the libido theory

(love has also increments)
the libido itself a shimmer a hue
.................and a cry
................of many voices
a tactical deployment
an influx along the frontier
at night in winter
............dispatches from outside
watching without watching
anyway the fluctuations

the interlateral marketplace
Reich and Freud all that time
dipping.dipping.going down
the flick of Brownian Motion
life in the spasm the random walk

see I fell down in wonder
watching them pitch their tents
in his dawn of nothing
that all significators are plural

so it is in the gasp
of atomy but then particle dysphasia
your orgastic potency itself a clusterfuck
split this now this sheer poetic tell is again
just such a mustering of quiet

gathered for the gathering
of the gathering of the fathering that is
that assemblage
of love don't look here for
singularities of orgone & libido
there are only river deltas
................endocrine systems
brimming with lymph-ichor
stark gathered
...............only measure this

by everything
measure it by

bust its clouds no why no
a reverse cancer
gathering of the gathering
not surrendering not giving up
I am only trying to be here

all over

emergency measures screwed into face

I understand
& I wish to continue
.
.
.

some unfinished boatflarf

Hear we have for sale
a 27 footed 4 berth plexiglass rabid cruiser
it is being sold as an unfinished object
which needs very little cosmetic work to compete
it is the ideal winter project
Comes complete with a semi-legal, fully braked, 4 wheel trailer.
Powered out by a Perkins 4108 fully marinised
diesel engine connected to an Enfield Z Drive.
Navigation lights the sky ahead, Ships radio each to each,
a new compass comes with this,
depth finder/fish finder/find finder, all fenders,
new anchor and ankle chain, 12 volt automatic bilge.
It has onboard cocks (2 ring with oven and grill),
sinking unit, gas or water heater, many sea toilets,
radio/cd player and 12 volt
lightning throughout.
It requires new cushions seating the lick of saints,
and I have bought a new coupling

for between the engine and Z drive
there is currently no restraint
.
.

A short film about Wilhelm Reich:

http://video.google.com/videosearch?q=wilhelm+reich&emb=0&aq=0&oq=wilhelm+r#

improvised poem

so you are this gurgle underground on the moor at night this blowhole in the peat from which this sound at this time emerges at night on the moor the grouse sound like cartoons at night from their blowholes on the moor where I lie listening to clouds that pass over like satellites so stark against the backlit blue black over the moor stars sky silence of all cosmic blowholes infinity wrung through the startled throat of a bird that just walked into my foot didn't even smell me there hear me breathing like the night breathes gurgles blows sits quiet in its history of heather of gurgling quiet blowing holes streams running beneath old so old as everything that ever ran down from a hill wet and gurgling knowing now this stirring quiet of young antiquity
.
.

broad son lit up lands

all through my firewall I feel your hum, my theremin lover
—Madeleine Shine, Vitamins & Electromagnetism (2006)

antivirals or some such are despatched as outriders to mollify.
an immediate disturbance that may yet locally be mere.
mineral command-politics despite cloud-gatherings which appear.
to be portents in fact of metastasised dreariness.
so insusceptible to software interventions of the sort.

available whereupon to the surprise of the amateur transhuman.
physician-shamans assembled on the screen she sits up suddenly insisting.
upon the precedence of animal parts in all such.

exchanges emphasising several moments in her declamation.
with realworld popups and unders.
expressive of the finality of her assessment and invitation to take part.
to claim a free l a p t o p. it is this finality.
this now motivates him to isolate his circuitry.

log out of backup files and restore the page to a resolution.
from which he can lean forward through the window.
to kiss her and find out for himself.
in what manner and to what purpose.
she iterates.

.
.
^{(Published in Intercapillary Space April 09)}

caribou dive dive we have only these moments

does the mind rule the body
or does the body rule the mind
I dunno
—The Smiths

look it's like something reached down
just for fun mangled the machinery
in two seconds of intervention
a two year old child wiping off an equation
it's like forms of energy that can't use

each other do you get that this is what
demons are what gods are they are

the difference the incompatibilities
of scale and form touch this you will
die it's that easy to contact the spirit
world to roll over into upsided for tickling
goddamn there was only one chair in that

room i fell into it almost watching
that bigass submarine huge-nosed

there are so many words
that just don't exist that are just out of reach
a plant on its way out unwatered death
nearby i stared at the ceiling i felt you

close about me close about me
Jane Austen removed all time
from her novels so they could be any time
unstuck pilgrim in a chair looking
skyward into death close about me
the feel of a rat in the mouth

of a rottweiler good god folks
this music hall echoes so loud
they swirl together these organs
by the beach the retirement home
well how exactly do you want to flail

face down in your grey chips
or face up into the plaster ceiling

with the monster eating your head
either way i love powerful love stories
in perfect English Caribou
.
.

temple of ten thousand buddhas

they got them all here the long-armed buddha
the bouncing buddha
the wrathful buddha who makes faces
the mirthful buddha frozen mid-laugh
all in amber plastic
up the track to the temple
where they are burning lucky money
fumes echoing around like feral cats
want to snug with you close up fuck you
in your lungs in the dharma racecourse
of your non-epicanthic tourist bad luck
so what if they demolished the walled city
built a park on top still buddhism is a street thing
a sort of violence against existence against presence
against life yellow ...........plastic buddhas stuck here
one for every state but they ain't .................got mine
i don't see anywhere the laughing crying
sexed up half drunk chainsmoking chainsaw
angry & happy & derailed punk rock razor love
of little birds but wants to kick you right in the ass
heartbroke beatpoem buddha lurking in the bushes
waiting to rush out like a wolverine myth
to hug you all to death he/she just ain't here
must be already gone
walked off into the flowers
& kept walking
never turned around
i only came here for the races anyway
all of them
races like waves
through the body dharma
the smoke races
nothing wins this game but the smoke
.
.

atavism riff

you have to wake up to it
people have died already

I couldn't place myself anywhere
I had no end to my circuitry
no earthing no plugins
I was nowhere

people died
I didn't know what it meant
I kissed them in their coffins
felt only intermittently through my hubris
my protection

something was stalking me
something from my past
was walking invisibly through the pages
the years

I still can't wake up
every day waking up gets further away
they're still dying like distant shocks
I don't know if they are pieces of me
going out with them
it was written like this early on
in the low roaring that has never stopped

what do you do with these dead people?
you look in their faces, you kiss them
they are mirrors in their purple/black/pink
denatured faces, their dressed bloom
undertaken for us to look upon

their holes wadded and perfumed
they don't reach out to us with anything
but some mute poetry of the unreachable
we thrust ourselves into their embrace
stupidly I still don't know them
these dead people
leading me to the next funeral rites

someone else hit a wall in himself
came to nothing, faded out
in his own ash and stink
hardly worth raising your head for
another drunk fairy no one believed in
went out somewhere
nothing is to be done
the doing was finished long ago

sleep now
no one is watching you turn blue
your wings folded in the dust
under the bed that no one shares
behind the wall
where they have papered over the door
those new people from next week
nothing left to be done
just
.
.

stuff

so my stuff around this was not supported it was left
to rip in the wind of your revelation i couldn't help it
being unsupported unanchored i came loose and attacked
the stuff which was attacking my stuff i haven't got clear
responses to this stuff it makes me out of shape it throws
me back at myself my longing my past you know how stuff
works to disassemble your damn heart & so you (now
unsupported) did the same & soon we were in that place
where everyone speaks a different language as we all fall
together back to shrieks and grunts on the forest floor
with not even a bright canopy to lift us from our own arses
.
.

the only reason for believing is that someone told you it was true

nothing changing is itself an event
happening at a different time like that in fact
an impossibility though something to do
with continuity is appropriate as metaphor
alchemy you know sometimes involved
repetition of the same operation over
& over with nothing changing but the time
i hate to use the quickening thing but some
sense somehow of the eventful continuity
must be present to take it elsewhere go off
tangentially look you idiot if dinosaurs
had shared hunting habitat with humans they
would have been a defining presence
written into every human history not in hints
but large & loud the many deaths the importance
that everyone live behind high walls no one
could live in a hut or a cave Rameses II on his
way to do battle would have seen his army picked off
by vast predators each night & if he did then
he kept it secret so this in itself then becomes
an alchemical thing the repetition the sameness
the fact that i have performed this masturbatory act
six million times & not yet brought back one whole child
from the flames from history from my personal oubliettes alive
next time next time next time next time
it won't just be all bluster & ritual but something
will issue will well up from the rear of the black dragon
the putrefaction itself will send out dispatches
to the effect that we are nearing a new shore
birds have been sighted through cloudbreaks
after forty five years adrift convinced only that not knowing
was always our best hope of attaining knowledge
no i won't eat from this damn table crawling with lies
.
.

no place like home

[Lynndie] England was diagnosed with "selective mutism"
—Emma Brockes, The Guardian 2009
The wind began to switch / The house, to pitch
—Dorothy, The Wizard of Oz

Lynndie gouching on her own opiate stormchasin
bunch of human it ain't so different from a bunch
of chicken parts.late-night in the factory
back home.....through the saccades blinking it out ....blinking ......out ........
Graner screwin Megan all along thumbs up
cigarette in mouth smile now point at his cock
just like that for the camera "It feels weird" did you love him
do it for me Lynndie............yes I did yes I do
Dubya Rumsfeld four months silent after the pictures
in their "sick to our stomachs" [in their selective mutism]
.......Lynndie & little Carter sleep in cannibalised bunkbeds
in Mineral County night—Carter [they say] suspiciously dark
................................................as stacked ragheads
Lynndie the all-unAmerican chicken licken
BIG STORM she says
..............................naked on a leash dumb-for-approval patsy
chasing lovin through a twister spat her all the way
...................................................................back from Oz
......................................................to no place like home
......................................................
.

.
^{(Publication forthcoming in Intercapillary Space)}

Kowloon

lights up and down the bay
I am on some sort of seafront
hemmed in by stars and water
I have a glass of icy beer
a whisky
a computer
I am ready to overthrow the monarchy
just ask me
.
.

notes for a poem about cursing

Sister Sue, tell me baby, what are we gonna do?
—Mink Deville

time has gone wrong here for no reason
it keeps swinging me back

..........................look it's like this
like you've had a sort of stroke
let me explain that there are flowers
where your hands should be

but what is this called he keeps asking
day and night with that look about him

you have a condition which means
you have to be careful what you think

[it would be more compelling to dance the meaning of this poem
but arranging that would be unrealistic—small local
performances could be devised but for a large-scale alert
of this sort something more is required]

he insisted there was a warning in the sky
but it was just electricity humming & sparking

...........oh we told him right there and then:

.............................you've had an episode
.............................you are reassembling things
.............................without a plan

time has done something
there has been a catastrophic error
this poem has performed an illegal operation
& will now shut down

...........................the head and limbs are in the wrong places
...........................—it doesn't matter but some people
...........................will call it a monster

it went on for years
think of him as a boy facing the corner
in a pointed hat
is he a dunce or a magician
either way he's thinking something up

....................the thing is someone starts it
by shouting & drumming
then you take over and don't know
how to stop

[your screensaver is a vision of your own death
the naked one reaching for you in the leaf mould]

..........................that's all it is

the beat goes on & the beat goes on

hold the flowers up to your face
work them until you see fingers
this might take years
dip the flowers in hot wax
think them into dripping clusters
of language and light

a sort of stroke—you need to think hard now
what was it that did the stroking?

this computer has not recovered
...........................from a fatal error
.
.
^{(Published in Intercapillary Space April 09)}

smelted parataxis exercise

scene is as usual a car struggling uphill in the pink rain
that begins unaccountably to wail Oh she says this rain
it clogs up my belly and puts out monsters my driving
would suffer less were it not for no monsters little like
this they are in their squirming he says your driving is
like your mother's parrot uninteresting and bald and
it goes nowhere a parrot maybe a parakeet a big one
I heard bit off the whole oar of a cat that stuck in its
differentiated tissue I'm not in any way
edgy she says I am relaxed now
why would you say that the light falters on hillsides in
late afternoon without even a cloud maybe it is mystic
light you speak of in your parrothood of which I must
remind you I know nothing but look he cries now all
absolved another stalling of this vehicle will bring us
together and collapse both our tents into the same ditch
from which if I remember you came up shining last
time last time there she was hopping one legged still
squawking of her sofa after the bombing after the milk
spilt all over her polished bloody doorstep after that
just the same anyway her life on her knees by a door
step asking for sheen of a clutch slipping there's almost
nothing left to be said beyond the buckling up in the grass
years after school but back there too like everything was
ready knees and ankles all just ready for the slippage
I know you never liked her just because she said porridge
as pourage and you thought it was nasty like seepage
well so it was if you ever tasted it as she said it now
we will need to squawk for ourselves in the cuttlefish
the sun itself roaring like a one-legged spider it's late
fucking late late all of it a stuffed dead thing still ticking
itself out through the long pink pourage but you you just
like the sound of your own voice yes I do because it's the
only one I can hear even when it ticks out of your mouth
he says she says if you hear zebras in wednesday streets
no need at all to think of Texas this waving anyway is a
one thousand year umbrella
it rains frogs
dearly
.
.

Listen to this. The mighty Jocelyn Pook celebrates the musical tradition of the word Hallelujah, and in the process creates a short composition. This is, in my opinion, the way that both music and poetry should be made. This is a really special piece of radio. Can't use the link function here right now as I'm using someone else's Mac and I don't know how it works, but here it is to copy and paste:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00jhpp8/Hallelujah/

Masked Ball by Jocelyn Pook (don't watch, just listen):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=go4E4tNGQks&feature=related

Jeremy Prynne Zahawiri bin Laden Gianna Michaels gulfed up nohow

who can truly say what it is with Gianna Michaels
the way these days that resentment grows first from
a reasonable disquiet at such perceived injustice
as was evident in Egypt when Quttb made his
comparisons she sprawls like that large-breasted
& they pull it off anyway Zawihiri and his boys
do death to Pharaoh two minutes of the last smile
on the hotel rooftop frolicking she's a whore
he says this to me wow have you seen that he says
urgent all over about her bikini his doublethink
turning into monsters before me in room 303
do you know that Quttb had a heart attack when
they set the dogs on him it's like that Nazi game
called Achtung where a naked Jew kneels between
two barking attack dogs and shouts out Achtung
till he can no longer shout then they let the dogs
at him this apparently a game she shouts she shouts
she goes down on him routinely almost violently
outside Osama wells up petroleum he is just so
affronted now at her frivolity he wants more
than anything to kill her but she is unkillable
mouth full laughing insurgent cock eschewing
laughter for a greater delight of the kill the certainty
the knowing erection of jellies and sublime milk
treats is there ever oh anything better
than such certain killing even Gianna with a MP45
dutch schultzing the room naked DP gasping
professionally in her caves we are come from
Saudi they say we are rich we will buy weapons
we are a sperm trail hanging in space if that is
all we are then we are cosmic & certain
filled with the assassin faith stumbling down
out of Alamout double-penetrated by opposing
gods Heckler & Koch La Al the sufis all next week
Al Cohol god of the white people Gysin upstarts
no it's not over yet she has things to achieve
before she settles you are only the next in line
they made porn movies up there you know
in room 303 sometimes they let me watch
this now a fermenting hallelujah coming
of this basic certainty that there is no longer
any god but this god who has denied all opposition
speaking as he does from Gianna's severed
clitoral ream with hate foremost as laughter
.
.

Fitzroy's moral collapse

alle kunst ist umsunst wenn der engel auf dem zundloch brunst (all technology is in vain if the angel urinates on your musket)
—Austrian folk poem

& lo it is stifled during that first marinading of the Congo
that a humongous Black Man encroached all in fur lurks
in the ochres for white women to promenade with parasols
in vapid trails of fortnum ectoplastic whereupon outwards
He wouldst rush to gripe their birdbones in transports
of shuddering & lissome delight with all social affatality
.....................................for such Christian swoons
.....................................whose vapours were uppermost
& inveigled & even & unto the lateness of the Ireland
such fettled behoof is to be crogled as those sauvages
squinting inholy trees of trinity affront the passages of
.....................High English wimmin
....................upon whom to inrush
with many urges—eek now it is spake in sech North Americanas
where chestheaded men still lilt and loll in the frontwoods
of Vermouth and Moorish Caliphorn in long quackgrasses
as shy big birds parlaying wildly for the extrusion
................................of bonneted females
................................from their wagons below

whence errant junglee wildness of this order saw also
Darwin observe in his fritter such a general finching
of life and aquatic erotortoise during his inchanting
of the galapageese as would give him cause to flutter
& take heart & in the mask of a vast bird as a vast bird
..................he would stoop into Fitzroy's cabin there
..................to demand more pumpkins
be allocated to the dying damned lizards
on the foredeck—O how flew yet unevolved baleens
so wide so white and wide all spankers gaffs a-luffing—
where it is recorded that he would prefer to perform
his morning daunce of the galapagine finchfather

Fitzroy's reply is from scripture & to the effect that such
lézardice has now no place in the lives of crestien men
whose wives yet abide in their flossing bosoms of yeastertide

this in its askance
is his moral claps
.
.

^{(This revision published in Burning Gorgeous:
An Anthology of Seven 21st Century Poets 2010.
Original version published in The Triggerfish Critical Review 2009.)}

phosphorus face

already I am stork elmo hoar-hung all over your shrouds your sheets
tangled rolling hitch drunken shipdog grogged to the nines
your kicking strap your lowing ineffing baleen your gaff-rigged
stowage above & below a violet luffing forepeak planking
your thwarts your preventers midshipped I am gibed
& broached I will call the askance of your wet dock
graving limpet troughs blow & blast the man down haul in
my spinnaker shudder bellied out to the wind's kick lonely as
sky home of overfalls to the keelson leaden lightship moaning
moonlight swirls
the soft channels neaping low the red light datum
on the chart of your atlantic swell yawling schooner
moored to lobsters there by the headland at the wind's point
warping my hulk to its wreckage in drowned kingdoms
of the sea clung all about with weed and wrack soft
as the sea-frass offshore wails all across with ghostlight
.
.

bathtime year zero flarf

You SUNK my ship Familiar words
from years gone by This game of Sea Battle
is an exercise of The Union
Steamship Company's turbine steamer Wahine,
a glamorous and wonderful severance
Shut up and sit down, you big bald fuck
with sex, nudity, that really gruesome
hand-severing, and one use of the word "fuck"
now refresh your freakin page dude
Who the fuck needs a left hand anyway?
Lefthanded people are communists.
watch this spin as it falls Messerschmitt
dying vapour balloon gone into rolling fire
See I've Been Fucking Your Daughters
And Pissing On Your Lawn
even trees waving all in a line disaster
You've got hands? Fuck, you've got hands?
.
.

Carlito the lair of the white worm ken russell etc

the air itself a shock of innate toxicology in which
he reels big-bearded announcing my arrival my name
several times to someone unseen it takes maybe
a minute for my respiration to adjust to the sheer layering
of filth that abides here and is to be lain long in
as in an opium den a stinking Roman feast reclined
for this all-consumption look here is a picture
of my grandfather he was a U-Boat look now here
is my cat now dead that I have hung upon the wall
now here are the dead cans that once spoke and now
are full of pellet holes such is my accuracy at 5 0 clock
a new phase will begin and we will drink in its honour
O why did you not bring me your firstborn son that I might
anoint him here next time then man it is so good to see
you I had thought you were no longer my friend here
feel my confederate cap once we were confederates
for instance we share memories we have kissed we have
seen your floor slick with blood after you taught
that guy a lesson these things are not easy now they reel
as unbalanced as a cart on a steep slope pulled up/down
by significant bulls while the sun starts and starts again
yes I miss you but can't return to that dead caldera
in which we frolicked so long all ten years of afternoon
in which picon you now lie anointed ready for what is
already death unacknowledged faintly acting the last
rites of human constitution as though persistence itself
the inability to shut up look here listen to the strength
in my voice from the ashes from the wasted muscle
was now a victory of some kind against the ash the ice
bring him why don't you bring him you say curling
your lip in your lumberjack shirt your confederate cap
your beard your vodka your afternoon TV your half love
I can't bring him ever I love you but I can't and I can't
infect myself further with what you've got
.
.

sometime after it's got to stop

he wants my body and my breath
he wants me
he will reject me
while wanting me
but my breath secures him in his place
there there is where you live
he doesn't know yet what love is
where he lives is
and I am still skitterish
I might be nothing
his mother might be fucking
the neighbour under the parasol
while he watches
from the upstairs window
dropping his lollipop
wondering why
when i come home
i'm not dragging fish behind me
with lollipops in my hair

gilgamesh runs hard for the border

listen i don't mind what you do
long as it was you who decided
to do it
look now trails of ectoplasmic muck
all the way back down the streets
feel your way like a lost cave
diver soon out of air
we wore caps and shorts
we heard about Thor Heyerdahl
came wincing in from the spray
60 years old wishing his Micronesia
his brain damage Neander Valley
had been cooler less Thor more dahl
less O the swells O where they feel O
blow wey hey blow the man down
in their testicles direction sunbeat
surviving now off the offerings of dorados
triggerfish the upbeat wellings red of nekton
to liverpool town one in & 1 out
orienting themselves out there
to their own little hearts that shuffle
always in the gut above and below
fucking is only the continuation of diplomacy
by other means oh look a great spray rises
amidst our cavorting will we ever
ever such a spray
know in our lives
again?
.
.

CBU-97 Sensor Fuzed Weapon Zen on a stick

regime change 2009 wars went out all over
winked on out like tinker
bells timing out unattended
oh shit no they didn't
yahweh just spat out the fairies
started up obamageddon & such
haha the dispenser skin is severed at

first dispatches say hey the archangel
just loosed another hey
and another
uh the continuation of diplomacy
by brother-scenes mother-memes—other means you, you
see them skeets slikkin down auto-directed
love in through the fontanelles
of the holy penetrated now the louder you
see the faster we go

into bilderberg my slipstream peels ass but war war

what is it bad for?
.
.

giving of names to warriors

up to the wave that you can't pass
can't feel your way through this one slick pilgrim
level five and five and no further
like always like always go back start again
feedback debrief regrief cry in the rocking chair
if you still can
don't give a damn long as you dig it up
who was that who was that who was that
who gave permission?
oh yeah
not you
boy in a cave
not you
.
.

a tierra del fuego

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

.
.

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
.
.

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
.

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

.
.

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
.
.

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?
.
.

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
.
.

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
.
.

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

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
.
.

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

*

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
.
.

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
.
.

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 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
.
.

someone wrote this song for me a while back. even now it feels pretty good:

http://www.soundclick.com/bands/page_songInfo.cfm?bandID=886121&songID=7001608

I once got drunk in Morecambe

someone dedicated a poem to me:

http://www.criticalpoet.org/forum/viewtopic.php?t=40102

elvis

maybe I didn't love you quite as
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
.
.

"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

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
.
.

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
.
.

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
.
.

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

she is stress and eclipse
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
.
.

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)

we lost her
in the high autumn winds—
goodbye little cat
.
.

what will become
of our old bent apple tree?
sweet-scented smoke
.
.

Gerald Kaufman telling it like it is about Israeli war crimes.

kittens

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=1296126090432829344

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2002/aug/12/worlddispatch.brianwhitaker

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
.
.

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.
.
.

I want to go to this place.

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

.
.

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
.
.

A cleave version of How can it be that the gas chamber door opens inwards—click to view

(Published in The Cleave March 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)

Oh this was good...

How old was Titian when he died then...

urges

twenty ton steel boat
shaking with engine urges—
meltwater rises
.
.

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)

...........................................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)

cinquain

I flush
the dead goldfish
she smites a kettle drum
the kids watch the funeral rites
struck dumb
.

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
.
.

cinquain

quite mad
is what you are
Mr Jay Harpuhay
for eating that Cadillac car
that way
.
.

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
.
.

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
.
.

toothaiku

as a buddha i
am empty of all things
but this toothache
.
.

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
.
.

who but a mad
person
would have soup so early?
.

.

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
.
.

.

Qadaffi on Israel/Palestine

Lawrence Wright lecture on Al Qaeda

that iconic picture of St Paul's during the Blitz

Remote-controlled musical toilet with bottom washing facility...

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)
.
.

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.
.
.
.
.

The Hidden Massacre of Fallujah
(this is seriously grim watching, be warned)

The use of white phosphorus by the US in Iraq

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)
.

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/

Tom Waits reading Bukowski

Robert Bly reading Antonio Machado

eno/byrne strange overtones

Raggle taggle gipsy....

Hijacking Catastrophe

The Power of Nightmares
.
.

after midnight
a sudden flare wakes me—
yes I want your smoke
.
.
.

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

.
.
.

archaeopteryxmas card (London Institute of Pataphysics)

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.