Tuesday, January 31, 2012

the wild iron giants of the sea-strewn south and seaweed everywhere we look

this room is on fire

I am something like terrified

it is 3 am

I am nearly dead with cigarettes

I look stupid

I want a fight

it is tomorrow already

I am scampering on someone's roof

I am the very slates of evil

I have fallen I am broken

huddled at your feet

I met someone once who said
that's it just said

I don't know you well enough
for you to get horribly injured
in front of me

it was just Fairy Steps
it was just fairy steps

my abdomen
you wouldn't believe
what my breath
can't do


trying to have sex for other reasons

if i could relax in some corner of a foreign field
then only think of me this
my senses my tendrils my filaments
straight to the bone or not bone
my patriotism and not
my shaking when there
my wish to be other
a caribou a pure blue caribou
a hunter-gathered nut factory
oh god there we are all co-opted and sexed
and I am speechless in this
I keep running in from these waves
silent, saying nothing
all of my eyes shut and filled
with disaster
looking out
you you
have no right
trenches, the exact opposite

that's not what I mean


suicide watch and responses

clitoris is always attached now
to circumcision it has creased African matriarchs
approaching with rusty antique knives
not less it is it attached to 6 minutes of dedicated stimulation
as though these were the songs of our age
all day holding it in, laughing, coughing, convulsing
breathing underwater in the slick of facedown thighs
I feel like some worthless heft
on top of you of it all of nothing much but silence and sonar
how dead how deathly imagine how we waded out to the boats
that cold and unjust morning when everything went wrong
our tiny boys hidden under the radiator
as though we didn't have them
the police at the door
over the arches I sang and kept singing
all the way to the suicide watch door of my blood
down the perspex
Bangla Desh flood of blood flower
5am they let me go sober
dreaming of eggplants
what are they?
in the pissing rain
at 5am?


Monday, January 30, 2012

all the things about the wrong rug

sixteen degrees of sex that went nowhere
legs all wet but nothing
you don't know
you don't think he is
camels, antelopes, Islamic signals
a voice from above crying
for crying out loud
what do these animals mean?
at the moment
she's forty seven she can do whatever she wants
a phone ringing under water
a torch in the deep
oh look I meant nothing by it
we've had conversations about it
because it's in black and white
I feel a bit under pressure

all along you
and the way of you
if I had a hammer
I would ring it in the morning
as though ringing
was this way
of breaking open
there is a shell somewhere
that has not yet opened
in which is a tiny child with a tiny hammer
waiting to erupt
to leap forth all ready
everything yes everything
is wrong
but yes, it's a female child
with a female hammer
and her little wild head all ringed with banging clouds
what are you doing with my words
what are you
you doing?


Monday, January 16, 2012

Samboo's Grave at Sunderland Point

creeps of sunlight over the saltmarsh
bells everywhere too what bells such?
nothing left beneath only a tiny skeleta
there in the wind from over without
Barrow and Overton
from here to there
up the Irish Sea the overfalls sing
then all out southward freaks of wind
curving in eastward on the intent, the raptor
look at this in 3D
look again, Samboo
your mother dead on the beaches, the bone-beaches
of the endless western Afrique
far-off the sluff and slough
the gold and the kohl the markets of Cathay and Shendy
for this for this
you here
you here
why here?
all of it, ten thousand years in the marram the cow-heads narrow ring
the tramped fescue of a buried violin singing below
and no homecoming
just this loneliness
just this violation of the co-opting
into everyone's dream
everyone who came here to stamp and steam
like cattle about your little garden of squashes
pumpkin-head boy from the meridian lands
sleeping soft and lonely beneath below and black
and how was it done was it just a wheelbarrow
no gymkhana plumage, no funeral cortege
just the function, the deposition, the sediment
the geology of the placement
of a little black heart
there at the wind's wild edge
where it mattered most and least

trampled a thousand over
Samboo universal Samboo
weeps soft over the haunted bay
whirls thrice through the cockles
lingers a moment like a ghostly Susan
then thinks again
and is gone

here, spirit, here
we have caught your soul and you
are forever
our little semantic boy
all in pieces and scatters underground
squashed and overarching
how little and lost and longing, all of it
how tiny and lost and ferocious
down there
down there in the warm and endless cold
where your mother chokes
across all of time
some great universal choke

where is my mind?


David Cameron does the acid-pig thing at last for real

I think that even if we were washed up together on a desert island
me and David Cameron
thrown together
only each other to augment and cushion our mutual survival
though he may turn out
to be good at hunting wild pigs
after losing a little weight
which will of course happen naturally
given the scarcity of resources
and their seasonal derangement
even if our tropic nights were long and filled with sincerity
even if we took to walking about naked for the heat
and the preservation of our garments
for the projected rescue
and anyway the not-caring
and why should we
if all the other eyes are only those
of little pigs and pineapples?
and even if we talked and argued
and shared ourselves
as two men on an island might
if I discovered that by some miracle
there in my pocket had somehow survived
two tabs of LSD
he would not take one
even if I explained at length
how this might help with the pigs
by allowing us to contact directly the pig spirit
and reach an arrangement
he would not take one

I would feel rejected and belittled by his attitude
and would share no more fucking pigs

he can eat hogweed from now on
he can scavenge down the high-water line for sea potatoes
he will have no more pigs from me
until he relents and gets wild
and does the pig dance all down the beach
with his eyes aflame and his spirit reeling
with gratitude
for the new world of pigs
I have allowed him to enter

I am righteous in this


Thursday, January 05, 2012

jumping off backwards in a wild heat

the Zoroastrians got this right
that The Lie was the principle of Evil

after that everything is scattered feathers and coconuts

bouncing forever around the same room

oh, my little broken-up love
what wild things we share

all the way down clutching at
each other

our little faces falling
so agape

some critique of fucking zoology, for subsake

[don't get lost in the fascination
of the approach

though your blood races to row the tender onshore
to have strange outcries on the beach]

when the reports come in, this is what we know:
you are unchangeable, uninterested in change,
charitable, open to propaganda and emotives
but hurt so deep that you could kill

emotions escape.next thing we are washing on the new shoreline
dead as drifted wood tumbling a towel scattered can a thing
be scattered...

Robert Anton Wilson wrote communication is only possible

between equals.what is that? he didn't mean it. he meant

something about congruency.something like the fittest.something
like reaching.the rabbits bouncing on the omaha beach.RM Ballantyne
and Darwin.always the sun.MG 42 like a rattlesnake in orgasm
Heckler and Koch MP25 and that time
a man with an Uzi sat there in that bar in Eilat
told me me my girlfriend was ugly
how I responded to that like an Uzi scatter

life is only a billion men running towards a machine gun

everything inside you poisoning the new invaders
but wanting them too
look again:ak/save/preview/close
ever closer/ak.ever closer&mdash:engage

Lune Deep and the circles on the charts
this is not a map it is a chart

Andreas Baader and Ulrike Meinhof
dancing in the captain's tower

after that nothing, just blood washing up


Tuesday, January 03, 2012

a man with a gun as if

the dream slump of this the dream morphology
we are running through strange towns
we are entering a cave a green place
but the heat the new heat
the body-saki the blood runs like an open tap into
the ichor the cold ichor from the eye's core
the god thing the paranormal all day the white rearing
of the deer in the lost garden, the fear and
then not, everything in fast forward as though
someone had a whisk in your head my head their heads
who does not hate Language Poetry?
I am confused and undiagnosed
the father owl on the  mantel
the tunnel into which we cannot travel
the voices and the absence of voices
what sibilants we might make with our names
under our separate broomsticks in the wild rain
a man with a gun
that's all, a man with a gun near the hedge
where the deer
for years
watching in the dark, waiting
unable to move or turn
somewhere somewhere
a morning never comes

a huge child wipes the screen
that's all
everything back to stem cells
but not quite
look again
he's still there near the hedge
where the deer

none of this, worked
even for a moment
but then the startling glare all over
as it runs in

have you ever been butted by a charging beast?

do you know that moment of impact?
no, thought not
outside, feral child
drinking late at night by the railway


Monday, January 02, 2012

some politics of failing erection

the investigation is still very much
indeterminate policewoman on BBC Radio 4

American politics is a voodoo village
clustered around a spaceship
they found down there
shiny faces
cult and myths
Davy Crockett fighting a bar
in the barground shadow
it's only the appearance of sense
underneath they are dancing up the wild wind

don't think, don't look
just keep stamping
the rains will come


a glowing revenue for the nation's coughers

Read it! This is the last straw! What are we going to do? 
Blistering barnacles, what are we going to do?
—Why Sex is Not Fun, by Captain Overarch Haddock, 1929

fears of a new war between two communities
in the world's newest country
do we care?

life has taken on a lighted character
as though fairies or others had snuck in with tapers
we look and then look again
nothing is easy
in this new light in these times

we drove frantically
I had to be told
rain and dancing lights were everywhere
over there the flat silver line
of Widdop or Gorple—which?
the moors all surrendering to that sharp scrubby grass
the heather leaving for other places
displaced by immigration
a man found headless up here in the peat
the wet old newspaper of fleeting topography

police are treating the killing
(humans can also be affected)

this table this lonely fish
swimming through its reflection forever
what sort of fish is that?
the entire influence of civilisation
from I know these are abstruse extraneous refs
I know I know but the ceiling opens and a fairy reaches in
lighting candles
fairies are huge, not those little things we imagine
they struggle to avoid trampling as they pass by
to their urgent places in the wind
on this occasion all we saw
a vast face that leaned in to light things
before hastening away
leaving our rooms full of gasps

the new infection has been found

at this point
we might need to
(take steps)