philosophy
is remembering your girlfriend
when the lights blow out

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commas
are the breaths
within kisses

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Quick poem for Duncan's sculptures

swollen their hard-soft bellies
that are not bellies beyond mathematics
their beaks that are not beaks
this sculptor of the infinite
will confound us with his Grecian tricks
as a sky will fool us with its love

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riverghosts aside

the grass in the glint
the hand of your hand
the river's brush
the sun's cackles as the low
small things
away they won't

go the infested the path
what
now always never

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Worlde's Blis: The Jaye Consort.

her drums pound
all the night
soft pigeons at dawn

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ONESUPPOSESTHEAPOLOGIA (eek means also)

there is not one moment in/for which
the clockface of dandelions blown
out as basements will not tell
its facial tells at the table in the tension

of rigging ropes in the niceness tarred
as ancient kings of Natron salt
of all kinds and hues they all taste

with deep ceramic spoons they call it
that now that lying together in sleep or else
now world and children ere the moon the spoon
clock that has no face that has no rise

upon it at dawn and withafter dawn
and at nightsfall in the holy sex
of six and six and nine and hereafter

where the deadfolks the deadfux
as we now lay/lie with our feet updown
on the slow-rafted yet again to flux
what we have love what we have

death in all of it like fossil vampires
what sucks up fires eek phires
eek oupyres eek

so let loose
the fucking goose
eek lend-lease
the freaking geese



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view blog

it means like the shifting the wheeling
of Patton's army to Bastogne in an instant
this miracle that cannot happen
like that it will not be trusted
for we have no priests with weather prayers
such forces as will have to be arrayed

Oh look, a delight of confluence
of water of flowers of light
and all down the road to the shakes
our hearts delighted

until we reck we rode with skeletons
such liches and fetches
all of it gone now
like unto little lights
underwater snuffing our futures
past and unpast we will not learn or unlearn

our stories of our lost children

.

pale early morning
drums
all quiet

.

Orange into black in the Yorkshire sinks.

always though they follow

all our secrets it is as though
we had convened perhaps
at the riverside
had been alerted to the coming
of the river monster and had fled
dispersed
never to be seen again

our lives are safer now
though so much lessened
by this dearth of monsters

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Eithe Genoimen (reversal)

I would that I were littered stars
cast up upon the tide
that all my eyes might gaze aloft
to where you hence reside

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fuck you he would say
with his dripping schticks—
I am Nature

.

ghosts by the river

the glint in the grass
the brush of your hand
the river
the sun low as the cackles
the small things
they won't go away

the path is always infested now

.

full of monkeys
the car slips softly
into the river

Peter Ackroyd, whom I generally regard as exhaustive in his research, and thereby reliable, reports in his biography of Blake that the average aperture of an 18th century English chimney, climbed by sweeper boys, was seven inches square. Can this possibly be true?

.

"The only difference between myself and a madman is that I am not mad"—Salvador Dali

"The difference between faith and insanity is that faith is the ability to hold firmly to a conclusion that is incompatible with the evidence, while insanity is the ability to hold firmly to a conclusion that is incompatible with the evidence"—William Harwood.

Ooh so got to learn to catch a ukulele now ...

hair-clips

there's nothing left of this but hairclips
perhaps some DNA
which even post-apocalypse
takes time to wash away

.

look harder

look at each other
across the vast gulf
and try to read
what is in your hearts and heads
most of all try
to read yourself
in the eyes of the other

life is so short
so capable of beauty and disaster

it's too late now to look
for anything but truth

as we fly out of the room
on wings of cold silk

love is all we have
that keeps us airborne

gazing down as vibrant birds aloft
into what we know is coming soon
borne upwards in that sudden great heat
and cold that last swoon
to meet us and catch us forever
in its last known slap sideways
into nothing

take your chances and love real hard
little bird

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rag-rug rag

if you can make it here
there's still no guarantee
that you could make it in the Gaza Strip
or the frozen methane
of somewhere else entirely so these fond statements
are very probably false
I recommend you do not trust them

all existence is suffering, sayeth
he sort of as dukkha
O the unsatisfactoriness
of what changes and cannot be relied upon
others of course make of this a virtue: Forever Changes;
Change is Stability and so on
but this too is falsehood, for all those people
died and liked it not much

it's not said to be a great thing
this withering and dying
best not to start it too early

one has nothing to report.
the changes are the same
as they ever were

the same rug from under the same stupid feet

life goes on so thick and fast
so in a whirl of things
stop it, freeze it and examine
the psychical genome
write it here
figure the real options
then and only then
proceed to alight upon the Earth
all the while conscious
that it is spinning and will spin you

one has nothing to report.
the changes are the same
as they ever were

I intend to be married to a stranger
by the end of the day

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patachresis draught

The raw, which contain bark shavings and bugs during scraping, is placed in canvas tubes (much like long socks) and heated over a feu. This cause the raw to liquify, and it seeps out of the canvas, leaving the bark and bugs behinds. The thick, sticky pasture is then dried into a flat sheete and broken into flakes, or dried into "bouttons" (pucks/cakes), then debagged and sold. The end-user then crushes it into a fine powder and mixes it with ethyl alcohol prior to use. If all is performed aright the bug god will quickly appear.

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Crikey, what a new (ancient) box of toys one have unearthed here:

Mediaeval punctuation.

(& every other punctuation & character event of which one could wish)

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