Thursday, December 30, 2010

A New Year's display of delightful light by my cousin Pamela Parker. Click to make it bigger!

the parade of lagomorphs

and when he answered "your duty to your husband and children",
she demurred
—Germaine Greer

fifty even forty years ago these women
are more or less dead [betrothal-scarring-wed of facial coverings//]
at this age sexless damp dishrags
of resentment in bags worn thin and blue as veins in Saxon-skin
by husbandry and the pounding of sheets
in some interior scullery just about kicking in dead sleet
petals and sand and sawdust and hacking spit
now look at them texting up as all outer pimped as reality TV
as though their duty to waste and shrink was somewhere cancelled
redacted between cream and the clash
gesture/furnace/glower at them expectant and sexual every one rodded up
with a pink battery roscoe of Thatcher-Solanas tripstick
somehow some right to fuck forever night etc

when did all these women/whore-hen/harrier of forest law/bust a flutter
from the blood-gutter so loose into all expectation?
[alle the nighte we heard that lytel demon mutter
and we there watched him from the pantry licke at the newe butter]


Wednesday, December 22, 2010

harmonic precession (notes)

  • new grass through late snow
  • an error of 1/1000 of a second in the GPS time differential between satellite and receiver will result in a position displacement of up to 160 miles

the insect attack rate is the frequency at which you feel the departure of your fetch in the mornings out through the cracked green glass across the fields sweeps of rain grey like dead skin in a ditch long as Lustig beating with a hammer a devil in a bag it all circles in scatters of film penetrating the membrane the blows from without hair like corn trodden full of ergot a body found there in the tyre ruts flat and black and dispirited

[your currency is no longer legal tender here it is not intrinsically devalued just not desired, which is the same thing when the hammers ring and the corncrakes sing] when the mummer time is coming & the streets are softly keening all around the booming weather will we grow


her absence of inhibition does not indicate sexual intimacy only the loss of all acknowledgement of you as a mature male you are now in some overlapping Venn category with small children and animals and houseplants so why should she notice if she is semi-naked before you?

this requires an adjustment that only a few only a few people find impossible

Hwæt! if there is no life left in this brass god if another front gathers from the west if the cold wet air mass has overtaken and occluded the preceding relative warmth forcing it upwards into lumps and spikes depicted in iso-violet convention

between the hit or miss governor and the cones are three aluminium valves each resembling a round Greek shield in miniature each functioning as the mouth of a tiny god from which issue steam and several more or less toxic gases

hollow hollow all the beaten bag sounds from that dry devilskin

hot coals forced down the throat of the wolf in that mechanised myth

hollow hollow

imagine her there imagine the shift the sensation of it legs apart knees raised as for congress or delivery beneath the covers slide into focus the eclipse the usurpation the sudden brightness of a new comet all the pieces of you rain invisible as ash falling at night into wet fields your bag full of silver puffs out red spores

and if this is that as their white bellies flop in the shallows

then down & around & below & O all the bells of the barrelling Dead


Wednesday, December 15, 2010

love as practiced in the south

this night she had calm all over her
that quiet inhuman settlement
that they have before they jump

but she was approximate

I reached out for her there
she took my hand and came back

we ate a boiled cat together in the kitchen
then laughed till sunrise

now at noon she reads my tea-leavings

postcards fly in and out
and we mind them not

Monday, December 13, 2010


after a few weeks of this new start
though she could see he was trying
she could also see that it wasn't working
oh she loved him and everything
but she couldn't keep living through this
like this for ever
& so one night when he was fucked up
she slipped the gun
into his open mouth
and blew his head all over the wall
behind the bed
where they had made their babies
she sat there afterwards for a while
cried a little
then made some cocoa
read a Stephen King novel
until she fell asleep next to him

in the night she cuddled him
in his dark uncomplicated wetness


Sunday, December 12, 2010

poked with a stick

four and a half centuries
since last a poking with a stick
all the windows broken back then

paint covers the car
the police flee the scene

their faces frozen in horror
all over the papers
no one talks of anything else

everyone slowly grasps
the vulnerable human that lowers its window
waving like it is somehow still safe
morning coming up through the smoke

scenes of feral children eating rancid offal
in the tricoteuse trees

no one feels anything at all until later

oh everyone's god, this moment


or be damned

if we don't kill Julian Assange
any one of us could be fucked in the ass
at any time
during our sleep
even the most innocent rapist or child molester
or otherwise affrighted hare dancing in stolen skin
on the wide sunset
could find himself exposed needlessly
while washing his car one sunday am
looking thoughtfully into the hose rainbows
still full of TV and wine
suddenly a neighbour walking past looks askance
like the world was all changed and gone wrong

all of us fearful now
or perhaps


give it up

it is hard to know
the qualitative difference
outside of psychology
of penetration
or penetration
but in the twilight
one feels more like saying
yes I've been travelling over mountains
baby trying to get to you
slide slide
night and day running all the way
lay back open up
this is not any extra
exhortation only the wild dogs in the river
wanting interior commands
wanting to know
what gives


nearly walked in halioclines

as though descending into a heat sink
or synch of coldness reached by the going of stairs
the falling not the rising or the strings or nosings
or any others
he spent minutes in her wardrobe amongst her hangings
while she searched herself
it had a fascination like voyeurism or psychosis
like the fix of watching one's reflection in a toilet
all the while the music
this was moments before he inserted the neck of a wine bottle
into her and upended it
then used her as a drinking vessel
knowing her fierce and vivid spirit
would appreciate this intrusive act
of friendship and trust

of the thing in the wardrobe
was nothing much remembered then

the car half on the pavement revving until the engine
nearly blowing his hands in her hair then

this she said this I want to do in the long steam
but only he said yes like everything stretched and beat
in the steam of twilight bells as the day sinks it all


Monday, December 06, 2010

if I could be someone else

only last night in the little house
surrounded by ice
the radio began
and it ran and ran
with a story of a man
whose mother died when he was so young
that later his heart exploded while he was driving
on the way to an interview
where he could have become an adult

he never made it there
just everything blew up
across the road
at 9am all his heart coming down like rain
settling out like sad music
high trees on either side
like tall people watching
all of them grieving and concerned
their grief reaching like long dark hands

such was the moment and the shutters blowing
in a sudden wind that came in from the East
his car stopped waiting
wondering what might happen now
all of him just spread there like a soldier
who never got that far
just an exploded star
that came from afar

such are the messages from life and the sky
for one small human
that drove too high
I have made dreadful mistakes
and my heart fearful aches
to watch the outtakes
who doesn't wish

there was a god down the road
while he made human cakes
for all our sakes?

and the music comes in
and it is striding and mournful
like a little angry god
with a hole in his head
where the seasons went
and where at times he would gather himself
and wish as hard as he could
that things had been made better

we are incrementally composed
of all the people and things
we have ever loved and hated
this is soft Politics
and every time is morning
washing up on the long beach
like a lover's hair in your dead hands
and her not yet ready
to ease them out
just lying like that
listening to the waves
neither of you moving
one that can't now
one that wants to lie forever
not moving in case something changes
this is how it will be
when your heart finally hits your head
whoever you are I want you there
to do that like one big word

gasping in the quiet morning all over me
loving this sandy death
that came in at last from the radio

the only question ever
is how to love (d*))000£


add lizard

this wind could you believe it
your face like a tree
looking out
the linden trees all astir
another moment I can't believe
and the drains all aghast

the fairies of language have settled here
(oh ah)

we are knocking about together

seeing how it feels

bellyup chumbawamba dancecrack

so much

was ill was not
was pill was snot
scotch bonnet

slide see slide
see saw
see rupture see tear


though snot

Thursday, December 02, 2010

(Val Lewton & the locked petticoat hurt) a submarine film review

the entire crew thrown askance by the presence of a female
things they wouldn't do they wear stalking "cologne"
reeks along the companionway bringing down cartoon deer

"cologne" of couscous algorithm for spermatic submarine
penetration she flutters trapped at the centre of this myth
&&& the difference in vapids between the shift the shroud

&&& the hurt everything depends on some intervention
of extraneous men who all of a sudden act strange run up challenges
hey where you from New York??? the man with a gun in his face

fuck you all you pigs

refuses to back off he says silent no I am of the desert places I
and my father I am panicked I will not scream or die the man
at the centre
of this myth dies like the woman in the former though his dying

must be what kumquat oh erectile &
oh pyro spirotechnic (for it is wished that it be known
these earlier
(underline) toys themselves)))

[in earlier (underline) myth the dying is concomitant and always a secret
launched into a red future to encrypt in reverse the enigma
tic pulse—Dormier Duval: Dark Always Is The Way]