train

how the words are pressed down flat
as trains under snowclouds with a same

thin urgency none of the breaking forth how
we want to hear them lift out of this tunnel

of a barometric stifle how into some flood
downhill to how complex little life-stations

smog and history for the rushing

all along the valley dragging at live prey
sucking it in

a live burial

a sheer shriek tells you
if you know of such things

soon it will snow

a valley and a train and a words
flat out with the waiting
.
.
.

eyeless in...

Пусть он вспомнит девушку простую,
Пусть услышит, как она поёт,
Пусть он землю бережёт родную,
А любовь Катюша сбережёт - Mikhail Isakovsky

I see nobody—the Stalin Organs
shrill at night—on the road
—they fill the players
—said [.....]—with delight
—to be able to see nobody
(the river bank steep in the mist)
—clear black sky eyeless from al-Attara
to the Ashkelon dream-Kessel....Shhhh
............................=====>>>>...O

O—the road at night—I wish I
had such eyes— let him hear
Katyusha’s clear song—they fill
the players—to see nobody
^{(Russian manufacture 122mm BM-21 GRAD)}
—and at that (hush now)
distance—to see nobody
said the [.......]

("We will continue
to respond, to initiate and to harm...")
—the one whose letters
she has kept ............(Stalin Organs..................shrill

..............................................[of rivers]
..............................................................................at night

....................................................to fill .........[like a bird]

........................................................................we players
...........[homeland and their love]

.......................................................with ........................delight)

........................such eyes

.
.
.^{(This is a transtextual poem composed of reordered text fragments by Lewis Carroll, Mikhail Isakovsky, and Ehud Olmert, interspersed with original material.)}

some hushed fug of later days

where it dies already as though before his intent
he laughed at what would later crimp inward as evenly
and accurately coming like afternoon shadows
that weaving women under firelight
would yet though many of them had left
at such earliest bells those who remained
appearing awkward their movements set
to gain mechanism upon some galvanic episode
quite unimaginable to most
spectators all of them anyway suddenly
devastatingly such words anyway bereft

of shattering artillery all who survived
stunned and deaf some now all
but incapable of the most simple
decisions or activity clearly imperative
to get them all out quickly before they breathed again
though this process was resisted on all sides and here
now even the best amongst us
struggled to carry them to the dedicated transports
in such clothes as we had then

always, in such early days of acceptance,
some deep hushed fug after the moment
.
.
.

30 second poem of suicide

so stuff your foot in my mouth
let me watch you undress

your names are those of wild fields in the wind

yesterday this man this weird man I thought then with a large bag
I am an ex-offender he says buy some kitchen items from me

I well really I thought he says sex offender
couldn't get past the image of him pushing someone down
in wet grass

the house is tumbledown hillsides
little men cling to its sides

half-Japanese he looks to me
with bags full of torpedoes
I don't know what to say
I am a fool from the long moments of grass

I can't buy nothing I say I am filled with slime and wet gloves

what about that what about
he walks away watching me
lumbers back roaring

got to slam the door to keep him out

his big bag full of rain his implements
of afternoon prophecy
.
.

Epitaxy

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Burroughs eats bugs in the forest

when they took the boy's heart out
found it full
of ash and dead flies like a lantern in a cabin
by a sick bend in the river

flicking away
banging like that for ten minutes
asphyxiating itself soft

gradually like this his cock didn't stop
beating for three weeks
while space moments iterated
to nothing

while the flush asshole of night sky
dislocated itself slowly
from all these moments

while one leaf from a oak tree drifts down
a tunnel

of history later he comes to life under the sheets
grabs the orderly by the head says you now
take my place foreigner with no credentials
wanna fuck my wife my daughter my

I got a unmasked celebration coming on

know that as of now I am a Buddhist

mouthful of flies
you know how it is when the weather
comes in close, tender, hard

where do we start, he asks

you pay me first, she says

pay me like fucking a cold wind forever

.
.
.

shy shy shy

she always an aeroplane anyway

but when this happened she just took flight
as though some great wave come up behind her
full of geese and swans and old newspapers
dripping she rose from ugly water
into all silver idylls of sky
there to career

mad with beams
anvils falling like wet liquid rain in June

you should've seen him leap across
face like that
never saw it coming

always got it all wrong after
mixed up

walks into the grocers
what can I do for you the man says
want you to blow me he says
then fuck me in the ass he says just like that
laying his money down calm next to bananas

you think maybe you're asking the wrong person
at the wrong time the guy says old guy with glasses

later he asks his lover for apples

midnight the grocer turns up
tracked you down, he says

how you wanna do it?


.
.
.

6am rain

oh christ the wash from your passing
pulled my pegs out
now I'm sideways across at 6am

with a headful of wet
I want to run down the path
pull you in

just for being unconscious
come back apparition passing dream
I don't want to stop yet

the brown water and rain

I want your sway to keep coming
your crying claws
in my grass
your heft your shove

in all your long wet wake
.
.
.

silk

dragline that floats and whips sheer
across the cut
a pencil-thick polymer of this
would stop a 747 tear its wings right off
but it's dawn
their abdominal machines know nothing
but violet sensation

all scaffold of night
thick with insect life
waving its fronds

detail/nature/detail

this, this
the birth of shallow Buddhism

all over in the rain
.
.
.

heron

you bouncing ghost
along dawn's shining
absconding with my soul
.
.
.

Cops

there's a nursing feel to it what she does

with such familiar routine
but who will complain when nerve endings
are locking like that

disaster they reported somewhere down south
of the River of Life wash yellow flots ugly down
but this passes of course a moment assembles
around one tiny flame in a deserted house

three murders came in over the desk tonight
work for the girls you gotta
work it just like that earn your badge
tonight fireworks orange fire beers for the cops
made it to ten years in the service

watching streets
watching wind
watching up close your face so shy with passion turning

barren as dawn bleeding out
huddled in torn uniforms
no cars coming
.
.

Seiren Song

that made him yearn not for women not water's shades
some same cool and riversides
and rat-shatters and ice and low bursts

and green fingers stretching for his
only to drug as from strings words
out of him but to a night-sky whirled
in lofts within reach of that fishman

which spun from salt jism ancestors the while
alert to tugs the binary [fire] engine-putting
(slow as yawls) (moans of location) (mist)

over years over
humming shadow machinery
limbic waves of song

take me up he crieth take
in the Fall flowered as arrayed death dynamited

grey-flopping up murk-bearing O grim-aspected

fishman of fleeting littoral, falsehood of starry fishmen
casting of sparks, bearing of eggs, spuming of milt

some psentage've what hear've in dead channels
outflow've of a litl bang

your fucking tongue I know is our joint antenna twisting

but this, this, this...
.
.
.

(O untrousered apprishns of Phnicia
thy mermids ist none so faire—
what outspankered prismes, what
neutic flutic combes soonest they bare)

.
.
(Honourable mention in Inter-Board poetry competition, August 2008)

Commentary to Seiren Song by IBPC judge Tony Barnstone from IBPC August 2008

Yes, I know that this poem seems to descend into gibberish pretty regularly, and that it has absolutely wild shifts in register (from the contemporary diction of "your fucking tongue I know is our joint antenna twisting" to the overwrought alliterative diction of "fishman of fleeting littoral, falsehood of starry fishmen" to the archaism of "O untrousered apprishns of Phnicia / thy mermids ist none so faire--"). But, wow, it's fun. And I like those twists of diction, shifts and frictions of reference and rhetoric. Finally, I like the author's great sense of humor, as he blends nonce words in with the archaisms. I don't know what "outspankered prismes" are, nor what it means to bare one's "neutic flutic combes," but the newness and oldness and weirdness of the language are such that, frankly, I don't care. I can guess. The poem seems to be a Frankenstein monster stitched together from odd literary corpses and the bloody pieces of the author's imagination, written in the ideogrammatic method of that crazy old fascist Ezra Pound. But, unlike far too many of Pound's Cantos, this monster's got a jolt of life to make its limbs twitch. Watch it rise from its slab and wander the countryside until it's pulled in by the siren song of the old man's violin. --Tony Barnstone
..
.

Strix/Pop radio

flies found it
five days before humans
that smell
insect attack
fingers on keys

not even slumped but

purple-grey, mottled, the way they get
mouth slightly open/eyes still wide with

dry corneas
like something just came in
through the window
said no
wiped it all

no
[message half-finished
backlit/hot/whirring inside
screensaver
inactive]
off

didn't like their pictures
whirling any more

window still wide open
to that night

avid flies

owls' yaps outside

Pop radio
.
face just a bag
with a skull in it
.
.

dead love poem falling

all of me now given to this

moment of mirrored green
sighs O we now so so dark

can't hold you forever sometime will have to let you
your heat think of flight
of somehow light your weight your heft
you have heft you are real
though light we see clear through
your membranes into

the complex the conceit

that man so wild in trees
what did he mean by it
how fine we stared we started

to think that water so abominable stretched like that

I fall here fail fall
your abdomen like
no not tonight, don't leave now
with owls yapping no

want you all you all like the river the air
carries us up
where we fix

the weight of you the weight

a whole other human
loving now so hard
.
.

heavy blue grass

some coded rip of iteration
zilches over landing zones straafing
with zero-words a fleeting dance
we are then forced to adopt

as though a Tarantella now
claimed us by right of the poisons of rain
of Quackgrass and Rye corrupted
—there are no bystanders

in such a storm of nickel, no one laughing here
—no one imagines himself now a tiger
leaping from a window at night
tearing at the belts of Pont Saint d' Esprit

so recently, so possible to remember
in living minds still
the dance (not at all slow)
is Gatling arachnids of blue-soft-metal

Ranger Talons (...) claviceps purpurea (...) sound-language
phonemes whirring, falling, unfaltering
into a long blue grass
sunlight made southern
as moonshine glades

though all season rain lengthens
in rotting fields of dance

abandoned finally
to our own spiders
.
.
.

scheduled outrage at 3.pm

light above light, flowers?

this the fire us coughing, us, this?

hearted all driftings, smokes, rivers, small changes

come now this querray, come
O waiting emblem
pierced here

(this how walk we now this you?)

who are all of dead fascination, many-armed, begin
to assemble, assemble

our lights, look, spill out

windows only
into drunken sunbeams

boy no longer

caves in caves

vacant, unboned

(rats ever here in flood-

ways walk soft-loud
explosions)

silence now rain over fields clovered purple

in skirts, great skirts
forget
.
.
.

three gogs, one, more gogs, more

............................slick as vampire night

she turns her head shows her teeth

quite white ..........................but extended

the skin on her forearms bunched

folded freckled female-male

over the canal, over the river canal water slick

of shine reflect of towers of cloud

it focuses, draws in............................gathers

what now, what now

there are clocks exploding on walls

light refracts through yellow liquid

make up your mind make up make your

drunken air bounds this frontier

like animals are released do you

give yourself permission here, do you

teeter on night's parapet with dreams

.................(with snakes sloughing skins

) of dark lights she slumps soft

integument falls around her

fear of herself, absence

hoping only for anthemics

.............intoxication

as though

as though you could fly/crash
on a nearest hillside

loved/warm in moss

open your cavemouth
and say Aah

even out there
this might just sting a bit

the sky all red with bells

all red winter in its gathering
.
.

.

.

.

fucking your neighbour at midnight

it vanishes quickly but even in sheer darkness

the moment itself for crying deep is not lost

like tempora or gouache even frottage laid

deep as a Marianas turkeyshoot has a place

among the splaid mountains of the deeps, the crying of Europe

in 1947 when the Japanese fleet approaches

the coast of California--fuck all this he say aloud

I am a deep fool only in my indress, nothing else here

is the places so much where you belong. feel safe. Feel this

bigness belonging to such deep orders of the mad

and callous, I don't know even now

anything about history, only its pauses

to take breath. Tomorrow we will feel like all fuck you

different as deep cARPfish. Himmler walking home undressed

to a Bavaria poisoned stifled are you still here?

Yes, Europe laid bare of bachelors even. We have no

no we do not even enter. only these deep winds of ash

now shakes our nights. the vastness

the shaking, the medication of our deep violence

all these

surrender soft into minutes of arc

for the crying deep, deeper

but still

.

.

.

Transhumanglia

why don't we give them East Anglia? want they can build a wall around it keep the Phillistines out West Banksy can float around spray some ladders choppers cops trompe l'oeil tunnels balloon girls levitating in updraughts of Marilyn--but the Dutch canal those pumps all can be stopped can be again a watery world of channels Afalons they can paddle their aquatic idyll in peace so different from their Negev wastes eat many frogs fat carp nosing in the sluggish mud as they want build windmills look there's no Intifada in East Anglia the only suicide bombers are people who can't handle gas appliances Messiah will find them there he's any good findthem eating fat frogs squat in the holy wetlands at peace wrapped in a roadmap thinking of melons--Israel, I'm offering you East Anglia and all its shallow shining broads

.
.
.

plighted the fieldmask encrypt

They came on in the same old way,
and we stopped them in the same old way - Arthur Wellesley

on in the same old way we stopped this fall
of them and through the hearing [heart] wrink
of it now folded with very fear doesn't above all

shrink unto ever the wastes that so sing
ringèd brinks at the short slight doorways of frost—O
we confess shy of masonry shaven to shortcoming

of seasons of lack and ill-lustre how, ink, eek
we have state in the blank seas' moods where
time and tide shear upon our every waking sheek

will shove like all animals a heart yet all it
vergeth all confunded all in late grass love of
beneath all thinks where all lies stopt sunlit
.
.
.

sunlight green

white shadows of frost
paint rooftops on the field—
sunlight green above
.
.

lilac disonnet

midst of tilt her bright
fixes an azimuth of night
(will not now cry its last)
of arc—vectors of arousal
carouse here drunk as all
splashing in lunar shallows
:coil as spoons and hallows
—shadows rise as smoke together
on headlands breathing heather-

wind through clouds torn
deranged as lilac dawn
.
.
.

Zen arrow frogs

they got the Gambinos finally
that scrub and vinland olive heart attack
gave me shudders as if what
somewhere out there snipers

wait for Saint Augustine

roads from Marseilles
to the channel divides us like
feelings that you thinking don't think even
that unstated passive aggressive

has poisoned my boys
I see them slip away like dead

lovers unreachable in slight titanics of silence

who now among the serried ranks
of angels will cry shit your hair so dreadful

has grown
ugly and full of frogs so tiny
phyllobates as all hell froze eggs
of deep resonant night

dip your arrows here in my back
,
,
,

slick of black flags

evidently supertuesday and not one solid pancake
to enliven a notification of aquifers in

the corner a capsized toilet brush holder leaks
faecal toxins bespeaking slovenliness and weak
ness of domestic intention week in week out so

to applaud failure O why such
that we have ever and roused suddenly
by fluttering no it won't dare say that

over the many dark islands the flags like lizards
ragged tissue of two hundred year old tortoises
but why not
we gather here hot hopping hipping hoo hoo at margins jump idiotic
crazed yes but not
foolish only seeking cooling

together under we throng submerged as sea-rats
rubbing up wrong ways
of current

Darwin knows of

finched alive in fire and squeak

.
.
.

dead insects crawling rhumb lines great circles of love - drarft

.
one more way of not dying

(you look up into distance
look down again upon far blue worlds choking Buddhas

scratch back up—erect of spin and now
tilt)

at this moment of greatest pain you, you
you look upon wonders always

the mere shudder of your cheek
as you surrender to kisses
(jerking uneasy now from that mode to this like black electric
kettles switched)
excited suddenly with the force (all this etc how how lame)

flick of your dyed now hair leaking
down aisles of swinging I don't know
this running to where what it hurts again day-

light you have got bigger and your mouth
more strange to me than snowballs
is wide unwelcome windy and cold more challenge than the
easy crevice I knew once engulfed
in narcotics 8 minutes of care-

ful and specific stimulation won't do it now I find it
impossible now to tell
who is who what article we and
whose emptiness is this we lick my
beginning with

we are strangers at the mouth's meeting
stamping horses in dawn steaming unready
for the coming bit
surrender where the barrage breaks and lets and streams
all over the fields the walls the leaning batter and the closing

ritual of the mouth
unknown to us here now under this bulb of long life

yes like pyramids
here we gulf pale suns lone waking curtain

.
.
.

Operating safely on the planet's surface...

"I inhaled frequently—that was the point" - Barack Obama

806.4616.0110 (a cup of sugar) - draught

"Sending out an SOS
sending out an SOS..." The Police

YOU'RE walking past [light speed] the house at three
a.m all the lights on [electromagnetic yaps] shouting smashing
[there will be more]
someone crying in the garden
[no/white/wash/white/house]
music shaking [299,792,458 metres per second]
the night (wingbeats) kids hi(ding) under the beds
[................] everyone drunk everyone fucked all of it old

[wait... bells you hear her bells] --sugarsugar--embedded
grudges grievances hatred so you don't
(would you happen to have) [celeritas] even
(would you happen) consider knocking (tyres wail)

(trees sigh) (birds exhale) (legs flail) on the door
(freefall)(eggs fail) introducing yourself saying
Hi [exhale.................] (sail on silver bird sail on by
your time has come) mister we meant no harm

would youhappen tohave would you happen...

—mister we meant
..........no harm—

.
.

2 megaton snake (for Carl Sagan)

"Don't pray to that, it's not the sun" - Frank Redcar

fifty thousand sugarbabes
breathing out black fire

as sure as eggs
is lead balloons
one-a this 2 megaton bomb
gone down like redjunglefowl
with feathery ass alight

(a pope on a hope
shitting in the woods—))
(for the trees—)
(—can't make them damn drink)

two million tons of
high explosive dropped
on Dresden and London
on Leningrad and Cologne

fire demons, fairies, elves
shove your hand down the throat

fifty thousand sugarbabes
sweating out black fire

grab anything you find
twist, pull, rip it out
I love you, I love you
six years of burning
all wrapped up in one
hazy afternoon

(learned about nuclear winter
by studying dust storms
on Mars)

fifty thousand sugarbabes
guffawing

black fire
.
.
.

Rumi spirit-flarf

Can’t you see I’m stretching Rumi?
—I’m an emotional Rumi researcher
I run barefoot Rumi everything jade green
far-off lands, furniture...
Now I can see the Rumi far-off hills
and the dark far away...
With far rapture Rumi and abandon
I would hope for a child
a potent Rumi little vegetable god
(urchins won't Rumi relent
with the snowballs whirl
themselves raptured into a stream
from its Rumi source in the far off
mountains, passing Rumi far through
every repetitive task)
a Rumi sea urchin in antique dress
I found it a year ago when far Rumi

Back, this Rumi is as far
as you go, she says
this sight Rumi may harm you...
where a switch goes off in me
and suddenly when you Rumi have closed
your mouth kind of griot-Rumi-Rumi...

can't you see Rumi far, far I'm stretching Rumi?
.
.
.

Anomie (a beginning)

"I've got a bastard behind the eyes" - Withnail and I

let's look at this again

both ancient and modern
writers seem to oscillate

(thirty years of the same crisis)
(you'd think they'd get dead)
(bored banging the bedhead like cats)
(drowned in the same pond)
(nine times nine times nine times nine)

1. open the hatch look inside
never sure what you will see

(he can see "wonderful things")
(don't tell him anything yet)

2. sometimes you almost laugh
(relief)

3. then you see the little lights
—they're still there...

bions?Brownian motion?dead things?spirits?what then?

(he thinks he sees. don't tell him.)

faced. with this.
anomic space—the issue is to abolish. the restrictions

[["the words[_______]had the force of law"
(Eichmann)]]

see the little lights
—they're still there
(still) (a bastard)(behind)(there)
(the eyes)(there)(still)

see the little lights?
they're still there

they're still there?

thirty years—drowned—crisis—little lights
—thinks, only thinks—wonderful things, cursed things—
nine times—tell him nothing

let's look at this again
.
.
.
.

DCred(fi)shift

this train becomes worm
..............................become arm reaching white
skinny through warm
.............................skyline through

window
all feathers, glitter flying in its
............................................................(wake)

become sparks [reflection] —disturbance

it looks back sudden
angry/thrusting/prognathous/overbite

............wolf headed

west where wild winds whistle
whine, the moment of getting

(a sin to put on
animal skins and the heads of beasts)
it tears through the pages
the shimmer
......................we wake from
breath wet upon
fingers (we bite)
we flurry in time (mirrors) (pond)
(silver copper orange)
lead barium antimony
—forensics of dream (shift)
recoil

drop weapon (years ago) in.the rain

.........murder is a dazzling
.............................light

.
.
.
(Published in Dogzplot Jan 2008)

hypocaust

the colour is cold slow motion
seeping in chinks
with a dry hurtle of Spring

this way we flag
embrace
draw together ducted
press
bind and refract

we prism

[hypocaust]

heat from below
.
.
.

New Executive Orders

Reichstag thermite blah
white hot in the ruins of recount
of a democratic party late in the day
and the barbecue just cold ash
(many inconvenient truths)

(the false-flag (Iwo Jima? Ground Zero?)—
of the fathers—Toratoratora!—Atta! Atta!—
Our Allfather Hiroshima
^{(the well where words wither)}—)

"total wipeout in 2008 of Republican..." you believe this
Pearl Harbour Blah Pearl Necklace
a spurt of new executive orders
that they'll let this happen
already in place about all our necks
(Martial Law/Scooter Libby/The Bohemian Grove)
like they won't do something?

(Get this burning issue off me!)

"you could sense something was gonna blow
question was what and who"
(a rigged explosion in democracy
- the falling man)
"Something's in the works," he stated,
"in the works...Chertoff has predicted them."
Habeas Corpus, Port Authority
the thing that penetrated the Pentagon
clearly had no wings
(and get this: the world watched in horror already in place)

like everyone their own twin tower now, rigged to blow
.
.
.
(Published in Cause & Effect Magazine Jan 2008)

feeding a child

making bread as ritual
—kneading, plying
itself a connection
with a thousand generations
of women
on their knees, pounding
fists in unclean bowls

fleshing out grey dough, oxygenating
latent life, swelling, rising
the sacrament
yeast/bread/yeast/ wine
skin-surface-bloom
sugar and spice
all things...
to all

always
cradled in the left arm
—not for the heartbeat,
for dexterity, ministration

his eyes as he drinks

the eyes
of vervet monkeys
his clutching fingers
feeling for lanugo still,
fur (to hang in)
a flickering, a place

beneath gender
waking slow
leavening, fervent

bright as sugared yeast

.
.
.

a siege of Khartoum, November 2007

Barbie was the original Red Whore, subverting...

the ghost of the Mahdi
stirs in his desert capsule
at Omdurman—such dreams

riding a wild camel
head swinging—excitement (alarm)
calls from the city, telegraph of heartbeat
breath, hollow ground

he is shimmer, spirit, silver mirage
contagion flooding outward

(the air hasn't quickened like this
since Gordon Pasha 1885)
such movement, such pace and fecundity
somewhere a tiny bear
(emblem of bears)

claws the Faithful
by wires of naming and intent
into the vast cleavage
of the West

he heads south, swinging
a rusty sword, feeling blood
beat again
in his dead camel's neck
rivers swelling
clouds massing

the beats stop, the drones
the wild pipes, the music...
silence

(process and plexus/
event and stasis—forces gather briefly along these lines
then quickly vanish)

flies whirl in the shimmer
—nothing, nothing
.
.
.

The Seven (Circa 2000 BC)

I was recently reminded of this wonderful Akkadian poem. Pretty sure the copyright has lapsed, so I thought I'd post it here. It's quite a staggering piece of magic.



The Seven


They are 7 in number, just 7
In the terrible depths they are 7
Bow down, in the sky they are 7

In the terrible depths, the dark houses
They swell, they grow tall
They are neither female or male
They are a silence heavy with seastorms
They bear off no women their loins are empty of children
They are strangers to pity, compassion is far from them
They are deaf to men’s prayers, entreaties can’t reach them
They are horses that grow to great size, that feed on mountains
They are the enemies of our friends
They feed on the gods
They tear up the highways they spread out over the roads
They are the faces of evil they are the faces of evil

They are 7 they are 7 they are 7 times 7
In the name of Heaven let them be torn from our sight
In the name of the Earth let them be torn from our sight


--tr. Jerome K. Rothenberg

The Enragé on the guillotine - 1798

Strapped to a board
his body jerked and spasmed
for some moments
as the last volts of rage,
the final syllables of paroxysm,
earthed through the extremities.
His face that had fallen pale

into a basket
worked through varieties of wildness
and cruelty
witnessed by all who looked in,
as though he was not yet done with us
and our milky constitution,

as though the febrile soul would slide out,
would manifest before the assembly
as a demon that grasped and crushed

and devoured, and those
who perceived this straining
fell back,
left the square briskly,
pushing out through the drunkards
like swimmers frightened by a shark.
In this way, oscillating
with great wildness and fury
and explosion,
the Enragé passed,

his body finally growing limp.
Even his face, pale, romantic and bloody,
ceased contorting and at the last
adopted a sad aspect
as of one who has looked
into a savage crowd

through dead eyes,
and has seen such things there
as have made him glad
to be gone quickly from that place.
.
.
.
(Published in Underground Voices Feb 2008)

Forced Fire - a rite of passage

"Keep coming through on the radio..." - The Rezillos

this is no place
and the fires
at one stroke

go out like tides of air

not a dying
not a fading
but shock reeling out
extinction

place bounded—trees that lean—signal—inward as though—as though—concern—lascivious intent—like but not like—other—
naked one that lies—in debris it lies—scatter—moonless—place without sound—other—other

it is quiet penetration
of dead spirit the arrival
intersection of orbits
running of men with coals

hissing of night/thing that does not/does not wake/awake

it is curling, arching, combustion

in the dark and cold
people are waiting
to fuck

speak to us now in the waves of the body
speak

it is the singing filament
that spans from diaphragm
to celestial arc
that draws us in
like hymn like battle song

(we see omens
in the edges of our eyes)

speak to us now in the waves of the body
speak

our collective
position species medium
phylogeny
order of being
us/our/us

this waiting around, this waiting
we stamp and drink
stinking like wet reindeer

speak, naked one
in waves, speak

now leave the light of understanding by the door
and fuck off
.
.
(Published in Ditch 2007).

60 mg of librium for the graving dock

even my coming here at all
I tell them
has been fraught with elemental forces

what are you, they ask, what?
battleship, I say, fresh from the sea-wars
half of her bottom ripped out
by submarine attack
just on the way here

listen, I tell them,
and I open the hatch
out there in the fog you can hear
the grumph of sixteen inch guns
chill whisper of torpedoes
whine of dive-bombers

the war, I say, the war, damn it

(way hay blow the man down,
I sing)

who is her? they want to know
my superstructure, my ironclad heft
my bottle-killing carapace
I tell them

why are you here?
for the enclosure, I say
for the berms and caissons
for the respite
but prop me gently
for I have fragile sonar domes beneath

(way hay blow the man down)

you can't just send me back out there
I tell them
there's a pack of them lying submerged
across the route home, waiting
and my weaponry all in tatters

this sealed package, they say, will do
to stop the foundering
the worst of the shocks
don't insert the disk
until you're way out at sea

wait for the tide, turn off
the engines, drift through
on silent green swells

(way hay blow the man down)

loaded with depth charges, loaded
we crash into the street's heave
roaring out our sea songs
through wolfpack mist





.
.
.

virus

I expected the Trojan Horse
(that was par for the course)
but the Trojan Rhino
was a new one on me
it jumped right out
of the infected PC
ran across the lino
and ate my TV

death to the pixies

we eventually split up because she believed
in a genetic predisposition
and I favoured the argument
that nurture alone
would do it just as well
and the sky came over
red and cold
and sudden
and dead leaves whirled

a reasoned analysis
would have to say
there were pixies
at work
gnawing excitedly
bright-eyed
in the cracks
.
.

Love came to town

Astride no ass
unplagued by doves
in ragged canvas dried up
weathered down stumbling in
thirsty-ugly-needy
shoes creaking hide and jackdaws
—flies buzzing in out in out the black doorways

in His teeth—somewhere deep in there, honey
welling frothing around a long fat queen
—fly honey, sour fly honey—
hot-metallic-bloody—He tumbles in
hacking dry sputes and scrags
kicking dust/chain-links/cinders

aphids and sugardew cascading
from His hair-grown-long

kicks-erupts-bursts open the bar doors
silhouetted dead leather stubble Jesus of desert noon swaying hot nails
digging palms weasel shadow of a rearing moment
powerlines knocking before storm
He looks in looks in where you stand
so, so...
brooding so biding...
drinks He one dark beer, jug jug jug... quiet
hunched like broken skyline
spits sour ale on His smoking iron shoes

rumbles back up the street to bells afar
in the drugged lumpen clump of deep sea divers
with the ocean drained shadow clanging out
dragging lilac flowers bursting
from the downpipes the hoppers
the nostrils of drunks tied to the dead
trees by the church gate

waking too late to see
like cumulus over mountains
a grey sea rolling rolling, full of logs

Love came to town
.
.
.

Lucky Luciano

looked in the mirror saw Lucky Luciano
looking out
them dead eyes wasn't
interceding to prevent espionage
wasn't facing deportation
wasn't holding no one's head

down in a bath
was just looking out
as if to say fuck
what?
Lucky Luciano looking out
eyes like slabs of meat grey

any way you look at it
this is one far fraction
of fuck
.

lost pipes on the parrot axis - a November elegy

.they are ancient—time of death—still intimate
these two—you know—close as hamsters—still sex—even then—yes
not like some others—hating—you see it—blowing smoke
to the end—hissing like stuck rats—burst pipes—no, best friends
lovers—old friends, old—then gone, her—she
one morning, gone—overnight snow—tracks covered—as it were
a dull blow—at that age—lethal—a part of him

part of something, yes—grown into each—to each
what this means here—his extended mechanism—love, you know
love—yes—no longer discrete—merged his—with hers
extended what?—phenotype?—organ, he thought really—felt
like a church—crematorium, anyway—walls covered in pipes—ivy
can't help thinking—Pied Piper—but the wrong end, yes—no

just so many pipes—fine for rats, you'd think—homely
all twisting up there—scurrying—phenopipe?—no, no
all confused anyway—so many damn pipes—all we are, perhaps
pipes, yes—all from the same organ—made you rumble inside
no rats really, no—sort of a piper—off we are carried
down the pipes—such a shock—quite lethal, quite

—at that age—attack of the pipes—sudden—deadly
—he's lost now—in there—in the winding—lost—pipe down
.
.
.

murder is a dazzling light - dense parataxis exercise

...said this fifteen years ago—that's not possible—terrible how she kicked and struggled—even wrote it down somewhere—paper, you know— they found it after—couldn't stand on his own two feet—murdered her—no calling her back then—in there—the planes, you know—how they talk inside tonight—you could always try hopping—wanted to tell him that—had a way with words—back then—how they chatter tonight—like wind sometimes—blowing through—a graveyard?—I'm sure it wakes things—he was shaking her—the kids were wild by then—wouldn't come— not for anyone—not for the world—he was no better—hear them rattle and moan—like I always said—no better than dogs—deep down—no guilt—not a scrap of sense—was it always like this?—so cold?—so many trees?—just a nose for trouble—a dog's sense of where to get a blanket—a bowl full of blood—he must have known—even him—she knew right enough—what was coming, I mean— she didn't talk—didn't think it—oh but you could tell—she knew—in her clothes and her hair—would have been gone—but then there it was all along—he was holding her down—the incessant chatter—the stark trees thrusting—so she couldn't breathe—in water?—no just down—you know—in the levels—waving, crying—so she couldn't breathe—even in winter—she would have seen it coming—murder like that—a light—not that light—the one you walk into, no— not that—in her sleep—not that she listened—murder—a dazzling light...

Iron Hans speaks to the wind

how will you reach me now
here in this still place?
what channels are open?
what secret ways?
is there any chance
that now, even now
you will reach out from the past
or from the future
from that other place come running
down trails choked
with drifts
with fallen leaves
will reach out
and touch my face
with a quivering finger?
I fear I have become
unreachable
here in this rusty pool
in a dark forest

Toni Kurz 1936 - draft

.
If mountain gods and ogres
had souls, then those cables
that sing upwards, trembling
with our lives, would be telegraphs,

conduits through which we would feel
their longing, their loneliness, their cries
like lost humans. Through those
filaments we would hear the deep

beat of their stone chambers,
so unlike our own. If they had hearts
other than those we graft to them
briefly, in our faint hope

that they might be like us
somehow, somehow,
then we could enter those channels,
descend easily into the meadows

at their feet.
If they had hearts,
that damned knot, that killer knot
that you could not pass

(after all that was already passed),
would just slide through
in the morning
and your friends would seize you

out of that lost place.
And you would whisper
into the heart of the Ogre:
Ich kann mehr tun

I am not yet finished.
.
.
.

Globigerina Ooze

he zooms into her

she does this to him, pulls him in
with all the gravity
of herself

he awakes into her
like twisting a lens into focus
and he is there in the swells
and the frets of her

at this scale
she is all of earth and sky
with her own longitude
great circles, rhumb lines
her spinning equatorial track
along which her sun meanders

a hay wain lurching
down some sunny ride

he travels within her
dizzy in her arc
he sits in the smoke
of her basalt sea floor
binds hard to her heaving plates
he settles there

a sea creature fallen soft
in Pacific ooze
.
.
.

left behind

yeah, they gather their dead leaves about them
and head for the next lonely planet
convinced about it, death, resurrection
they fly
and you wait soft and real and half-dead
for the burning
the return
from this other world
where dinosaurs still walk
where skies are filled with reeling birds

yeah, come home, all of you
come home on vaporous wings

five seconds before death

it all smells like a distant abattoir

a syringe boils away in a plastic kettle
we just look at it, all dumbstruck, bored anyway
it's after 3am, and we're still here
still here

but then I'm trying to crawl through
the hole
my hands bleeding
my hair thick with it
coughing it out

with someone bouncing on my chest
a flag waving on a faw away hillside
you just go like that, it seems
you don't see it coming
your head just flips up

and you stare
at some stain on the ceiling
in distant rictus
just like that—dead—that easy
this is the moment

people in the same room
talking about you
like you suddenly weren't there

just a flip and a staring
and a great downward surge
this is what it feels like
abandonment

a slight regret
that things weren't done a little better
things weren't finished
a gas jet was left on
an animal wasn't fed
a child wasn't held

something tiny
and faint
and fading
and gone

life lost - draft

here is a broken casement, a mouth
knocking in the wind
where a thief entered the house
where night leaked in
crept up through the floors
like fire or rising water
licking, lapping

where is he now?
can you still feel?

he looks out at her
through one small, cracked pane
grey with frost and cobwebs—
the casement rattles between them—
plants on the sill upturned, ruptured
leaking

earth and water—
here is the way in
he says, here

could you touch him now if you reached out?
look how your hands quiver

are you sure they're gone
she asks
he looks at her out there
in the blue lamplight
wondering who
who is gone?

who is that who is gone?

I'll just nail it shut for now
he says, just for now
I'll fix it later

knocking in the jagged wind

where the night
slanted in

a thief
who was already gone
.
.
.

Mistah Stubbs he dead

No whale oil streetlight-spermaceti
(funnelled pale through rancid copper pipes
from the South Pacific/Atlantic)
bubbles;
no cannibal stars

of Otaheite
and Elephant
(cooked in hogsheads retched
to top mizzens/gallants rolling
roiling ambergris
and baleens all dipping flame lugging)
to delight
late promenade-Europe

with such soft soap
such deep diving stars
such blow and effuse and heave
such massif of sea-light—
nevermore the Europa reel
in volcanic biology

and bilge and binge so incrimson aflame
with blow and dive and creak and squeak—

all pipes smoked out
.
.
.

Epicurus amongst the Stars - an Orzel Project collaboration

.

(able but unwilling to stop evil?)

Epicurus has seen all this before
emptiness coiling-arching-ejaculating
little wriggling radio-sparks
(atoms, he calls them: the Indivisible Ones)
of spirit—the battle
between Ugh ice and Ugh fire
—he is prudish about such extremes

(through all of this
the submarine looms grey in the deep)

Now all aboard for everlasting frolic!
he giggles a little into his goblet
what is that down there in the sea-dark wine?
no it is nothing, only disturbance

see how I push against resistance
only so far
how I am directed towards vitality
towards love?
a wise man does not write his own poetry,
but lives it in the flux of himself

Now he writes future words:
intergalactic coitus that devolves
into satellite areola for weary Apollo

liquid fire—placenta folding upon itself
into life—O I have seen dust
scurry helpless, entropy

(the submarine ceases all sound
waits, settles, listens—something...)

in the mind's widening eye
it reaches/arches/st r et c h e s—stops—retracts.
—shards drawn each inexorably back
to the source where the fabric tore op...e...n
—to seal)(shut
to watch it all again just as be/before... these
are his future words

(the submarine slowly rises in the dark: hoist the One-eyed Lady
we are blowing our damn tubes down here)

with this my meditations are complete
—now where
do I get a blowjob
and a rare haunch around here?

.

.

.

Homunculus - notes for a poem

I'm sharing
giving him the passwords
the codes and ciphers
the salutes and signs
the shibboleths
even the redundancy, the vital

nuancial redundancy of pause
repetition, inarticulation
stammer that emotes
micro-language

and the breathing, the required
facial arrangement
the analogues
the postures
and poses

the whole bundle

inviting him to join in
become like us
clothed in magic
welcome
accomplished and present

arriving, incarnate in language
in motion and process
all of it transferring
uploading

this transfer, this ongoing
play of bestowal
and ushering

now
call it

love

.
.

Emily

Emily walks on Sun Street
lifting her hems like wings
over the buried setts
her sinking couch far off, velvet and haze,
her scratching panes
her ghost moors
at last resolved
in a late mist
all tourists
laid low by the vastness, the heath
purple Emily
forever
mist in the pathways
quiet in the kissing gate
blooming
at the last

fragile as wind
on a flower's
black bridge

you, Li Po

you Li Po
twelve hundred years later
kill all dolphins
in the Yangtse
with your poems' potent yells
you Li Po lunatic

you, Li Po
are drowning
in your own face

cubird-camera

>red<(0) ...

...[_]-<
..../\shift

où, Li Po?

Où maintenant, Li Po?
chez Li Bai?
chez Du Fu?
Dites moi vite
et fort
en lettres de fumée sainte
où?

Kenosis 9/11

World in which he hangs

empty of everything
but wind
and light

this falling one
will never now hit the ground,
slide pins into holes,
complete the circuit

invisible above him
the rent through which he dropped

a dream that crept
at night
over the sky

behold the man
caught halfway from heaven
forever digitized, unknowable:

close up he vanishes
in pixel and light

the sacrificial anode
crackles blue with stasis
all the long night
a dying bird
a conscientious objector
in wartime
on the wire

a frozen prayer
pinned to the sky's mouth

unanswered
.
.
.

longing - draft

a stranger who has died comes to the door
invisible as wind
the door opens, closes, nothing

you wonder
as you turn away

who was that who scratched outside
in the night
who was that outside
and how

did he die
in wet Spring
under trumpets
or lonely as dead

trees
in a distant winter
and outside the owls all

turning their heads, outside
he shrinks back
gathering his mist about
him, moving off

along hillsides
thick with longing
.
.
.

O' Keefe's Slide

fingerbells in a house fire
on a neck tuned to fourths

a long-ago Christmas
wakes at midnight
shifty on a bar stool
as a cat reeling on ice

too fast too fast
the bells swell out
tearing the Atlantic fabric
thin bones busting through
the night swoons
yellow-orange
lamplight though beer
pumpkin teeth this O'Keefe
-- his fingers
wresting a stiff neck
watching it slide, slide

into the Morning Star
.
.
.

Interview with the Ahmadinejad

Mahmoud is on fire tonight
spinning like the monkey god
won't stop dancing for long enough
for you to get near
pin him up against the wall
go through his pockets

look for lies, sinister things
trouble bedded deep
rape-dreams of bonneted church-wives
from Middle England
in his blackbeard heart

all his answers impossible

wily and glitter-eyed, laughing
poison phials, curved daggers
secreted in his djinn-jumping
his cackling desert gimmicks

are your American bombs not dangerous?
he's flipping like dust devils
are your bombs full of flowers?
full of perfumes?

with all his answers-impossible
doesn't understand here
Mr Snowy don't approve
of grinning tooth-baring
weaving whirling whistling wild
hokey-faced afreet monkeys
want to have your wife and daughter

in reefer-mad Persian hareems
reeling perfumed with eunuch bombs
in suits teetering upright


like King Louie on hind legs
in the blind dance of all fire:
pumping his Cheshire-cat beard
up the tube

(for whose side unlaid?
—his Ground Zero flowers vanish
like lost holocausts
from the pages of time)

1492

1492 was a bad year for the postmoderns
Taino didn't see the Columbine Weaver coming down
with a quadrant and cross-staff
from Cadiz and Rome
writing them in as subplot
never had a Cortezcoatl to warn
of impending context-fiction
(mere poetry of space they are now)
in their nakedness/decorousness/praiseworthiness/

(though it is *true*)
made to like us act wake up all-dead quiet
silent/soundless/muted/dumbfound/voiceless
tacit in archipelagic echo
of coral emptiness resound
never saw the jackboot bestseller
descending forever and ever

(rolling surf on shale—
never felt the polynesiac swells lift
in their southsea orchidectomies
of wolf semen, of navigant creole)

on a human face of narrative real estate
never saw themselves textual unfacted
loaned out to the future web address-
squatters of thread-plane-hijack
but they are the last great sane problem

in 'american' history
before all connection was severed
by right whales
with Mothership Essex
and the arqebusiers just forgot
to look again
where they left it crying out so tricoteuse

nothing sane will come out of 'america' not ever
until Osama bin Laden is made honorary
Coyotanansie Doctorate of Hashishim-Alamout-Reflexives
at UC Irvine

until TRUE is REALLY
N=O=T=H=I=N=G
knitting hats by guillotine light

chewing dead potatabac
Jacques de Holy Molay thus thou art
finally fully resolutely
unavengèd and all
baphometed ever out
along shores of silent ash

Saint Ives Estate

Canada geese float on light

Wind in Scotch pines

Clouds amongst the lilies

Arrows shivering in warm air

Lady Blantyre reads
the wooden pages of the seasons
through rain and sun
with eyes of far-off Autumn

in the Goblin Wood
we lay our hands on warm rock
breathe scents of lichen

teals and mallards move
as swans sail in for bread

the rainbow lake shatters
into dancing fragments

rain mists the forest

carp drift like shadows
beneath ripples
.
.
.

Iron Age Palimpsest

Walk in invisible ruins
hands outstretched like dowsers
sensing with fingers
the sharp tinge, the chill
of ghosts, rise in the mind

from the air there are tracks
clear across the hill
familiar to the dead
slack-grids and contours
whorls and ridges aligned

beside the dry stream bed;
bone-delineations of a world
that imprinted its dreams
beneath the creeping bracken
and the dry-stone walls

the same sounds of the hidden
water quicken underground
the same scents teem on the air
though middens are grassy mounds
cooking-fires, gleaming furze

stand on a threshold
that reeled through days
of wedding and birth
bearing of the long-wrapped
to bedding in rough earth — look out at morning

into the same soft haze winding
along the clough — the same dawn
light that blinded the last men stepping
forlorn-furled from turf-dark
of a fast-flickering limestone night

to see silhouettes out on the stark hillsides
shouting the end of one bright green world.

Some heavily-accented thoughts on transtextual (Orzel) poetry

In the appropriation of fragments of text from their initial context, Orzel poetry allows those fragments to live again, to be reread outside of their original political, social, historic constraints; orzel exploits the innate reflexivity of language events.

Transtext is the pure randomly reflexive postmodern activity, the re-deploying of text as construction material -- as meta-text, as discovery, as skeletal matter, as cross-correspondence, as fossil, as seance, as sediment, as sphynx, as birdsong, as windchimes, as EVP, as the riding of the Loa, as bumps in the night, as handfuls of life-in-dust in the shadow of a red rock -- with no spurious acknowledgement of authorship.

These original texts are no more to be considered 'owned' creations than is a handful of dirt baked into a brick. The completed transtexts are similarly handfuls of dirt to be plundered by anyone who reels with possession and desire. They are only owned at the moment of assembly. Subsequently they are dancing dust in the air.

Orzel-fragments are the chaos-desire sigils of AOS. They exist only until they can be subsumed into the greater unconscious of the resurrected text that never existed, where they begin to work unseen. The act of transtexting is the act of burning sigils, of letting desire metastasize. Orzel is the forgotten never-work of the Zos-Kia Cultus.

Never mind any of that shite, though. Orzel is a shortcut to stark dynamism. Some people have to work very hard to achieve that authenticity of voice.
Orzel delivers it readymade.

Fermat 1

.
[this] sinking ship's bilgewash scubmarean
pelagiene sparkledown anglerfishtonic bedsheen
starryvene curvenacht moonin-choristatomene
angelarclist celestian beta-articetachristomine

ballad of the Lamper at the Paros gab

(and the Lamper will venture out of his air-conditioned idyll)
it's writ in the Paros gab
.........some people just that sort of people
with a plan (the myth of pet overpopulation and flooding patterns)
a thing like suicide/midnight at the crossroads/a bank job
or just blowing one black night
..........................in the rain

..........................and you know
how much easier wartime
you remember (amid this idyll are hints of certain deadness)
those snowed-in days the other kids free from school
..........................ran across white fields
stood steaming, excited
..........................in the grace and novelty
(the refugee capering idyll
..................of a safe disaster)

..............everyone (reinscription
of the iconography of peasant innocence)
saved.........................gathered up
..........loved at last (here with his family is the Lamper's
one hope for new life)
this crew has a flair for the dramatic

heading down with heavy blankets into the tubes
first night under sirens
the same ripple and chatter
kids clatter out of school --
into this fantastic idyll come Baal, Cronos, Herod...
(now this crew has a flair for the dramatic)

fire alarms sounding
beginning of a world
(main focus of the Paros gab)

(el trabajo es el refugio de aquellos que tienen todo para hacer)

(just as soon as it starts to smile real hard)
this Lamper crew
has a flair for the dramatic idyll --

O, tha most tragickle tragedie
than ivver wus crogledizled
flarfle-ized and summerisled!

the Lamper hit damp dawn
and start shamblin scrawn

Uh, he think, Uh Idol Cru
haz uh fleur forlorn
.
.
.

murder glass

I'm on the glacier early enough to see a body drift by
two feet down
splayed and twisted
in old red nylon
and a rictus of frozen shout
drifting down
to the snout
like that
a piece of death from 1980
or whatever
just going down quietly
the grief long over
and his karabiners all froze up silent
so I reach down
grasp his head
hold it against the current
for a few seconds
his cold head
with its frozen brain
just hold it
then let it go
and I rise up
into the sunbeams
over Montenvers
on wings of pure glass
thinking this
is a fine moment to be a corpse
in a red nylon cagoul
swimming into the blue deep day
so damn cold and lost

porn addiction

went to see the new Nick Berg beheading movie and Christ
I had to sleep all night
with the light on laughing
like Linda Blair's head spinning
like a east europe

whore with a habit
and a clock running
fucktime
some level of ooze
you know
is okay close up but

I watched the first two minutes only
of the apostates stoning fuckvid
before I knew there was no love

out there
between planets
the wrap was like this:
like snails stripped out of shells
and waving writhing
little slimy asses in the fearful
then Linda Lovelace says
she now a nun

chugging on God
and I agree
some things you don't wanna swallow
all the way
for this
I declare the CIA
the motherlode
of pornography
with the ghost-McCarthy halfway down

the Bushthroat gaggin shotgun
and I sit up all ill
listening to the scratching
dunking dead cookies in the milk
Linda your bright clitoral rose soars
like satellite coma fire dunk

Poem about nothing

never like this, Andy Warhol
avoided your eyes, looked away
for the summer the kids came to
as though all along
there had been a problem

of unconsciousness, a passing out
parade in which
they shuffled
and fell like aces Wild Bill
cocking the last moment

he would ever know in the ring

of fire and ancient of days
fell like flowers from the burst
balloonmen, wee cummings and
Montgolfiers like captured clouds

of breath on cold mornings still dark
the old house on the hill lit suddenly
they dropped
to their knees grazed
as bullets that took flight
over the lake at dawn
chorus of wolf voices
that cry in long dreams
falling all around
their faces
looking

look at them looking
for it as they fall
look at them the swallows
the swallows

wheeled back
in balloons
for the spring
.
.
.

robot draft

robot stretches out
runs through his circuits
feeling for sleep

lights play
across his shell
dance like tension tics--
a humming through subcutaneous
membranes--

he is cavern
carapace, plastron

flashing crystal
pool of black within
rigid, liquid
sol/gel
lights going off/on
everywhere voices

animal sounds (something is coming
through) as though his circuitry
is looping
he feeds

choral music
into his night
(grunts
bird calls that come
of their own volition)
music to heal and soften

Christ, he thinks
I'm stiff as a damn board

stiffasadamnboard!


.
.
.

homophora poem (an ayeaye langpo)

the queen in the mountains
could not see the clouds swirling
over the capitol
the fountain squares reeled with pigeons
the turrets and balustrades
sinking in leaves
whirling leaves
in autumn
under our clouded sky
our frame
of light
ours
here
us
.
.
.

Poems about nothing. Number 1

These are filaments of light
or perhaps plant tissue
or flesh--cellular rods that grow
in memory at least and defy all

definition all attention all description.
Even here, even in the cracks
and the darkness before
the waiting ends they grow

like this, even flourish after
a fashion. They grow
with vigour and urgency, even
performing under these conditions

the stark acts of mating
or propagation, whichever it is,
however it can be described.
These filaments will never

swell into redwoods, or giants
who stalk the earth into myth
or shock their way into dreams
but even here, even here

is a life attempted. Even here
is a sort of brazenness that we
can admire, begin to know,
and reach towards.

Baltic lover

the Baltic loved one who sleeps - Jeremy Prynne
might in fact be a submarine skulking
and "echoing" in territorial waters - John Kinsella

We Dive at Dawn
Orzel left the Gulf of Danzig
for open water
Just think - submarine night
Dive! Dive! Dive! Baltic Gal!

I love Europe I love its Jungle theme
I love it Mrs B......dive, dive, dive
(it stalks the drowned Brandenburg Gate
the Shoulder of deep Orion—
Hauer and Ford submariner captains

......across the Tannhauser Gate
......sea-beams glitter)

OOoooohhh I love the race! I'm a race fanatic
I love it Mrs B!
I love things you people wouldn't even believe
letters from the Kursk bubble
like tears in rain
clanging on the hull

love letters
and fire (a chemical reaction) 108 metres down
the Barents Sea
things you wouldn't even believe
I love it
I love it
I love it
..........oh

to death
........a sudden irruption

.......silence of the sea lover
.......who sleeps
.
.
.
.
Prynne's poem Rich in Vitamin C can be read here

Other sources include extracts from Rutger Hauer's famous pre-death soliloquy from Bladerunner.