Sunday, July 17, 2011

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
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


Saturday, July 16, 2011

again the bell samphire erupts

i amphire
floats in jugs
skink wild
skink again
twink oh the horticult
the twi
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
we dream,
we'd ream

horns of the open sp/ace ace


Friday, July 15, 2011


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

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


Thursday, July 14, 2011

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

, of people and animals
even when the buboes appeared

everyone else too
sloughed there as so many crying shakes


Tuesday, July 12, 2011

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

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


Sunday, July 10, 2011

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

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


i got doubts

for even blind babies smile


Thursday, July 07, 2011

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

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.