noisy spirits

it is really wrong and somehow so right

the focus the sheer attention is the problem

it is like there are ghosts everywhere

the split between magic and mysticism

for three nights I sat in bed firing my gun at you

but you would not disappear

it is dangerous to be in this zone

everything stops here

everything is examined to destruction

if you want to be safe

get lower down the scale

keep away

keep away

out on the heath

someone on a tractor

but it doesn't look human

it looks like a bear

riding a tractor out on the heath

I am at the window looking out

there is a bear driving a tractor

something is really wrong

let's play Chess again

I understand it now

your shoes indicate that you

are not sane

you live in fantasies

you accept a world where bears

drive tractors

our emotions have not arrived yet

maybe they won't

he made Paulus a field marshal

so that he would commit suicide

his facial tic was the 6th army

dead hands tuning the Christmas broadcasts

trudging to Siberia dying

if he really believed he was right

then what choice did he have?

but why then cyanide

if it really seemed right?

do we like Jews?

Jews is a wrong category

one might equally decide to be

a parrot or a human

this inclusion is an exclusion

so yes we like them as much

as parrots or humans

for they are just that nothing

that is us

this is why the cyanide

the burning

because finally the sense somewhere

of the rightness being wrong

of there being no wider answer

beyond that small space

where it could thrive

these are dreams

that cannot live outside

that warmth where they hatch

there is no excuse for religion

.a cat buys a dream

spiderman

the Hulk

gamma-roaches crawl out of the wreckage

you don't know it

but you love me

we are in deep deep water

our eyes sting

we have forgotten everything

we are now elsewhere dead

and alive

and wrong and right

always in danger

forgetful, wayward, mad

sinking, rising

never what we think we are

the titles run down

to the tune

we exit into the rain

black dead rain full of those rainbows

where our hearts catch light

but really

this chaos is where you live

.

even stuff like this

I like this like how he says it

low low low

a star falls a strange giraffe falls

oh a grassy place

it seems shallow so shallow

I don't understand this technology

my babies are born with other heads

they know how to dance and swim

trace the track of my vein in my forearm

watch it

what is wrong?

do you see that something is wrong?

help me

I have killed you

all this fucking clutter

like a roof falling in

.

TV review overheard in low flight

the man the other man has information about Death

he writes the information inside his shoe

so that foreign agents will not read it on his face

another man looks out at us but really he is looking

at a woman a small woman from Scotland

another man interrupts

another is shot by a wall in London

he is a criminal

maybe he was trying to get to the information

about Death but no one knows anything

beyond the hole in his head

where rain now runs down the windows

and a small animal scratches all Autumn

a woman says I am an epidemic

but no one knows what this means

this then is the first episode

.

again the bell samphire erupts

i amphire

floats in jugs

skink wild

skink again

twink oh the horticult

the twi

lite

the haughty cult your

glooking photosynth

underneath the arches[phone

me in a comma from Moscow put this line in other poem what

consonants did you fucksic]

all down

draped

we dream,

we'd ream

horns of the open sp/ace ace

.

scratch

the dispossessed of Italy die young of heart disease

struggling rootless far from home

their hearts die quickly

the overt reasons are all over them

but the reality is the loneliness

of a drunken man in a foreign land

sitting in a doorway at midnight

finding reasons not to return

Emmer wheat, think of it

think of cultivars

of Americans experimenting upon Japan

Norin 10 shaking the world

with short shafts of wind

Rht1 and Rht2

imagine a verb called tillerage

do you mean like the age of a tiller?

what is a tiller?

someone who lays tills i think

think of the tilled bathrooms of Ur Nammu

King of Wheat

without atom bombs we might have no bread

(農林省^?).

home is everything

someone says this

even imprisonment can be better

than floating in space

is there an arc in this?

an arc angel dusted in flour

big wings/flights/sails/blades/fletches/dreads/chops spinning

ripping out raptors on the tower?

23 degrees of arc or a little more

potassium/comfrey/nettles oh not again

the smell of a head in a cow's stomach

humankind cannot bear very much dislocation

everything is as it always is

until you scratch through the pelt

without Fat Man and Little Boy

these makers of shadow

these deep kneaders

no aerated happy dough

fragging the extended kitchen diner

from the velocette/[what}]

into dreams of (amniosis i really mean it)

imagine again such large bills hissing

unrestrained by the presence of a dog oh

oh formic acid, the ants attack by the river

the Irish Scouts share their curse-words

steamer, they say

this is all news to us

though we notice congruence

between Irish and Welsh

pigs, for example

the three living and the three dead

lo, I am undone

I know nothing of homes

the three and the unthree

and the fleet and the dead

you too, in there

maybe the closest I got

.

the peasant's revolt

the English would kill and be killed everywhere—Simon Schama

let us go to the thing and remonstrate

so they arched a devilling lever of the back death

the free dead affronting grudgement

on the awning of the wealth of June

on the feels of a black heath

the bridges powdered with shots

awls evenly at her percy this was not a gabble no

gabble gathered here to shake a point

states elonging to taxed electors whose

minorial recounts were grown on the wire

they who knew they were brewing paradox sickly

of the risen were woken open

malices put to the scorch

decapitated on the same lock one after the smother

captured at his airs in the hacked spun it on a spike

through the retreats on the heaving of thirteen Junes

what he saw has woken him in error

a sky dead with aims rumbling in ruin

it was a toy the span of the terror

way front, the spoiled party leagues gold cloth on the east tiles

oiled and down fall iterate spines in the little horse

.

a contusion of unknown flowers

may your heart be free and wilful

violet bell-flowers, what little scruffs

vetch, what dead ground

the nurse-hogs clean my skin

forest does not mean trees

but rather a hunting lawn

over which is applied forest law

so unhinged, caught in its onslaught

waiting for its own infection

like smoke

the head of an onion

a grievous thing

of the welters

we did that once but now

camera of the canal bottom how

we trod the bellied light

to appear on the victims neck

so fucked and slow we trod

the light into the mud from which

a bloody coughing

as though gazelles or other harbingers

had lighted

such sex such coiled and reaching now vexed

every gasp a tarot card thrown into bloody fog

all of it new and dead

five rise chimneys, dogs everywhere, wild wild as

footfalls of smoke

please

, of people and animals

even when the buboes appeared

everyone else too

sloughed there as so many crying shakes

.

Alice, at last

there's no sense pretending it's better than it is

lie there and die

in your last lucid moments you look around

bewildered

a wild spirit horse stamps upon your chest

his huge face in slow motion coming down

your family bicker above you as you sink, rise, sink

you are a box kite made by your dancing husband

you float far above the streets

out over the valley

a mile or more

so much dead string now

reeling in radio messages

from back then, way back then

running up bombed sidestreets for milk

in 1941 Liverpool

and the ferries still running

I was a clippy

you announce

the tram-brakes shriek down the Liverpool hills

a clippy in green for the Jazz dancing

when he came back on leave from the convoys

burning the Alaskas out of his head

with wolfpack beer warm as dry blood

on the font at St John's

the string cut, the kite falling soft

a mile away, miles away

down into the valley bottom

all your stories landing, coming home

running up Whitby Street

carrying milk through the bricks

milk that passed on through the bombs

to that day

when the kite flew over it all

dropping only itself

upon your coffin

sliding into the curtain

to the convoy fires

of the last Liverpool Atlantic

.

raising sails in the east badger

the fearsome saint puts the gun barrel

in the mouth of the winged horse

[it takes two poets at least to make one whole human]

what is 'target practice'?

what is 'a culvert'?

can you play Golf at night with infra-red balls?

what is that makes the toilet water blue?

I encountered bottled toilet water in Austria

at the age of twelve

could not understand why it was so coveted

and highly priced

this is an untidy landscape.the gritstone sparkles with quartz.

rosebay willowherb and ragwort grow from the cracks.ferns

uncoil golden arcs of prehistory.but this is already tinted

already disastrous to unmeaning.better only to look and say nothing.

the blurb says that Ed Harris says that Lee Krasner

says that Jackson says

jackson i goin to jackson

where de elphunts

run clockwok on a cold day place your back

to the fret you find the calamity always comin

from the groin east of reason

trunkful of 8000 mussels crawling snout

like

come back to life come back

all night she talks of badgers their huge

bearlike behinds cold on the road

after the school-run

all i need to know to be sure

do you know, like

anything?

i got doubts

for even blind babies smile

.

une ombre de la rue

(to Lee Krasner and Dorothea Tanning)

(look again look how the world is all alive with beanflies)

(start playing)

(where you used to be/clings to me)

in his or her thermosetting resins the moment throttles as though

it purhaps some placeholder for an embarrassment
when she/he is ready to be swept by the nervous heath-fire

(il fait si froid dehors)
the brownian motion upon the veldt-integument
as dough as dammit them digitigrade hoofers came all
in a swoop through the meridians beaming in their

tarsals their taste-feels like (degree)-proof in several
as though a motive now even but are you sure
you are ready for where you will go next.the cur-
tains will unravel the lights enumbrate are
you ready to see in this new place such parsifals as you may observe

through your new atavism of eyeshut skin through the breakers
and booms of the kopje drums the lift and unlike-light rings aloud

[The Door to December ... No pedestrians were out, no traffic on the streets .... Monster

THE MOON HOAX THE FACE ON MARS]

what about toxicocariasis he asks might i not be infected

struck blind from exposure to such drear auto-imagery?

(the monster sparrows fall/vos peines sur mon coeur)

unsatisfied he sends himself twenty emails of the same poem

signs each one what the fuck/in the long room/behind his shade/

the drug addicts and alcoholics/always off work/gawping

in stifled delight at the 9/11 TV

like the fried Kapa Normandy negatives it's not just like some patsy

in the back room burned your manuscript

like you might reconstruct it from memory

(i can't stop right now says K can you record it for me i will

watch it later it sure looks spectacular)

it's like they erased that whole sector of you made unrecoverable

black buntings flutter on the gate

no you won't be coming back.don't ask.

.