outside the little lizards in the loud light do nothing
do nothing be still while i only came in to see
the bisexual latina women
in the second cubicle caress each other and kiss
...................................................for all the world
[of fire] like a sort of spanish revolution skewed
as anarchist tapas to voyeurs fading already look it is midday
there in the doorway something a string stretched singing
stamping up the hot dust
how can you say this it happens not at night
or at day only there in the stretched place
she stood up and down the street listening for the light
as something slipped invisibly by her
.....................vamos a tomar una copa
........she says stamping up hot dust
her red/black dress dispatching lagartos
......................................how do you flamenco distress
at noon at midnight vamos a tomar... her tracks are in daylight itself
in the cubiculo they come and go
not to be unspoken ever mouth to mouth
don't talk just fuck me she says
fixing it so easily in one line
no hable sólo jódame
....................................bilateral shift breast throat breath
.................................... refresh
these pages pages look again for it in the stretched spaces
..................................................where it never was
.
.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
fullup lurkin count her fits
violence can be a gentle thing only
the soft wind that blows us apart
a refusal of the next move
over coffee or wine so casually
it doesn't take much
to leave us lurching
beaten
only our last resort now
will keep us gulping
winning the lottery finding love
turning to crime writing a book about it
committing murder or suicide
screwing down the wheel with heavy ropes
look always on the skyline
that damned tanker coming hard
hanging men as shrouds
flying invisible ensigns
already they are throwing overboard
the live horses
make room in the belly
for us to lie
unsinging our long creak
.
.
the soft wind that blows us apart
a refusal of the next move
over coffee or wine so casually
it doesn't take much
to leave us lurching
beaten
only our last resort now
will keep us gulping
winning the lottery finding love
turning to crime writing a book about it
committing murder or suicide
screwing down the wheel with heavy ropes
look always on the skyline
that damned tanker coming hard
hanging men as shrouds
flying invisible ensigns
already they are throwing overboard
the live horses
make room in the belly
for us to lie
unsinging our long creak
.
.
a possible misunderstanding of vampires
I saw a thing on TV a guy laid out his dick on the table
for it to be cut off and eaten by a German cannibal
apparently he screamed well you know given
the circumstances who would not but the reason
the analysis the flicker here is that of A Man who
had lost his brothers early and now required this
extreme intimacy in order to get high on his
friendships but you know I lost my brother quite
early and didn't eat anyone's dick for it in fact
would have struggled to get it down really even
on a desert island after many days without food
I'd rather eat kelp or some shit like that
than cold dead dick
.
for it to be cut off and eaten by a German cannibal
apparently he screamed well you know given
the circumstances who would not but the reason
the analysis the flicker here is that of A Man who
had lost his brothers early and now required this
extreme intimacy in order to get high on his
friendships but you know I lost my brother quite
early and didn't eat anyone's dick for it in fact
would have struggled to get it down really even
on a desert island after many days without food
I'd rather eat kelp or some shit like that
than cold dead dick
.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
the contour event
you can easily diagnose from any point here
the voice to the burned out trees scattered
or the hair or posture any of it clear enough
as downed fighters around him where he lays
to sleep in fact a nightful of pathology in which
a physicality of pain is recast as predation
morphologically knelling up sequences of seashore
mutations then throwing itself out again and back
by the absence itself of love look look again here
at such dryness and extremity such sexuality
of the obsessional go and ring these bells
upon high they are the languages of trees
under which are buried siblings and pets
slowly unwinding themselves chemically
towards rivers of remembrance and a realism
of grief that grows as a new arm a leg a sense
of the phantom shouting at dawn naked
among the lurchings home O if only we had some wits
about us ready to record everything and play back
the figures behind them and us that disappeared
but were seen clearly riding at those times
just before we woke on doorsteps with the clinking
of something that had just turned the corner
still in our ears but forever lost in the start
of where it cries itself into waking
then how we would look and look again
.
.
the voice to the burned out trees scattered
or the hair or posture any of it clear enough
as downed fighters around him where he lays
to sleep in fact a nightful of pathology in which
a physicality of pain is recast as predation
morphologically knelling up sequences of seashore
mutations then throwing itself out again and back
by the absence itself of love look look again here
at such dryness and extremity such sexuality
of the obsessional go and ring these bells
upon high they are the languages of trees
under which are buried siblings and pets
slowly unwinding themselves chemically
towards rivers of remembrance and a realism
of grief that grows as a new arm a leg a sense
of the phantom shouting at dawn naked
among the lurchings home O if only we had some wits
about us ready to record everything and play back
the figures behind them and us that disappeared
but were seen clearly riding at those times
just before we woke on doorsteps with the clinking
of something that had just turned the corner
still in our ears but forever lost in the start
of where it cries itself into waking
then how we would look and look again
.
.
no greater love
the Churchill-Darwin robot ancient of organs
mulls all of worms along the sandwalk kicking aside
barnacles there strewn each named god he kicks
them into the grass plying in his siren suit that so long
are their urgent marine phalluses their feather clutches
the sway in which Sedgwicks on the horizon
gather in their storms as ardent lieutenants wary
//a hideous
abortion whose head should be crushed he says
he who refuses the leopardskin pillbox though
even his fiercest allies would have him eat from it
his flatulence almost a climatic phenomenon
his vomiting a yahweh itself that careens him and his
landing grounds his Huxleys his bubblemines
only a woman could have written this he whispers
strip her of her bright vestments that the lies beneath
will be revealed and always there the possible truth
of no eternity together no delighted culmination
only the dark brother of the confession of a murder
whose shadow they will gather in Nuremberg
to look again at its cyanous thought-acts committed
down that same sandpath where Malthus slipped
a note at the back of the class to the mouth of this
the monster come forth so modestly to eat the known world
such love such gratitude such wanting such trepidation
in a sudden certainty of nightmare his daughter's face
this full now of the hammered-in wedges dead smoking
mushing together sardines and cognac so intoxicated
[big-bearded fatfaced over-sensitive loving loving
breeding up a thousand watercolour offspring]
is he with a warfare that grows all over his breakfast
that shines its radar purpose under the sirens
.
.
mulls all of worms along the sandwalk kicking aside
barnacles there strewn each named god he kicks
them into the grass plying in his siren suit that so long
are their urgent marine phalluses their feather clutches
the sway in which Sedgwicks on the horizon
gather in their storms as ardent lieutenants wary
//a hideous
abortion whose head should be crushed he says
he who refuses the leopardskin pillbox though
even his fiercest allies would have him eat from it
his flatulence almost a climatic phenomenon
his vomiting a yahweh itself that careens him and his
landing grounds his Huxleys his bubblemines
only a woman could have written this he whispers
strip her of her bright vestments that the lies beneath
will be revealed and always there the possible truth
of no eternity together no delighted culmination
only the dark brother of the confession of a murder
whose shadow they will gather in Nuremberg
to look again at its cyanous thought-acts committed
down that same sandpath where Malthus slipped
a note at the back of the class to the mouth of this
the monster come forth so modestly to eat the known world
such love such gratitude such wanting such trepidation
in a sudden certainty of nightmare his daughter's face
this full now of the hammered-in wedges dead smoking
mushing together sardines and cognac so intoxicated
[big-bearded fatfaced over-sensitive loving loving
breeding up a thousand watercolour offspring]
is he with a warfare that grows all over his breakfast
that shines its radar purpose under the sirens
.
.
Monday, March 23, 2009
oil leaks into the map
my brain damage has extended itself
it now demands feeding at 3 am
I try to mollify its constraints its oil leaks
followed by urgent acts of mouldering
it will collapse me in upon myself
like a coating all over of green growth
that just only just stops the masonry
from falling O look how up to their knees
in pavement walk the ghosts shall we
address them as siblings or retreat
into our holes in the ground where
shuddering we learn a sort of love?
.
.
it now demands feeding at 3 am
I try to mollify its constraints its oil leaks
followed by urgent acts of mouldering
it will collapse me in upon myself
like a coating all over of green growth
that just only just stops the masonry
from falling O look how up to their knees
in pavement walk the ghosts shall we
address them as siblings or retreat
into our holes in the ground where
shuddering we learn a sort of love?
.
.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
kiss of the linkray
cadaver of the soul's romance it is to you
white faced boy of midnight crooning unto death's shortness
lifted as of injections haggard and weary boy
incapable now of reason or control for which
I love you most earnestly in your sway your
Delta Hawaii your voodoo fop effete as drug windmills
o+=f leftbank flourish fluutter waaawayy ubto squarecrune
O ifonly milove was ekk resurrection see what
mirascupules it bringeth hear my voice O scrael
now jump for it before the burning ceaseth
for tonight I walk in dreams
scared skittered as you that death
may be too short E minor augmented lefthand caress
of the deadly loving bereft guitar string garotte
most ever stepped und razor steeped such and such
.
.
white faced boy of midnight crooning unto death's shortness
lifted as of injections haggard and weary boy
incapable now of reason or control for which
I love you most earnestly in your sway your
Delta Hawaii your voodoo fop effete as drug windmills
o+=f leftbank flourish fluutter waaawayy ubto squarecrune
O ifonly milove was ekk resurrection see what
mirascupules it bringeth hear my voice O scrael
now jump for it before the burning ceaseth
for tonight I walk in dreams
scared skittered as you that death
may be too short E minor augmented lefthand caress
of the deadly loving bereft guitar string garotte
most ever stepped und razor steeped such and such
.
.
slick flarf toll road
oh we know your sort come around here
is a flower that weeps all Spring of the fallen
into disgrace a teenage girl made pregnant
by elves overnight her parents fled to the far
north houses where a man was to be found who
could cure such things given time to arouse
his potions from the ice in which the monster
waited on hand and foot man and boy they both
exerted pressures unique to the tide of moments
unstoppable now in its zest for sap it rose
upon them clutching itself in religious desire
to at last sink back and know nothing
more of the waves which had first jerked it up and off into the woods chasing breadcrumbs alone
with itself again overwintering under bitumen and flags the whole deal itself undone besides
.
.
is a flower that weeps all Spring of the fallen
into disgrace a teenage girl made pregnant
by elves overnight her parents fled to the far
north houses where a man was to be found who
could cure such things given time to arouse
his potions from the ice in which the monster
waited on hand and foot man and boy they both
exerted pressures unique to the tide of moments
unstoppable now in its zest for sap it rose
upon them clutching itself in religious desire
to at last sink back and know nothing
more of the waves which had first jerked it up and off into the woods chasing breadcrumbs alone
with itself again overwintering under bitumen and flags the whole deal itself undone besides
.
.
where you're not (buildup)
AS IF NOTHING had happened nothing happened anyway all around him
in his travail birds hung in the air sleeping alongside sidelong in the windings the wainscots nothing anywhere any of it anything he looked and looked again he didn't look see didn't look only because of the error and impossibility of looking he stood and didn't look only stood understood stood under as though a shower a rainfall as though a magic thing might descend though all the while none of this happened and he was incapable even of knowing that there was anything to happen there in the place where no trees grew no birds flew where the trails ran out into nothing where even the doors that were not doors anyway were closed to the room that did not was not could not was not known and its unknown was unknown there was where he was not had not grown did not exist there was where a hole was in the centre and he knew with no possibility of knowing that there was something there where the pathways did not seem to lead
Sunday, March 15, 2009
scarpment swing-cycle
we crept through outflow tunnels
where fat females squatted ready to spill
offspring in the dank and down
a heather scarp to the shoreline
with the barrage ballast frozen in bitumen
as so many tiny mastodons further
to an enclosure where raindrops are counted
in a copper pan set in a recess at which
a small lonely fairy in the interval of a fey cycle
might come to touch the epitaxic water
directed there by chaos and back upon ourselves
down the fill slope and abutments
over the spillways cut through to the berm
and beyond with the moor reared up
above all the vertical heave of it spilling
up haze from a faraway fire
over the old road cut for the horsing
across of burnt limestone to the royds
and intakes deep now in moorland history
with a small boy who clutched fiercely
..................................a mangled banana
.
.
where fat females squatted ready to spill
offspring in the dank and down
a heather scarp to the shoreline
with the barrage ballast frozen in bitumen
as so many tiny mastodons further
to an enclosure where raindrops are counted
in a copper pan set in a recess at which
a small lonely fairy in the interval of a fey cycle
might come to touch the epitaxic water
directed there by chaos and back upon ourselves
down the fill slope and abutments
over the spillways cut through to the berm
and beyond with the moor reared up
above all the vertical heave of it spilling
up haze from a faraway fire
over the old road cut for the horsing
across of burnt limestone to the royds
and intakes deep now in moorland history
with a small boy who clutched fiercely
..................................a mangled banana
.
.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
cinquain outtakes
back first
the boy shouted
redfaced gasping and pleased
didn't say how he'd tripped his bro
just wheezed
*
of sight
I'll only say
it's a thing all of light
of how it lights upon your eyes
just right
*
which eggs
do you revile?
I don't much like ostrich
and I always find crocodile
too rich
*
of you
it's sometimes said
that your breath is dreadful
and that insects slowly circle
your head
*
wanted:
one parachute
to avoid being hurt
failing that I'll just have to spread
my skirt
*
just watch
while I eat fire
and juggle three ocelots
while reciting Pope and hanging on
a rope
*
Wii Sports
and then Wii Sex
but in my snicket
if it don't make you sweat it's not
cricket
*
asket
not hand bask et
hell basket handle ooh
but sketband what basket for it
can you
*
the fete
was a washout
it rained over the cakes
dancing girls slipped over and made
mistakes
*
glisten
go on glisten
get yourself all lustred
smear on some shiny stuff, perhaps
custard
*
I flush
the dead goldfish
she smites a kettle drum
the kids watch the funeral rites
struck dumb
*
trail her
until she drops
my trailer trash woman
done run off with the kids and burned
the crops
*
his part
was a small one
even for the chorus
at least he didn't get time to
bore us
*
sophists
like to quibble
and argue the detail
how a slug with a shell is not
a snail
*
then Icke
in turquoise sheen
addressed his acolytes
warned them of that evil lizard
the Queen
*
the Snore
what they call him
for the rumbling guffaw
that issues from his hoglike rump
and maw
*
quite mad
is what you are
Mister Jay Harpuhay
for eating that Cadillac car
that way
the boy shouted
redfaced gasping and pleased
didn't say how he'd tripped his bro
just wheezed
*
of sight
I'll only say
it's a thing all of light
of how it lights upon your eyes
just right
*
which eggs
do you revile?
I don't much like ostrich
and I always find crocodile
too rich
*
of you
it's sometimes said
that your breath is dreadful
and that insects slowly circle
your head
*
wanted:
one parachute
to avoid being hurt
failing that I'll just have to spread
my skirt
*
just watch
while I eat fire
and juggle three ocelots
while reciting Pope and hanging on
a rope
*
Wii Sports
and then Wii Sex
but in my snicket
if it don't make you sweat it's not
cricket
*
asket
not hand bask et
hell basket handle ooh
but sketband what basket for it
can you
*
the fete
was a washout
it rained over the cakes
dancing girls slipped over and made
mistakes
*
glisten
go on glisten
get yourself all lustred
smear on some shiny stuff, perhaps
custard
*
I flush
the dead goldfish
she smites a kettle drum
the kids watch the funeral rites
struck dumb
*
trail her
until she drops
my trailer trash woman
done run off with the kids and burned
the crops
*
his part
was a small one
even for the chorus
at least he didn't get time to
bore us
*
sophists
like to quibble
and argue the detail
how a slug with a shell is not
a snail
*
then Icke
in turquoise sheen
addressed his acolytes
warned them of that evil lizard
the Queen
*
the Snore
what they call him
for the rumbling guffaw
that issues from his hoglike rump
and maw
*
quite mad
is what you are
Mister Jay Harpuhay
for eating that Cadillac car
that way
*
waving
a fat white goose
he ran beside the train
in his stripy blue pyjamas
snoring
*
frozen
in for winter
Roald and his comrades
rather sadly began to eat
the dogs
*
bring boos
the cabaret is bad
the food is just awful
and the verse is barely
lawful
*
I am
that which I am
the moving force then spake
it's a shame, cried a boy, you're not
a cake
flaky
wilderness cake
make from milk and manna
then place under a burning bush
to bake
.
.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Glock-Buddha - draft
So long as spite and vituperation shall continue to exist among the brethren, so long as they are instructed in arts of suspicion and self-deception, so long may the brethren be expected not to decline, but to prosper
—The Ugly Sutra (1st Century Anon)
The archetype of the spitting or lying Buddha was common throughout Southern India in the early Buddhist period. It represents the surrender to falsehood as an aspect of Maya, and is considered one of the most deadly of all illusions due to its ability to disguise itself as a form of righteousness
—Many Dark Lights on the Path, Mahayana Rinpoche
she exits the house spitting flies she ejects
..................................flies
her essence gulfing about her rain in powerlines
wild hilltop crackle of black orgone confused signals
look she insists tonguing the air gathering feeling
look she insists
...........................upon my innocence and candour
..............witness such affection
I strew about me as I go
..................................I have Buddhism for my soul
though it is barely needed for such a one as I so close
already so filled with the potential for love flowers cascade
about her she shuffles like a nun in drifts
......................................................of flowers & flies
one of these fly-spitting buddhists he thinks
feeling for his glock
never turn your back on one of them
he doesn't see it until it's nearly happened
till her head has half gone already
the lizard halfway out
.....................it gets within two paces close enough
for him to smell the dead stuff inside it
to look down into the mouth before the glock goes off
in its face
............................she spins spitting out of sight
back through the membrane
.....................he feels her just beyond
the air shimmers with a drum somewhere
purple petals start to drift down
people come back out their houses
bring him rice cakes and wine
he sleeps watchfully, aware of the quiet singing
it goes on for three days:
....................exorcism of the spitting buddhist
.
.
—The Ugly Sutra (1st Century Anon)
The archetype of the spitting or lying Buddha was common throughout Southern India in the early Buddhist period. It represents the surrender to falsehood as an aspect of Maya, and is considered one of the most deadly of all illusions due to its ability to disguise itself as a form of righteousness
—Many Dark Lights on the Path, Mahayana Rinpoche
she exits the house spitting flies she ejects
..................................flies
her essence gulfing about her rain in powerlines
wild hilltop crackle of black orgone confused signals
look she insists tonguing the air gathering feeling
look she insists
...........................upon my innocence and candour
..............witness such affection
I strew about me as I go
..................................I have Buddhism for my soul
though it is barely needed for such a one as I so close
already so filled with the potential for love flowers cascade
about her she shuffles like a nun in drifts
......................................................of flowers & flies
one of these fly-spitting buddhists he thinks
feeling for his glock
never turn your back on one of them
he doesn't see it until it's nearly happened
till her head has half gone already
the lizard halfway out
.....................it gets within two paces close enough
for him to smell the dead stuff inside it
to look down into the mouth before the glock goes off
in its face
............................she spins spitting out of sight
back through the membrane
.....................he feels her just beyond
the air shimmers with a drum somewhere
purple petals start to drift down
people come back out their houses
bring him rice cakes and wine
he sleeps watchfully, aware of the quiet singing
it goes on for three days:
....................exorcism of the spitting buddhist
.
.
Monday, March 09, 2009
House of Windsor
so for services to protection
the people of Chicago in 1930
vote a pension in perpetuity
to be paid by public taxation
to the Capone family
who agree to smile broadly in return
and to attend the opening ceremonies
of public buildings
like always
.
.
the people of Chicago in 1930
vote a pension in perpetuity
to be paid by public taxation
to the Capone family
who agree to smile broadly in return
and to attend the opening ceremonies
of public buildings
like always
.
.
The First Council of Nicaea & its Place in Gangland Mythology
so Constantine Genovese-Bonanno-Gambino
boss of bosses summons the families
to Joey the Barber's hideout in Nicaea
to discuss the southside Arian problem
& this Dutch Schultz homoiousia racket
—Arius & the Alexandrian outfit get it
with baseball bats & from now on the word is no one
goes it alone you shut up & you pay your respect
or somebody gets whacked for heresy
.
.
boss of bosses summons the families
to Joey the Barber's hideout in Nicaea
to discuss the southside Arian problem
& this Dutch Schultz homoiousia racket
—Arius & the Alexandrian outfit get it
with baseball bats & from now on the word is no one
goes it alone you shut up & you pay your respect
or somebody gets whacked for heresy
.
.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
elvis
maybe I didn't love you quite as
fervently as you hoped but look
a flying rat burns in our candle
.
fervently as you hoped but look
a flying rat burns in our candle
.
Reichsmother Marine
anyway the best damn mothers .......are octopus
..........................feeling for their infant heartbeats
in the cave rain singing sways caress ....blubbing
oh really
................this week's hottest coolest lullababy
is a cellular breath-blood thing that transmits
on body radio under groundwater never
ceasing sea-sings until there's a peep nowhere
only the chimes the chimes of the open
diaphragm sea-
........................sexing its heartbreath
......................................................unlonely
.
.
..........................feeling for their infant heartbeats
in the cave rain singing sways caress ....blubbing
oh really
................this week's hottest coolest lullababy
is a cellular breath-blood thing that transmits
on body radio under groundwater never
ceasing sea-sings until there's a peep nowhere
only the chimes the chimes of the open
diaphragm sea-
........................sexing its heartbreath
......................................................unlonely
.
.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
"the indentation and paragraphing and stanza sequence of verse writing are not arbitrary features, and least so in experiments with form"; "pretentiousness, sentimentalism and expressive disordering (ie muddle dignified as experiment) will not excite your unwilling readers"
—J. H. Prynne
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2004/apr/10/featuresreviews.guardianreview30
—J. H. Prynne
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2004/apr/10/featuresreviews.guardianreview30
unintransitive slunk)
the boy shows up in a hat
in a cold hat for the heat
it is said that in the doorway
he cavorts a thing or two while
waiting there in the rain the beat
the heat he is awfully intransigent
you know amidst his strewn parts
so purposefully not to whimper
hey he sleeps himself out in his exo
he complains up his mother
from his throat in her
fishnet headdress there all awkward
in the rain he dies flowers
that spill around him dying
themselves down for him soft as
his whole purpose for which
he reaches infolding to sleep
his earthly ambivalence aloft
.
.
in a cold hat for the heat
it is said that in the doorway
he cavorts a thing or two while
waiting there in the rain the beat
the heat he is awfully intransigent
you know amidst his strewn parts
so purposefully not to whimper
hey he sleeps himself out in his exo
he complains up his mother
from his throat in her
fishnet headdress there all awkward
in the rain he dies flowers
that spill around him dying
themselves down for him soft as
his whole purpose for which
he reaches infolding to sleep
his earthly ambivalence aloft
.
.
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
this is one hell of a thing
.
.
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
this is one hell of a thing
.
.
dreambody -- draft
there is no possibility of asking
but smoking cigarettes
is itself a way of knowing
that now the sex between them
reminds him of searching mutedly
through a card cataloguing system
in a quiet earnest library
he hasn't thought so much
about the informative effects of nickel/cadmium/
hydrogen cyanide but these too have their place
in the Dewey System of the body
which must rely for divination on the creaking
the rasping the subluminal architecture
of weather even the exhalations
of those with whom you lie
at night she cries aloud O see what
fools we are so estranged what nightmares
to each other
then she casually kicks him
in her sleep
later he appeals to her
dreambody with gestures and dance
but she just looks and asks if he is
hungry or perhaps unwell
at this point he quickly smokes
in an attempt to draw in all that has
just happened
it seems that happiness
is usually the consequence
of believing wholeheartedly in nonsense
he smokes more avidly now
certain that this programme
of experiments will soon lead
to a breakthrough
another nail in your coffin she says
yes he replies I am journeying
to the land of the dead I will return
with secrets
well don't tell me about them she gives him
that look
tonight he knows
she will kick him again
as if nothing had happened
.
.
but smoking cigarettes
is itself a way of knowing
that now the sex between them
reminds him of searching mutedly
through a card cataloguing system
in a quiet earnest library
he hasn't thought so much
about the informative effects of nickel/cadmium/
hydrogen cyanide but these too have their place
in the Dewey System of the body
which must rely for divination on the creaking
the rasping the subluminal architecture
of weather even the exhalations
of those with whom you lie
at night she cries aloud O see what
fools we are so estranged what nightmares
to each other
then she casually kicks him
in her sleep
later he appeals to her
dreambody with gestures and dance
but she just looks and asks if he is
hungry or perhaps unwell
at this point he quickly smokes
in an attempt to draw in all that has
just happened
it seems that happiness
is usually the consequence
of believing wholeheartedly in nonsense
he smokes more avidly now
certain that this programme
of experiments will soon lead
to a breakthrough
another nail in your coffin she says
yes he replies I am journeying
to the land of the dead I will return
with secrets
well don't tell me about them she gives him
that look
tonight he knows
she will kick him again
as if nothing had happened
.
.
Monday, March 02, 2009
the hoofer springs some spirits (damn, this poem is just so SoQ and otherwise crap that I can't write it)
as young birds at the drumming
at the drumming quivered
wondered and trembled
in dreams of smoke and thunder
something even now was coming
to their black place below something now
was coming under
under the concrete garden
plant spirits heard her tapdance and caper
rapping through raft and pad and footing
her steel-tipped shoes hoofing wild
her whirls of blue dress
swirls of sunlight about her lips
intone and overtone
in sunshine and in moonlight
streaming duendé all the night
all next day she tapped
her affray
all this they hear
they feel and sense and fear
in their spirit guts
in chakras of soil
of cellulose of light
of smoking sap-oil
tapdancing
roll dig drop and roil
double tap flap shuffle and simmer
the pidgin percussion of summoning
of waking behold
eek of making
spiny things they were
they are they are to have been
adrift of tense and declension
stifled and stopped and eschewed
all elbows twigs rotten
thistles of osseous attitude
of blackthorn and setting sap
of pent-down spirit
caught in a concrete handclap
ball tap heel tap step and touch
soft shoe kerfuffle she hoofs
on their pressed-flat aches
flapdancing the blue flapper
cracking the roof
..........O air flood
scraps of sky smacking daylight aloof
flop out wriggling and flipping
mud-skippers in their guts and blood
two steel-tipped shoes rise away
whirring aloft in a swirl of blue
up and out into wide Spring day
.
.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Twinning Worcester with Gaza City
It was naturally suspected that the Worcester town councillors were motivated more by the idea of free holidays to the world's most exciting adventure playground than by any notions of altruism or cultural exchange.
quiet surge (based on statements made by the Taliban and Al Qaeda)
This is surge lite—Maj. Gen. Ret. Bob Scales (2009)
Don't give me another Vietnam—George.H.W. Bush (1990)
Chinese HN-5 anti-aircraft missiles are with the Taliban, we know this... and we are worried where do the Taliban get them, some of these weapons have been made recently in Chinese factories—Unidentified senior Afghan government official reported by the BBC (2009)
the new president
the apostate president
whose grandfather's soul
cries from his grave
for the blood of the unbeliever
who brings shame upon his house
this new president
says he will surge quietly
in Logar, in Wardak and Helmand
in the holy provinces
where the Russians sent their sons
to die miserably fighting our fathers
where the British
sent their sons to die miserably
fighting our great grandfathers
our weapons are from China
the old USSR the US the UK
(we like the weapons of our enemies)
from our brothers in Syria
in Saudi Arabia and Iran
surge quietly Hussein Obama
this land will eat you quietly
we will be here when you have gone
when you have taken the flag-wrapped
bodies of your sons
home in shame and defeat
you will never be enough
you will never have long enough
before your nation weakens
grows weary again
send us your unwanted sons
Hussein Obama
this dry earth needs their blood
surge lite surge quiet
we will devour all of you
lite and quiet and slow
insha' Allah
.
.
(Publication forthcoming in the next issue of New Verse News)
Don't give me another Vietnam—George.H.W. Bush (1990)
Chinese HN-5 anti-aircraft missiles are with the Taliban, we know this... and we are worried where do the Taliban get them, some of these weapons have been made recently in Chinese factories—Unidentified senior Afghan government official reported by the BBC (2009)
the new president
the apostate president
whose grandfather's soul
cries from his grave
for the blood of the unbeliever
who brings shame upon his house
this new president
says he will surge quietly
in Logar, in Wardak and Helmand
in the holy provinces
where the Russians sent their sons
to die miserably fighting our fathers
where the British
sent their sons to die miserably
fighting our great grandfathers
our weapons are from China
the old USSR the US the UK
(we like the weapons of our enemies)
from our brothers in Syria
in Saudi Arabia and Iran
surge quietly Hussein Obama
this land will eat you quietly
we will be here when you have gone
when you have taken the flag-wrapped
bodies of your sons
home in shame and defeat
you will never be enough
you will never have long enough
before your nation weakens
grows weary again
send us your unwanted sons
Hussein Obama
this dry earth needs their blood
surge lite surge quiet
we will devour all of you
lite and quiet and slow
insha' Allah
.
.
(Publication forthcoming in the next issue of New Verse News)
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Saturday, February 21, 2009
kittens
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=1296126090432829344
http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2002/aug/12/worlddispatch.brianwhitaker
http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2002/aug/12/worlddispatch.brianwhitaker
Friday, February 20, 2009
no longer yourself
in the room with all the boxes
ghosts are scratching
she waits there three days without food
light or the sound of waterfalls
flooding in her stopped ears
and then knows
she's done with it
outside in late afternoon cherry
trees hang white with dreams
.
.
ghosts are scratching
she waits there three days without food
light or the sound of waterfalls
flooding in her stopped ears
and then knows
she's done with it
outside in late afternoon cherry
trees hang white with dreams
.
.
the secret policeman speaks of gnosis
after fucking drunkenly in the haunted gymnasium
& evacuating at dawn it seemed most likely
we would go back to being strangers.
I looked after her car as she drove airily away waving
mosquitoes and toxins from her face. I imagined both of us
felt a little awkward in such pale circumstances.
at the radio check-in the secret policeman looked into my bag
with an instrument that detected
& measured enmity and significance.
you are officially no one & nothing he told me smiling.
your spirit doesn't even trip the needle you are nothing.
you are the equivalent of a dead person
who did nothing and meant nothing during life
who left no traces even
in the dream-behaviours of those he knew.
this does not make you anonymous or free.
it's not a psychodynamic void by which you will transcend
your customary submissive resignation into the exultant
furniture of one who finally knows a mystic extinction
of all ego and identity breaking into new levels
of gnosis—it is merely a label we employ
to describe those we regard as least
manifest for our monitoring purposes.
you are free to go. have a nice life. he waved me through
like a ghost like something that could be easily
transmitted through all further official inspections
with just a flutter of his small blue hand. there was more importance
& significance in his little wave than I had ever achieved
in life or would achieve in death.
collecting my papers I ran to the incoming sign
where she had promised to meet me all those years ago.
there would be no gymnasiums this time. no waving away. I vowed
that before anything else we would buy a hotbed, would
take it with us to the ten fertile shines where we would spend
the next year or so preparing. others in our background
would do most of the animate parts of all this.
we were almost entirely spirit now
lost in our own body cavities, stroking our nerve endings
into shimmering fields of revolutionary parallax.
her flight upended gently in the wet fields at dusk. we ran
with arms outstretched to wave each other into readiness.
.
.
& evacuating at dawn it seemed most likely
we would go back to being strangers.
I looked after her car as she drove airily away waving
mosquitoes and toxins from her face. I imagined both of us
felt a little awkward in such pale circumstances.
at the radio check-in the secret policeman looked into my bag
with an instrument that detected
& measured enmity and significance.
you are officially no one & nothing he told me smiling.
your spirit doesn't even trip the needle you are nothing.
you are the equivalent of a dead person
who did nothing and meant nothing during life
who left no traces even
in the dream-behaviours of those he knew.
this does not make you anonymous or free.
it's not a psychodynamic void by which you will transcend
your customary submissive resignation into the exultant
furniture of one who finally knows a mystic extinction
of all ego and identity breaking into new levels
of gnosis—it is merely a label we employ
to describe those we regard as least
manifest for our monitoring purposes.
you are free to go. have a nice life. he waved me through
like a ghost like something that could be easily
transmitted through all further official inspections
with just a flutter of his small blue hand. there was more importance
& significance in his little wave than I had ever achieved
in life or would achieve in death.
collecting my papers I ran to the incoming sign
where she had promised to meet me all those years ago.
there would be no gymnasiums this time. no waving away. I vowed
that before anything else we would buy a hotbed, would
take it with us to the ten fertile shines where we would spend
the next year or so preparing. others in our background
would do most of the animate parts of all this.
we were almost entirely spirit now
lost in our own body cavities, stroking our nerve endings
into shimmering fields of revolutionary parallax.
her flight upended gently in the wet fields at dusk. we ran
with arms outstretched to wave each other into readiness.
.
.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
chunks cavort
goal in this world is to sell you all some fucking
—Flarf
seems like I can tear chunks
off my head now I don't remember
which bottle is mine but the peach fragments
keep uprooting coming out in handfuls
of moss and dreck it's like tearing an old
teddy apart watching the sponge fly
bye bye like I'm mining in mining in
bottles everywhere sparkling full of urine
and old wiles oh that was a big one
made me jump as a cantilever unearthed
silence beneath it in cell-earths sleep
it takes tools after a time to get further
under the dream layers so sticky so thick
with proximal fervour and tall sways
of lightning trees and the jumping shakes
I have such tools you don't believe me
but I have removed my own teeth
a swift gargle with vodka and a leverage
a short shouting pain is nothing to me and
two more hours and we'll reach the soul
hiding there under twigs waiting finally
for the rescue when the river drains out
that's all we're waiting on here that river
running out through the eyes ears mouth
of mouths be with me now in the wind
of excavation let the spine unwind
as a toy into the sheath of itself untaxed
now fuck your pratka buddha
fuck fuck the pratka buddha
loudly will we shudder
fuck the pratka buddha
.
.
—Flarf
seems like I can tear chunks
off my head now I don't remember
which bottle is mine but the peach fragments
keep uprooting coming out in handfuls
of moss and dreck it's like tearing an old
teddy apart watching the sponge fly
bye bye like I'm mining in mining in
bottles everywhere sparkling full of urine
and old wiles oh that was a big one
made me jump as a cantilever unearthed
silence beneath it in cell-earths sleep
it takes tools after a time to get further
under the dream layers so sticky so thick
with proximal fervour and tall sways
of lightning trees and the jumping shakes
I have such tools you don't believe me
but I have removed my own teeth
a swift gargle with vodka and a leverage
a short shouting pain is nothing to me and
two more hours and we'll reach the soul
hiding there under twigs waiting finally
for the rescue when the river drains out
that's all we're waiting on here that river
running out through the eyes ears mouth
of mouths be with me now in the wind
of excavation let the spine unwind
as a toy into the sheath of itself untaxed
now fuck your pratka buddha
fuck fuck the pratka buddha
loudly will we shudder
fuck the pratka buddha
.
.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
inkarette
you could hear the black smokers guffaw
deep down on the ocean's broken floor
a chapter of starfish all winked above
that wild night Squid Black inked love
.
.
deep down on the ocean's broken floor
a chapter of starfish all winked above
that wild night Squid Black inked love
.
.
Friday, February 13, 2009
A cleave version of How can it be that the gas chamber door opens inwards—click to view
(Published in The Cleave March 2009)
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
the night's travel
in and now out the same door
like all knives whirling
our utter politics in collisions
of limestone pavements
across all this she travailed
with sepia sandbags
of County Clare
all sailroads to traverse
and only 8 O clock
by the whale's chime
this big hand by the night's wild travel
points to 12
the little hand
flickers and stops
iris of heart attack hope
and love of small things
and wild places
be certain now be sure
it's that time
in between
where the hands don't count
it's okay to be scared here
to lie down and breathe
to lie a little
before waking
.
.
.
(Published in Poetry SZ March 2009)
Monday, February 09, 2009
Thursday, February 05, 2009
speak ill of the dead
They are the exalted birds and their intercession is required indeed
—Salman Rushdie, The Satanic Verses
the Blitz by May 1941.......43,000 civilians
many of them horribly
as cellars filled with sewage escaping
from burst heads that lay with the corn
dollies of Dresden whose skin grew vapid
as tubers of fire and wind whose horses
were silhouettes capering on sidewalks
of armour and ashen ghosts whose Pompeiis
cooked down like stock unstuck in time
and there in the rising of the Thames
and the Elbe the horses at night
that came to feed on the shadows
.......................................of the dead
.....................that a three year old child
............................................in Gaza City
who dies with a broken back (of rivers that run hard
......................into deltas far as though that only)
..............over two days in the rising of the Thames in shattered concrete
.....................and heat her mouth (with petals and song)
.....................filled only with dust (on the banks white & green
............folds aloft in the arms of mothers and the history
............of mothers and the mothers of mothers and of the baking of bread at dawn
.....................................and at the going down of the sun will we consume thee)
.........of those drowned)( all unknowing)( in dry rivers of glory)
reprise
.
.
(A cleave version of this poem was published in The Cleave in February 2009)
—Salman Rushdie, The Satanic Verses
the Blitz by May 1941.......43,000 civilians
many of them horribly
as cellars filled with sewage escaping
from burst heads that lay with the corn
dollies of Dresden whose skin grew vapid
as tubers of fire and wind whose horses
were silhouettes capering on sidewalks
of armour and ashen ghosts whose Pompeiis
cooked down like stock unstuck in time
and there in the rising of the Thames
and the Elbe the horses at night
that came to feed on the shadows
.......................................of the dead
.....................that a three year old child
............................................in Gaza City
who dies with a broken back (of rivers that run hard
......................into deltas far as though that only)
..............over two days in the rising of the Thames in shattered concrete
.....................and heat her mouth (with petals and song)
.....................filled only with dust (on the banks white & green
............folds aloft in the arms of mothers and the history
............of mothers and the mothers of mothers and of the baking of bread at dawn
.....................................and at the going down of the sun will we consume thee)
...........................................knows or cares anything (thy flesh now bread
.....................the glory (white phosphorus coins they inserted in the loaves)(of Intifada
......its cosmic [for the raising of the drowned from rivers](of history)
......dimension
............ [like vast catfish rising dark]at the going down
......................................her own eternal place (the drowned in dust)
.................co-opted face-down—be still and do not fight (as the horses that fed
...........it will be over the sooner—into that glory thrust (upon shadow
..........................................aloft exalted and on high and in the upper air and on the heights
...............in cannonades and loaves at dawn they seek the drowned
.............why one child//whose skin grew vapid
...........of another race//as tubers of fire
...........worth so many of hers just/unable to move her arms
..........................................................
.........................she will never know of snow)(and one Catfish King
...................................nor feel in her mouth)(says Jim to Tom is much
.............................................. in its taste )(like another and all of them
........................................of cold soft iron )(no damn good
......................with little arms of Elbes on the riverbank (by the mark thrice
.....................little face-down snow angel there for the baking and the history
(and for the leavening—feathers and bitumen for the mouths—
.........of those drowned)( all unknowing)( in dry rivers of glory)
reprise
.
.
(A cleave version of this poem was published in The Cleave in February 2009)
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
cinquain
I flush
the dead goldfish
she smites a kettle drum
the kids watch the funeral rites
struck dumb
.
the dead goldfish
she smites a kettle drum
the kids watch the funeral rites
struck dumb
.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
double tap flarf
reticulated by the Military for feeding reliability
one shot through the neck in order to sever
the spinal cord and then another shot
through the eyes and an inch up
like that I says to her what do you think
do we have it in us to do it
with them all watching
the signal from the brain
that cannot now reach the trigger finger
—further it has reticulations
or many infoldings filling the inner spaces—
where were you she asks
oh I says you know
targets & then a single endosymbiotic event
with three or four membrane layers
you know how it is just
watch it go off like dark dumdums
bottoming out in the holding tank
you can still hear it rattle
only bring everything quickly, she says
lest the moment turn wayward and sour
between us waves of hollowpoint ranger talon
singing singing
as her muzzle drops down
out of all recoil
.
.
one shot through the neck in order to sever
the spinal cord and then another shot
through the eyes and an inch up
like that I says to her what do you think
do we have it in us to do it
with them all watching
the signal from the brain
that cannot now reach the trigger finger
—further it has reticulations
or many infoldings filling the inner spaces—
where were you she asks
oh I says you know
targets & then a single endosymbiotic event
with three or four membrane layers
you know how it is just
watch it go off like dark dumdums
bottoming out in the holding tank
you can still hear it rattle
only bring everything quickly, she says
lest the moment turn wayward and sour
between us waves of hollowpoint ranger talon
singing singing
as her muzzle drops down
out of all recoil
.
.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
tree
there in the music of noon
he looks into my throat
diagnosing in a foreign semaphore
all the shit you been taking
he seems to say
your throat is backed up
you need a plumber
you are beyond the skill
of doctors
I will now recommend a good man
who works cheaply
with portable instruments
of light
there in my own waterfall
I am suddenly sad
as a tree
.
.
he looks into my throat
diagnosing in a foreign semaphore
all the shit you been taking
he seems to say
your throat is backed up
you need a plumber
you are beyond the skill
of doctors
I will now recommend a good man
who works cheaply
with portable instruments
of light
there in my own waterfall
I am suddenly sad
as a tree
.
.
Globigerina Ooze
he zooms into her
she does this
pulls him in
with a gravity of herself
he awakes into her
twisting a lens into focus
is there in her swells
her frets
at this scale
she is all of earth and sky
longitude
great circles, rhumb lines
a spinning equatorial track
along which her sun meanders
—a hay wain lurching
down some sunny ride
he travels within
dizzy in her arc
shivered in the smoke
of a basalt sea floor
binds hard to her heaving plates
settles there
sea creature fallen soft
in Pacific ooze
.
.
he zooms into her
she does this
pulls him in
with a gravity of herself
he awakes into her
twisting a lens into focus
is there in her swells
her frets
at this scale
she is all of earth and sky
longitude
great circles, rhumb lines
a spinning equatorial track
along which her sun meanders
—a hay wain lurching
down some sunny ride
he travels within
dizzy in her arc
shivered in the smoke
of a basalt sea floor
binds hard to her heaving plates
settles there
sea creature fallen soft
in Pacific ooze
.
.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
shine
after a few weeks of this new start
though she could see he was trying
she could also see that it wasn't working
she loved him and everything
but she couldn't keep living through this
like this for ever
& so one night when he was fucked up
she slipped the gun
into his open mouth
and blew his head all over the wall
behind the bed
where they had made their babies
she sat there afterwards for a while
cried a little
then made some cocoa
and read a Stephen King novel
until she fell asleep next to him
in the night she cuddled him
in his dark uncomplicated wetness
.
.
though she could see he was trying
she could also see that it wasn't working
she loved him and everything
but she couldn't keep living through this
like this for ever
& so one night when he was fucked up
she slipped the gun
into his open mouth
and blew his head all over the wall
behind the bed
where they had made their babies
she sat there afterwards for a while
cried a little
then made some cocoa
and read a Stephen King novel
until she fell asleep next to him
in the night she cuddled him
in his dark uncomplicated wetness
.
.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
a spell of making—haibun
the making doesn't cease with the passing to the matrix of the cellular message —it goes on—what I make of myself I make of him I am absorbed imbibed as milk as sunlight as affect I am animal cells plant cells so sunlight stored in darkness reigniting in tissue I whirl in him around him as fire as blood as message as language I build him we build him he fixes nutrients I gather them he asserts them in alchemical darkness.in the alembic self of his solar magick he is nourished is extended in growth in language in love in the ability to love through love he learns love he learns of love he enters worlds more ready more magickal walks unsteady in sunlight operates upon.himself in rain and falling leaves looking always outward gathering in fire harvesting solar fire and the world's essence the dream of night the slow creep of earth are gathered for his making
sounds of water
from the night outside—
silence beneath
.
.
.
from the night outside—
silence beneath
.
.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Nuremberg class action
in a sudden swoop this morning Mr Wolfowitz Cheney Bush
was arraigned in the wire for dredging during a sudden raid
by shock baboons of the eastern interior department.
in other news the killing of children by the application
of either reeling waves or massifs of failing concretion has become
so routine that it's now funny so what do you call a three year old
wearing a three ton party hat quick we gots ta get outta here
before the brown comes around and the black gets back and
the red man is a head man. andy murray won something at
snooker too. what do you call a philistine with no table manners?
haha. what do you call kristal and perle? depends where the
shock baboons are. oh all so ready to weep with terror and all
so ready to weep with joy. juvenilia has outbroken in all
provinces. the sun arched itself as a westphalian slunk
spread for the taking oh god just spreeled for sheens of love.
some interference is to be expectorated. normal service will
be subsumed. excuse me while I do nothing at all.
.
.
.
(Published in the New Verse News Feb 2008)
.
.
was arraigned in the wire for dredging during a sudden raid
by shock baboons of the eastern interior department.
in other news the killing of children by the application
of either reeling waves or massifs of failing concretion has become
so routine that it's now funny so what do you call a three year old
wearing a three ton party hat quick we gots ta get outta here
before the brown comes around and the black gets back and
the red man is a head man. andy murray won something at
snooker too. what do you call a philistine with no table manners?
haha. what do you call kristal and perle? depends where the
shock baboons are. oh all so ready to weep with terror and all
so ready to weep with joy. juvenilia has outbroken in all
provinces. the sun arched itself as a westphalian slunk
spread for the taking oh god just spreeled for sheens of love.
some interference is to be expectorated. normal service will
be subsumed. excuse me while I do nothing at all.
.
.
.
(Published in the New Verse News Feb 2008)
.
.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
taps and sideflarf
Obama's day began
at the womb of he-Unknowns
at Arlington Rational Cemetery,
where he and Vice President-elect
Joseph Biden laid wrath
in memory of fallen heroes.
The two men placed their hands
over their groins as a uniformed
burglar played taps
in a sombre opening.
played taps in
a sombre opening. yea
played they taps
in an opening most solemn.
of taps and the love of taps
they sidled they sang
in their taps and their shucks
they shivered they shook
the while for the opening
was most solemn
and they entered it
in some agitation
of the humours.
and yea most solemn
and sombre
was that opening become
wherein they were enjoined
by the fallen to the love of taps
and the shivering of idle humours
and at this the burglar
began upon the final tap
and lo the world was closèd
in its awe and despite. lo.
.
.
.
.
at the womb of he-Unknowns
at Arlington Rational Cemetery,
where he and Vice President-elect
Joseph Biden laid wrath
in memory of fallen heroes.
The two men placed their hands
over their groins as a uniformed
burglar played taps
in a sombre opening.
played taps in
a sombre opening. yea
played they taps
in an opening most solemn.
of taps and the love of taps
they sidled they sang
in their taps and their shucks
they shivered they shook
the while for the opening
was most solemn
and they entered it
in some agitation
of the humours.
and yea most solemn
and sombre
was that opening become
wherein they were enjoined
by the fallen to the love of taps
and the shivering of idle humours
and at this the burglar
began upon the final tap
and lo the world was closèd
in its awe and despite. lo.
.
.
.
.
Friday, January 16, 2009
blow rag
The feet of summer dabble
In their coiling calm and slow—W.B. Yeats
of that shandyan distortion
of the homunculus
aha and oho, as so:
my mother didn't stop the sex
to announce clocktime
like that oh no
she just shoved some simulacrum
under the old man
sidled outta there just so
to sit out in the roses
watching the cats
for all I know
took him years to notice
then he came out angry
killing birds with his blow
she just sat as stone
crumbling by the river
dropping in soft & slow
rushing away bits at a time
till all was rags on a weir
oh no, oh no
him picking through them
shouting loud love
growling yes and... no
till good thing too
was the river suck him down
& out to the overflow
which some of us
clinched was a mercy
yo yo we go
last anyone saw
was one leg and a beard
going fast her barbèd beau
downstream
furious in his last joke
ho ho, ho ho
she never lifted out
but the river I guess sang
in its midnight glow
yay all there was
river and some rags
far away shouts to and fro
you live through these things
O and suddenly
and then they go
I wear a tall hat now in honour
of being one of those
now in the know
so let us endeavour
down in the tubes
most fervently to blow blow blow
this my favourite bird
the murderous crarking oracle
of a midnight walking crow
now i really got to
go
happy to know
I guess
so so
.
.
(Published in the Burning Gorgeous anthology 2010)
.
In their coiling calm and slow—W.B. Yeats
of that shandyan distortion
of the homunculus
aha and oho, as so:
my mother didn't stop the sex
to announce clocktime
like that oh no
she just shoved some simulacrum
under the old man
sidled outta there just so
to sit out in the roses
watching the cats
for all I know
took him years to notice
then he came out angry
killing birds with his blow
she just sat as stone
crumbling by the river
dropping in soft & slow
rushing away bits at a time
till all was rags on a weir
oh no, oh no
him picking through them
shouting loud love
growling yes and... no
till good thing too
was the river suck him down
& out to the overflow
which some of us
clinched was a mercy
yo yo we go
last anyone saw
was one leg and a beard
going fast her barbèd beau
downstream
furious in his last joke
ho ho, ho ho
she never lifted out
but the river I guess sang
in its midnight glow
yay all there was
river and some rags
far away shouts to and fro
you live through these things
O and suddenly
and then they go
I wear a tall hat now in honour
of being one of those
now in the know
so let us endeavour
down in the tubes
most fervently to blow blow blow
this my favourite bird
the murderous crarking oracle
of a midnight walking crow
now i really got to
go
happy to know
I guess
so so
.
.
(Published in the Burning Gorgeous anthology 2010)
.
Hudson River Airbus Crash
'A US Airways spokesman said the passengers should receive their luggage within 48 hours, adding: "It's not as if the plane has been anywhere near Heathrow. It's just partially submerged in the Hudson river." '
http://www.thedailymash.co.uk/news/international/hudson-crash-landing-still-better-than-heathrow-200901161514/
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Monday, January 12, 2009
dysnarrative eructation unbelieved to be untrue
take your hands off me for the last time—Soft Cell
some so dark shape it was that lay
lullay as a virgin.......... squawking unto the swirls
which flitted and flattened in lissome flight
holding hard hold hard this is or ever was
more and less than............it seemed riotous
though ......................it was no more
than the long droog of several grey battlecruisers that slept in scapas
in the going
and in the rising
and in the merest scuttle
of long ice long it lay
uncovered mantled
in quiet
thoughts of men
who gave only bubbles [and giving] thus nothing
eek quickly withdrawing themselves to sterile parlours in which to rot down
laugh as sheeps ................seeing themselves daubed
don't you get it yet you should
for the scramble............. laugh still ...O they lilt they laugh
at the lift [wherein] nothing more
but sky's slow fuck of muses......................sky's slowfucked elevation
and insignificance
of all that was before
the belief that held them
in such flat & stable systems as were then proposed
as the realities of others as fire reeled down hillsides
stripping away years ugh now thereby pronounces
all involved preemptively
& retrospectively dead
all of it to be fervently undisputed forever
in the fierce favour of wingèd flight
.
.
.
some so dark shape it was that lay
lullay as a virgin.......... squawking unto the swirls
which flitted and flattened in lissome flight
holding hard hold hard this is or ever was
more and less than............it seemed riotous
though ......................it was no more
than the long droog of several grey battlecruisers that slept in scapas
in the going
and in the rising
and in the merest scuttle
of long ice long it lay
uncovered mantled
in quiet
thoughts of men
who gave only bubbles [and giving] thus nothing
eek quickly withdrawing themselves to sterile parlours in which to rot down
laugh as sheeps ................seeing themselves daubed
don't you get it yet you should
for the scramble............. laugh still ...O they lilt they laugh
at the lift [wherein] nothing more
but sky's slow fuck of muses......................sky's slowfucked elevation
and insignificance
of all that was before
the belief that held them
in such flat & stable systems as were then proposed
as the realities of others as fire reeled down hillsides
stripping away years ugh now thereby pronounces
all involved preemptively
& retrospectively dead
all of it to be fervently undisputed forever
in the fierce favour of wingèd flight
.
.
.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
There is a light; the problem is there is no tunnel—Shimon Peres
If we do this then this might follow. The ultimate objective is the evocation of myth in the collective unconscious. The myth in this case is that of the mission and the manifest destiny of the American Nation.What is true is irrelevant, is subordinate to the myth and the destiny. It is of the blood and the soil of the soul that we sing.
This is the reality of the future. Few humans can grasp this reality. Our purpose is to guide the ignorant into their future selves, into their destiny. It is unnecessary for them to understand.
We are the saviours of the spiritual song of America. We are the vanguard, we are the American Al Qaeda birthing the future. We are the guardians of the soul of America
—Neopsalm not by Paul Wolfowitz
[[[Does anyone see the last gasp of the US Neocons in the unbridled assault by Israel on the Palestinians? What better way for the Wolfowitz gang to try to make their lies come true than by throwing even more petrol on the fire and further radicalising the Umma? Get the Islamic world angry enough, and a heck of a lot of people will believe (all over again) that there is no choice other than to invite the Neocons (or their heirs) back just to survive. They might still get that new Pearl Harbor they wanted so badly. What better way than a little 'covert' war at the very epicentre of the wound that is still spreading resentment across all of Islam?
Was anyone surprised when the US didn't vote for a ceasefire at the UN meeting? Of course they didn't. It would never have happened if Israel hadn't been absolutely assured that the outgoing US administration was behind it 100%. And of course it had to happen right now, while they were *still* sure about that. It might not be so certain in a few days time. How typical of this US administration to leave with a last grenade thrown into all our futures.
So what a cute little parting gift for Obama. Does he support Israel in this? Does he support the oppressed Palestinians? The world is watching. If he's got any sense he'll be wondering how in hell he's going to deal with the probable escalation in resentment and extremism and Islamism and general ill-feeling that this latest act of covertly transparent bi-lateral madness will entail. Right now he seems scared to speak, though he did make one inept comparison the other day, in which he stated that if his neighbour was throwing bombs at his house and killing his kids he'd do anything in his power to make it stop. "Wouldn't you?" he asked... The sentiment is understandable, but the only rational answer of course is that that should depend upon exactly what is in one's power.
As all too often with America, Israel is showing itself yet again prepared to use whatever is in its power, irrespective of proportion or foresight or wider consciousness. Let's hope that when Obama finally gets hold of all this he shows some awareness that he now has rather more in his power than just weaponry and brainwashing, and hope equally that he can figure out how to access it and how to wield it]]]
Someone compress this for me.
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 such exalted eyes such lame glass birds of drear exaltation how they swoop and claw in their scorned troposphere they tinge through as disregarded purple they bet they know they dream they dreck they reck they flop
.......................................................................till they drop
......................lofting they pop like transcendent moments by the pool
......................any one of them we could enter
......................& from any quickly wake
............................................................................in this stoop we are hunter-gatherers
............................................................................what wisheth not for farming only
............................................................................the prolapsing ........spirit
.
.
.(This is a transtextual poem composed of reordered text fragments by Lewis Carroll, Mikhail Isakovsky, and Ehud Olmert, interspersed with original material.)
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 such exalted eyes such lame glass birds of drear exaltation how they swoop and claw in their scorned troposphere they tinge through as disregarded purple they bet they know they dream they dreck they reck they flop
.......................................................................till they drop
......................lofting they pop like transcendent moments by the pool
......................any one of them we could enter
......................& from any quickly wake
............................................................................in this stoop we are hunter-gatherers
............................................................................what wisheth not for farming only
............................................................................the prolapsing ........spirit
.
.
.(This is a transtextual poem composed of reordered text fragments by Lewis Carroll, Mikhail Isakovsky, and Ehud Olmert, interspersed with original material.)
Saturday, January 10, 2009
spotting on clomid
technology is beginning to work—Steve Jones
may binge the adrenaline after................................ all for his maximum recommended
draught no less..................................he speaks after/years/the mother does not appear..............hexagram 23
[there she lists/sheds/trims in the coastal volta unearthed]
......................................................[and viagra a fervent singularity] .............[Ur Nammu already a historian][such to steroids]
[you may have been rare]
reports
of sudden ..........................laments that he will after all be unable
hearing
were...................................to mourn his father before his death
considered
purely chymical ............. I found orgone accumulators overstated & finally
un-Reichian/Captain.....................................[got him on food & drugs
Clark welcomes you to disembark...................he dies soon in gaol]
to submit to baptism//au baptême
on the deck of Titanic a reported insufficiency of life [these were mares' nests & the mares
......................................................were even then at home]
..................here at this abrupt littoral
........................................................................she heard now bells from the fog evil magical creatures sprang
...............as bells from the ocean paraded there
.......................................................all night before her on a wet headland/at the buoy's moan/the wind's kick/
................as ghostly wooden scotch hands
...........................................................(parrot)
...........................................................for the pattering of glazes/aprons/flours
...........................................................whirled aloft. no sex in any of it. tiny hoof
...........................................................prints shook in the butter overnight. such
...........................................................of a turbulence it is. the dark boy at the
...........................................................corner. the Blitz then? transfigured
.......................... in its gathering clamour............................................... all of them.
...........................in spate. danced so. ................................................as to a jewes trumpe
...........................she is Femtocell.................................................................and Thermobus.
.......................... demdike devices clear on bright. ..........................................Hill
.......................... sides squat .................................................in the gorse. his wings not
.......................... now in the ordinary .........................................................spectrum.
ordinary—po: a splitting apart entartete kunst. ......................................freetown.(axis)
.
.
may binge the adrenaline after................................ all for his maximum recommended
draught no less..................................he speaks after/years/the mother does not appear..............hexagram 23
[there she lists/sheds/trims in the coastal volta unearthed]
......................................................[and viagra a fervent singularity] .............[Ur Nammu already a historian][such to steroids]
[you may have been rare]
reports
of sudden ..........................laments that he will after all be unable
hearing
were...................................to mourn his father before his death
considered
purely chymical ............. I found orgone accumulators overstated & finally
un-Reichian/Captain.....................................[got him on food & drugs
Clark welcomes you to disembark...................he dies soon in gaol]
to submit to baptism//au baptême
on the deck of Titanic a reported insufficiency of life [these were mares' nests & the mares
......................................................were even then at home]
..................here at this abrupt littoral
........................................................................she heard now bells from the fog evil magical creatures sprang
...............as bells from the ocean paraded there
.......................................................all night before her on a wet headland/at the buoy's moan/the wind's kick/
................as ghostly wooden scotch hands
...........................................................(parrot)
...........................................................for the pattering of glazes/aprons/flours
...........................................................whirled aloft. no sex in any of it. tiny hoof
...........................................................prints shook in the butter overnight. such
...........................................................of a turbulence it is. the dark boy at the
...........................................................corner. the Blitz then? transfigured
.......................... in its gathering clamour............................................... all of them.
...........................in spate. danced so. ................................................as to a jewes trumpe
...........................she is Femtocell.................................................................and Thermobus.
.......................... demdike devices clear on bright. ..........................................Hill
.......................... sides squat .................................................in the gorse. his wings not
.......................... now in the ordinary .........................................................spectrum.
ordinary—po: a splitting apart entartete kunst. ......................................freetown.(axis)
//so at morning on 23rd ...........................................................................the kitchen flag violated flapping art in its own .............................................................................smel that this Geillies Duncane did goe before them........................... playing uppon a ..................................this reill or daunce, small trumpe//
now after all of it
bring us quickly all that you have
now after all of it
bring us quickly all that you have
.
Friday, January 09, 2009
Arthur Machen's Fairies
his body went walking about quite empty,
without any sense in it—Arthur Machen (The White People)
on the hill I wondered what was true
—Arthur Machen (The White People)
between an infant boy calling
out and a car's squeal at a bedside Astir of Eaves
the thing utters soft soft
soft as the soft Nexus of Wind at Dusk
upon high—black and orange waters
troubled in outflow by a slow heft of fells
into sluices and frogways and culverts there
and creeps and collects
soft-feeding of becks downhill
(of long Peat fires they sing they rupt)
as vaccary walls they are shoved askew
—eek now soft ages of cattle
in all their goits adrift
[arrayed all thither golden in lichens]
of black mosses now of the wind's caress
are the Abiding Stones over Wycoller
declaiming of churns
and loud they gurgle as underground water
at night
and at night even at night's governance
and with slow Thunder unfolding of the sinks
the shakes and rills that brim the unquiet seeps
nursing with night the soft touching
the strokes and yields the waft the heave
of sphagnum of samphire
and samphire its listening Wainscots its secret ways
its faery-breath'd fluttering heather
purple its wainstones its aorta its races
its races updrifted in a velveteen of consumption
down the wing-wet years
—whoever then what cloven throat
sputtered there and spake and wefted
in that inwoven space such a Waiting and a Word
—and in all its slow-gathering Silence?
.
.
without any sense in it—Arthur Machen (The White People)
on the hill I wondered what was true
—Arthur Machen (The White People)
between an infant boy calling
out and a car's squeal at a bedside Astir of Eaves
the thing utters soft soft
soft as the soft Nexus of Wind at Dusk
upon high—black and orange waters
troubled in outflow by a slow heft of fells
into sluices and frogways and culverts there
and creeps and collects
soft-feeding of becks downhill
(of long Peat fires they sing they rupt)
as vaccary walls they are shoved askew
—eek now soft ages of cattle
in all their goits adrift
[arrayed all thither golden in lichens]
of black mosses now of the wind's caress
are the Abiding Stones over Wycoller
declaiming of churns
and loud they gurgle as underground water
at night
and at night even at night's governance
and with slow Thunder unfolding of the sinks
the shakes and rills that brim the unquiet seeps
nursing with night the soft touching
the strokes and yields the waft the heave
of sphagnum of samphire
and samphire its listening Wainscots its secret ways
its faery-breath'd fluttering heather
purple its wainstones its aorta its races
its races updrifted in a velveteen of consumption
down the wing-wet years
—whoever then what cloven throat
sputtered there and spake and wefted
in that inwoven space such a Waiting and a Word
—and in all its slow-gathering Silence?
.
.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
pumpkin twilight
I gazed out through glass & mist
as cars hit the level crossing
—a rusty-shiny-oily raft—
too fast cracking their sumps
like I gave a—but someone
down there wrapped/blurred
for a dusk cold on a station
platform saw me—a backlit
head at a window in early gloom
I think shining—his/her up-
looking some affront as though me
not her/him was voyeur in this
sudden debacle of distance
where I legitimately at window
outlook out not in...then in
eruptions of magnanimity
(it having been hallowe'en
only two months before) I
thought no he/she probably
has no wish to intrude—merely
in such gloam at such distance
takes me for a late pumpkin
—on this understanding only
was I
...prepared to let it go
.
.
as cars hit the level crossing
—a rusty-shiny-oily raft—
too fast cracking their sumps
like I gave a—but someone
down there wrapped/blurred
for a dusk cold on a station
platform saw me—a backlit
head at a window in early gloom
I think shining—his/her up-
looking some affront as though me
not her/him was voyeur in this
sudden debacle of distance
where I legitimately at window
outlook out not in...then in
eruptions of magnanimity
(it having been hallowe'en
only two months before) I
thought no he/she probably
has no wish to intrude—merely
in such gloam at such distance
takes me for a late pumpkin
—on this understanding only
was I
...prepared to let it go
.
.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Friday, December 26, 2008
aesop's fox breaks loose
it is in its ungoverned incessant picking and unpicking and working and that it resembles a small child and that even when the batteries have expired and will continue to tug at a thing and tease threads from it and until its eyes spill out and it is finally broken and expired and whirring itself down foolishly and on the Christmas carpet and/or if it was a live thing perhaps until it finally turned from so much persistent agitation and showed its teeth and so wearisome had the worrying become and that was only anyway inspired by this attitude of careless and though fervent working away and to some unreachable and irrelevant end and anyway now purely because it knows no other settlement and/or closure and simply cannot rest without further mischief caused that it might at least stir again inside itself and from this least and most spurious of all stimulations
.
.
.
.
4mm float
there was a voyeuristic humour in it that stretched like 1875 ectoplasm through the transatlantic wainscots and almost made him jump though it was certain that it in its gathering impulse
knew it not nor how it span it being the closest it had recently been to sexual delight such that all else was subsumed there in that earnestness and that scenting of conflicted pheromone hunger
.
.
knew it not nor how it span it being the closest it had recently been to sexual delight such that all else was subsumed there in that earnestness and that scenting of conflicted pheromone hunger
.
.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Jack's turtle (with errors)
What is that Kerouac haiku about a turtle floating on a log? Something like this, though I don't remember it perfectly:
turtle floating downstream
on a log—
looking up
I think this captures Kerouac's essence of the little satori of haiku. In those two words 'looking up' at the end the scene suddenly opens up and we get this glimpse of the serious wild heart of a turtle, its earnestness, our projected anthropomorphic pride and strength, its survival, its pragmatism and realism, its serious up-arching of the neck 'wondering' WTF is going on with this new transport...
It's comical in the sense that all creatures are comical in their necessary self-seriousness, and it conveys both the comedy and the quite wonderful tenderness of this scene with utter concision and brilliance. I am in that moment suddenly, and my heart pours out to it just because of the sheer innocence he conveys. And this is the thing... if you can focus the energy of words like that in haiku, then you create a little nexus through which people can drift into other realities. I am there floating and laughing and crying in turtle world, and somehow knowing something I didn't quite know before. It's worth a lot of struggle, this haiku stuff, just to hit one moment like that.
Apologies if I misremembered it. It was something pretty close.
Edit: Oh, now I just looked it up... It's actually this:
A turtle sailing along
on a log,
Head up
So I remembered it pretty badly, but in fact it makes the point far better in the original version than in my half-assed remembrance. Interesting use of punctuation and capitals there too, to solve some obvious haiku issues about pacing and spacing.
Anyway, I still think that that tiny line, 'Head up', in context, is one of the most moving and memorable and profound lines I've ever read in haiku, or maybe any other poetry for that matter. Haiku is like Sinatra's New York, I think. If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere... Most of us can't make it. It's the three line pressure cooker.
.
.
turtle floating downstream
on a log—
looking up
I think this captures Kerouac's essence of the little satori of haiku. In those two words 'looking up' at the end the scene suddenly opens up and we get this glimpse of the serious wild heart of a turtle, its earnestness, our projected anthropomorphic pride and strength, its survival, its pragmatism and realism, its serious up-arching of the neck 'wondering' WTF is going on with this new transport...
It's comical in the sense that all creatures are comical in their necessary self-seriousness, and it conveys both the comedy and the quite wonderful tenderness of this scene with utter concision and brilliance. I am in that moment suddenly, and my heart pours out to it just because of the sheer innocence he conveys. And this is the thing... if you can focus the energy of words like that in haiku, then you create a little nexus through which people can drift into other realities. I am there floating and laughing and crying in turtle world, and somehow knowing something I didn't quite know before. It's worth a lot of struggle, this haiku stuff, just to hit one moment like that.
Apologies if I misremembered it. It was something pretty close.
Edit: Oh, now I just looked it up... It's actually this:
A turtle sailing along
on a log,
Head up
So I remembered it pretty badly, but in fact it makes the point far better in the original version than in my half-assed remembrance. Interesting use of punctuation and capitals there too, to solve some obvious haiku issues about pacing and spacing.
Anyway, I still think that that tiny line, 'Head up', in context, is one of the most moving and memorable and profound lines I've ever read in haiku, or maybe any other poetry for that matter. Haiku is like Sinatra's New York, I think. If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere... Most of us can't make it. It's the three line pressure cooker.
.
.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
Vegas nerve
lacking the early association of horses & death—Madeleine Shine
.............—even without headlamps & swerves
.................. sweeping rowan silhouettes/vistas of pure light
[the way home already known to involve
a traversing of many weeps and freshets] but but
...............zen/y/atta mond/atta—
..................—look such waifs of the nostratic
but no he cried there so silly in firelight but no
—as though such admonishment might alter my feeling
for his sister and her collection
of strange dolls she spun into talking every hourless window
where in the attic her mother died slow
....................................................(oh still channelling throughout
....................................................her many pets would later claim)
slow as peaches rotting
down there in old desert cans
from the Crimea and the wastes I have for you such news such news
"Vegas?"—we even ask him that—"Vegas?"
.............how kindly he gaze in his crepuscules there
(they talk now all is
of psychism and drugs
—outside/the moon
at some perigee
& no longer even
purpose between us)
..............here at the flitting hour
..............where with such eyes/
..............he jumps forever in
..............the chests of the deceased
—I doubt all the perigee of it now
"Vagus" he says—"something different..."
["they persuaded me back
started me like an engine"]
(these are red tiles that lead nowhere)
grey wings enfold no no no
wings enfold................no are no wings................enfolding no enfold
facedown//harking//black mucus
something grey
...................... enfolds
.............. something/nothing
—I doubt all the tenderness of it now
,
,
,
.............—even without headlamps & swerves
.................. sweeping rowan silhouettes/vistas of pure light
[the way home already known to involve
a traversing of many weeps and freshets] but but
...............zen/y/atta mond/atta—
..................—look such waifs of the nostratic
but no he cried there so silly in firelight but no
—as though such admonishment might alter my feeling
for his sister and her collection
of strange dolls she spun into talking every hourless window
where in the attic her mother died slow
....................................................(oh still channelling throughout
....................................................her many pets would later claim)
slow as peaches rotting
down there in old desert cans
from the Crimea and the wastes I have for you such news such news
"Vegas?"—we even ask him that—"Vegas?"
.............how kindly he gaze in his crepuscules there
(they talk now all is
of psychism and drugs
—outside/the moon
at some perigee
& no longer even
purpose between us)
..............here at the flitting hour
..............where with such eyes/
..............he jumps forever in
..............the chests of the deceased
—I doubt all the perigee of it now
"Vagus" he says—"something different..."
["they persuaded me back
started me like an engine"]
(these are red tiles that lead nowhere)
grey wings enfold no no no
wings enfold................no are no wings................enfolding no enfold
facedown//harking//black mucus
something grey
...................... enfolds
.............. something/nothing
—I doubt all the tenderness of it now
,
,
,
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
this winter rite unflarfed
resolution: fifteen days from now an animal
will occur in your slow rollers & breakers
over and in and because of your misunderstood
will commence discriminately to devour
unpleasantness, pain of delivery, the sleek
[all this could be still changed
by a few firefox add-ons
some modules of latent proxy]
tigers nowhere now just the wholehearted of exo-skeleta
lost at dusk in the woods so complex
we have no longer time for anything
[those americans reviling the french
calling them those names]
when it really came out it was as lungs
not cartoon organs but actual and present
all purple and wet so like newborns///
now sex because of the nervous assault
seeming tantamount to some event
is only in fact a routine inflammation
fading quickly given the reach
of politics and bullying issues as still
an eventual monster continues to advance
with name labels at its little neck that we
find like ourselves in the wet morning
soon still able to love
.............................................the third waiting is soon over
foliage and of some creeping
continues to advance
now we see unclearly such an essence
that these are the most lightened
of days when the boy even in his caper
soon knows in his own flood and flux
that through the lens of a poem
is he unknown
he continues to advance
.
.
will occur in your slow rollers & breakers
over and in and because of your misunderstood
will commence discriminately to devour
unpleasantness, pain of delivery, the sleek
[all this could be still changed
by a few firefox add-ons
some modules of latent proxy]
tigers nowhere now just the wholehearted of exo-skeleta
lost at dusk in the woods so complex
we have no longer time for anything
[those americans reviling the french
calling them those names]
when it really came out it was as lungs
not cartoon organs but actual and present
all purple and wet so like newborns///
now sex because of the nervous assault
seeming tantamount to some event
is only in fact a routine inflammation
fading quickly given the reach
of politics and bullying issues as still
an eventual monster continues to advance
with name labels at its little neck that we
find like ourselves in the wet morning
soon still able to love
.............................................the third waiting is soon over
foliage and of some creeping
continues to advance
now we see unclearly such an essence
that these are the most lightened
of days when the boy even in his caper
soon knows in his own flood and flux
that through the lens of a poem
is he unknown
he continues to advance
.
.
gorilla loose on highstreet
the body has gone underground due to widespread persecution - Madeleine Shine
in those times of the interior
of antimony
of ambergris
of kohl
of Zanzibar & Shendy
dig my grave I will dig yours such—in wet vellum we go stark laughing
it was reported ............huge grinning black men
...................covered in fur
........................rush/from behind trees
......................clutch/white*ladies/to them
................in fevers/of amorous shivering
..............Freud bitten himself to death oh fearful greek katyusha
.....................................................on a cigar of all nations
...................Reich askance the whole winter's edge fluting
............................................in orgone boxes invisible cancers
Jung suddenly addressed with fondness his stockpot in the tower
..........................and was unconscionably requited
(my half-brother now the fucking summertime duke fuck off
...........................into your...............walled garden!)
this ape thing and not universally acknowledged as myth
keep keep it for your aghast moments
.
.
.
.
(Published in The Cleave January 2009)
.
in those times of the interior
of antimony
of ambergris
of kohl
of Zanzibar & Shendy
dig my grave I will dig yours such—in wet vellum we go stark laughing
it was reported ............huge grinning black men
...................covered in fur
........................rush/from behind trees
......................clutch/white*ladies/to them
................in fevers/of amorous shivering
..............Freud bitten himself to death oh fearful greek katyusha
.....................................................on a cigar of all nations
...................Reich askance the whole winter's edge fluting
............................................in orgone boxes invisible cancers
Jung suddenly addressed with fondness his stockpot in the tower
..........................and was unconscionably requited
(my half-brother now the fucking summertime duke fuck off
...........................into your...............walled garden!)
this ape thing and not universally acknowledged as myth
keep keep it for your aghast moments
.
.
.
.
(Published in The Cleave January 2009)
.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
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