lengthened and stiffened

grew pale grew smooth
dried in alkaline winds

swept up the wrack-clung coast
morning flung him there

dry deserted by beards
keen as his saintly vascularity

to eat and embrace O how
in such ways did love evolve

these giants who wish now
to eat at your polyps?

you're a walking beard
and the hat it chewed

a balance stricken

your vampire lover wants now to enter you

a good thing in the way this is
as invasion and disease are good also
passion and certainty they bring
imagine yourself free from here all doubt
doubled up in the morning

him in there wrapped around
your bowels like a baby sucking on
your spleen for sweet juices

your own dear tapeworm
making love just to you

only so does he care for intimacy

in your waves of expulsion he
—convulsed in squeaking sinks

these must be the throes of passion
he thinks

Sunday, May 10, 2009

Moral animal husbandry and aesthetics in late sculpture

to every breath a little gag
you clown are not high on this cardboard
you eat so avidly your throat stuffed with bats
come on now come on settle down this woman

will tire of group sex with your parents soon enough
then she'll be yours again
wait by the river watch the moon
if times are lean you will learn to dive

for pike and spiny perch
these things will get you through
here is a book of poetry to incant
to the night river
fish will offer themselves to you
................refuse them all with disgust

they have scales and are unskilled the arts of love
if vengeance is in your heart
creep to the house and steal a young dog

bestow upon it a father's name
hurl it into the river as bait
then wait in righteousness
silent and alone in your power

not everyone can be the Buddha
still as moonlit river-hares
........................with a Glock aloft


(E)-3-Methyl-2-Hexenoic Acid

this dairy taste of grieving is creeping in me
I am rotten milk at dawn sweeping
over hillsides some signal ghosting up a fetch
ancestors perhaps but O the stench in the back

of the many throats of goats and pasteurisation
itself reason enough to see clear into tomorrow
in iced packages I have no longer a bovine heritage
he sat next to me all day his big teeth his eyes

lk hr i no everthng h sez lk such a streak of meds
falling about him we caper there together
until the driver demands we get off the roof
get back inside for there are people in the hills

such behaviour has already compromised us slick
we are unlikely to make it now past the next rise
he seems meaningless though and we pine into & up
up a lost dreamflick of sunlight through speeding trees

but that red stench coming on we will have to settle
somewhere where there is at least water or the dust of it
something anyway to flush out the crawlers
already are clung to the windows licks at our eyes

Saturday, May 09, 2009

wielding wild weird words she unearths new lovers

scheduled outrage at 2am again
now I have to address the courage
the vitality the deviant tenacity
which enables the firing up
of those abilities whereby
when confronted with gags
allow still the overall reflex
this is no mean charade
it is in anyone's register a thing
to invite respect and awe
now let's see him do it again
under this waving tree
near dawn a motorcycle noise
of frogs mating in shrinking
tractor tracks flooded good god
they think these are little worlds
why am I here at the death
watching the last thrash
of this but just imagine imagine
if you were this and I were that
we'd both be wet with each other
crarking all night in a muddy rut
stuffed with amphibian hubris
O I'd touch you here like this
and you would creak right back
our love would die right there
with the Sun through its crack

Friday, May 08, 2009

essential modern poems

I won't suck your feet during sex
I'm not a princess
there is a glow worm residing
at the foot of the bed
I can't go there now
at night you talk in my sleeping
ear of respiration how you can't
just can't find it in you
that's okay I already ran off with
the beans
the cat
the old records
planted them by the pond
I expect shimmering gravity
to do the rest

Return to Everything Else

move forward don't move back nor sideways don't evade this while it continues move a little from side to side as though finding just the right position the right responses as though this is pleasant don't feel it in your head feel it in your gut don't think about it feel it all over spread out from it keep moving keep moving in physical limitation is no barrier to moving closer in like this like rain on a hillside like rain like Zen in the reeds nothing to it everything to it if nothing else could be done it would be enough

Return to Everything Else

untitled picture on the news

a little blonde boy
in a bright blue sweater
reaches up to the camera
he's not dead at this point
he's not smiling
but not unhappy
occupied with something
standing on black and white tiles
not sinking just standing
looking at something
out of view
like all children curious
eager about everything
he's not dead here
not tortured
just looking up reaching
some adult looking down
stop here

Thursday, May 07, 2009

hand grenade diagnosis by storm

some cluster of vibe-necessity vegetation
attack into the near ass limestone
get you up all night
from your dream
halfway hardon drumming up
only a little disease no big deal here
all night in the TV light
no fear she ain't doing that to me
backended man-woman
in extreme laying position
get unreal quick
one little drowning
don't make it so