Eggs of The Augusta

studies suggest that two thirds of us would like
to have them out

with a blow to the head
—the process is called soil-liquefaction—it is
the fear that a man might come
(in the washed-out smear
of a rear projection) and the foreground faces unaware
of the rising event cone in the glass (or that he might shout)

(just twenty thousand Italians)

(all again point to the strokes) (but before any of that
the ongoing)
a catastrophic bubblejet sent up
every day and never getting it
all those things are valued there

it takes quite a lot to stand up now
(why did I do that)

in the tilting moment
observe the rats and scorpions
those frogs that freeze and thaw
something underground that doesn't burst
before Vesuvius the aqueducts clogged with sulphurous stench

that made the people think

of flatulent water gods
before any of that

—the ongoing catastrophe in Christchurch—

(delusional and unfit to lead his bloody
grip on power—it is not spelled out)

why I did that:
two thirds of us wanted them out
of panic.with a blow.to the head
and that then was called/the liquefaction/the cone
the cata-strophe delusional and unfit
(there's the complexity of making sure)

before any of that it is not spelled out

at any moment 23% of all people are already dead

you others have a few minutes left
twirling your umbrellas
before you have to come in

.

narrative natterjack

the therapy is dramatised as a game
in which the analyst outwits the clientess

small forms scatter from her aura

one believes that it is possible
to buy love somewhere on ebay

(imagine being John Layfield the first English
man ever to eat a pineapple)

toothache any argument beats (the tectonic skull's prized open topaz)

the man and the crow look each to each
Pazuzu in the invisible shimmer the fat man
teaches the casual approach to individuation
in a causal film about slow rape

taste like no he didn't say

.

raw material for a pottery project

Thou shalt commit adultery—King James Bible, first edition 1611

not everyone is entitled to an opinion
if a stranger down some dark side road at noon
brushes my garment while passing I do not then grasp at him
declaring I wish now to pronounce upon the wedding
of your daughter...

I don't generally consider a handshake to be sex but there have been exceptions

the one-armed bodybuilder downtown sold the other for
the specialist steak market got enough to keep him in cerium oxide
for three months now says he is saving for the stem cells
they all say that every one of those slick amputees it is as though
an elephant god has waded from the perfumed dunes
squats upon the city flooding the whole damn airspace
with liquid miasma that sets locking in every human spirit
in rotten amber will be some future delicacy

they play this frequency designed to break loose the atomic structure
of construction materials used in shipbuilding and produce
high-tensile bonding across the entire field like a silent air-raid siren
shake loose everything human deep till the body melts down
hangs there on the skeleton guffawing forever with all doubt dissolved

back there in the trees you see it he gasps so earnest something watches
what you expect sunbeam they giggle at him

found myself running out naked eating bark
forming opinions
selling my limbs for gas and air

it will be like this: your hands around the wet neck
feeling it come loose and slip away

wandering home with filthy hands

little goddamn Jackie from the past hangs there from the balcony
with a broken back
committing suicide above the high street for shame
everyone watches lovestruck
as the thing shatters, still soft, unformed
never to be what it nearly was

dried up now no one even notices stepping over it
little face looking up frozen in invisible yeller shit

to be harvested for the sector delicatessens years later
by huge flightless men with nothing left but this

.

politicians shoved off the cliff in a row

a fine man who came from Portugal
that fell in a river
well this fine man
a thing came over him
started wearing a hat
and not going out on Saturdays
waving his cock at the football games
learning to fly
doing shit with balloons
jumping off cliffs hey
eating squid
masturbating in public
in every big way wanted to be a helicopter
finally came up said fuck
I am exhausted trying to look like this
I am on my hands and knees
I lowered down slowly
not sure if he would go wild
it was surely a wild and crazy moment

.

wainscot

Far off in drowsy valleys/Where the meadow saffrons blow—WB Yeats
Meadow Saffron: all parts of this species are deadly poisonous. Do not collect or use.
—Collins Book of Herbs and Healing Plants of Britain and Europe
most Dim Sum restaurants are enormous—The Rough Guide to Hong Kong and Macau

just above your head on the roof is an owl
it looks down at you through the tiles

a small body tumbles down the chimney
something lands there behind the wall
patting itself down
peering out

far below
the little lights the mist the smoke

they found three dogs in a bin near here
one of them still nearly alive

down the road is a streetlight
with CCTV that captured a shot
of a murderer waiting to kill whoever turned up
he called a taxi and killed the driver
with a hammer

disguised in a hat

up the road and down a certain lane
a plane crashed in January 1944
bits of the plane can still be found
at the bottom of the pool
below the hill in the wood
if you dive down and dig in the mud
a man dived down and dug in the mud
and a hand grasped his hand

disguised in a certain hat the man down the lane
tries to hammer the owl on the roof just above
a hand grasps his hand

big white wings open in the night
but it is nothing really
just a door that closes in the mud

turn over now you are taking all my space

.

use this to make dogs love you

please say ack ack ack to the folks that I knew

we'll meet again
outside the rainhouse he showers in floods
things ain't what they be perfect
you is animals
watch this collapse he went he went no oh no

would you read it to me again please
divide it by a migraine I am gonna get it right
light interrupted by a kid with an axe
it's got to be like the faint snarl
of a cock failing in the snow ha rough as
at the last calling

those spiders down the neck
she felt those damn crowds inside and out
as she whirled
her dresses falling from her
everything gone now all logic and time
face up in the ice and mud her eyes still open
but flooded suddenly with the exact opposite
of nausea
her hair is a barn full of new hay on fire
the rain does not reach the ground

what a time we live in


.

a little lemur hopping

through the glass prismatic the light the shudder
the skein off the table into the wall the smoke
the cable the arch of the jug jug
something and nothing

.

gas gas gas

a bad/bad thing what blew windows in

Facebook: this name felt an earthquake
Facebook: today I found myself while washing a tree
Facebook: this name says 'beautiful'
Facebook: like
Facebook: strongly dislike
Facebook: think is a piece of shite

(green animalcules.)look cloud spreads an isomantic ugh
you and i on the walk saw a bee.

a bee we said a bee

both of us not bees therefore

Swift looking at his dad's ass laughing
seeing ferture divination in doublin hedgegogs.

jimmy j in his eyetie shed tinkering at the Vox amplifier
the AC30 that will ignite later.that bike on the headland.
he loves a woman who is dead.fuck him then
he won't be comin in later.boys he won't be comin in

you/me also me watch the low fire go down
suddenly that slump and swoop in the gut
that announces the Gothic place

my/he/her/oh my/my big face at the window
glow/unglow (a fire man at his naked work)

religion keeps on and on sayin

...................half a heart on your plate
...................in its own jus

bridges/reefs/bushes the triumvirwhat dropdead
gouched out night on Moss Side shoulda seen them
at the Night Market copy-watch fillipino girl fish
garlic prawn Lala Red Lion--Heckler wall city you you x830yf
—those shops stacked with
a huge unmanned space-freighter full of oranges for the Others
we don like dem they say not at all got umthin else
like we wan swap for head all we care?

think of this tracking shot a slow gangster car circa 1930 in red not blue the slugs like fireflies reel out under the trees a man in an overcoat who loves a woman who is dead falling down steps under trees his neck breaks like oh that forthcoming whole is a homily men now use hair straighteners are you joking a crack that shivers the whole evening and on through the parkland the muzzles pulling back in the windows winding back up inside the rush the fervour the shiver the car down the road in the rain under the trees the skinned trees stretching like a human intestine so far so far out out as a filament of moonlight oh no not moonlight from the opened belly of a howling were-man now one of them so wild he jumps on the roof as the car like a marquee moon a stratocaster a fender twin so railing and reedy and reactive drives slow through the park hoots and hoots and then hoots out I am not your father straight into a lake the driver already dead the car steams there in two foot of water mallards fleeing the boy on the roof behind it all the trees down the avenue one after the other coming down tonight there's no coming back the doors have broken the moon has fallen with a big dead splash haha wtf into the shallows many waterbirds hasten to suck it in you got it Frank?

gaslit all up and down

.

the air above and below

it was me that shot those two old guys
walking home down Lawkholme Lane
last Saturday
in the rain
I want to confess
I sat there gawking at them
as they twitched and stopped
laughing my ass off
wet through

.

the anarchic apples of the future

I am almost sure that an invisible man
keeps entering my house
I hear him ascending the stairs
I almost see him standing there
saying nothing
just standing looking
again and again I turn, startled
by his presence
he looks and then walks back down
sometimes I follow him with my gun
so distressed I want to kill him
but he is always already gone
I hear the door closing before I get there
out on the street nothing in any direction
I blast it off anyway
just in case
I stand there shooting
and the sky goes into negative
my hat falls off
I fall back against the wall gasping
one day they'll come and get me for this
bullets bounce everywhere with that crack and zip
the neighbours are already alarmed
they look at me under their umbrellas
the cops will come and drag me out of this hole
in the garden
they won't believe a word about the invisible guy
I wonder if he will follow me
to that other place
sit there laughing
while the tide rolls in and out
while the fruit drops off the trees
for now I am going to laugh
all day till I am sick
there's never been a world like this
with fruit dropping all around
invisible men with heads of light
everything's got weird
I love it
my plane has just dropped out of the sky
at the exact moment you read this
it is making a huge hole in the sea
and everywhere wide-eyed fish have started up
hooting and flapping
I can hardly believe it myself


.

already dead before we hit

staring at the back of the guy's head
in front
as we ride up into the mountains
he keeps turning around pretending to cough
he is an old guy with a beard
and I am ignoring him
the bus is a slow diesel grumble up the hillside
to where the crystals are
I don't want to buy any
I am only here for the disaster
but here
we enter
paradise
or some messed up thing like that
going somewhere anyway
somewhere high
somewhere that sparkles like cold mornings
somewhere up there
goats jumping with wings and things
fairies throwing down rocks
up we struggle
back of his neck
stuff like that
he keeps coughing
gonna punch him in a minute
he keeps doing that shit

no need for that in paradise
just put the bucket back on your head

.

nothing

so she walks out of the bus station
just before the bus blows up
she sits behind some guy
with spots on his neck
she's going somewhere
for the next few seconds she thinks
about that neck
she sees through the gap
what a jerk she thinks
then she remembers to be kind
nothing, she thinks
then her legs come off

up there some god creams himself
a rain falls down
nothing else happens

leaves blow around

not a damn thing

shit

leaves and a weird light
.

.

Elvis turtle

when no one else can understand me
when everything I do is wrong
fuck
this is someone else's song
you yes I mean you
are a turtle flapping
as it falls

.

later, a raccoon

imagine this wild shit then

you and your brother in the trees, how you howl and squawk
then a tiger runs up and grabs you
all around the waist your svelte waist
got you good bro
shit that hurts
rips you up and eats your lungs haha
eats everything
except your ass
leaves it there in the woods

later a raccoon finds it

checks it out

nah, not having that he thinks and walks on

the tiger leaps from behind a tree
whoomph yeah it thinks
nice little raccoon
shluck it down

do these things live on the same continent?
don't be stupid

at this point a cow drops out of a plane
kind of kills the moment
one of the squashed fishermen in the forest
Christ knows why he was there
walking through the woods with a butterfish net
stuck now under a cow squealing most loudly
says oh I am squashed only my head works now
imagine that head of a Japanese fisherman wailing out
but this ain't Okinawa 1944
any more
are you sure?
a tiger still nearby
working forever
in the rain
fishing midnight fuck
no nets nowhere
just a pink rain falling like ice like death juice
like heavy shit that turns you into ripped-up fossil

imagine that eh?

.

jack black tar hitting again and again

if I had ever known my father I would like
to have embraced him
before sticking a gun in his mouth

I think anchovies can't jump, but I don't know for sure

whaT Fascists aRE THEse who have no interest in foreign food?

the third rabbit came out reluctant as a rotten tooth

I am not here he cried

imagine it down there full of anchovies and teeth

sussuration, one has to abandon hope and sussurate
this is religion in 2031
or anyway the Singularity or after
where the hares run wild

have you seen this at dusk those hares
they are fearful things
at which to marvel again
as they fall like stars over the sprinkling hills
did you ever see such a thing as this?

I, robotic and crippled a little, am now a gog

I have fallen off your wall

help me please my ears are so long

I wants to eat you

.

late-night hanging

look I got a ton of shit
I brought it in on a yacht
I am in a carpark by myself
at 2am
you want it or not?
one ton
of shit
you want it?
I am as scared as you
motherfucker
I also have a gun in my back pocket
but I am being honest
I am being nice
just give me the cash and I will drive away

or do we do this gangland bloodshed right here?

and that moon arcing as wild as
oh you don't get more engaged than this

here in the carpark I must write on my knees
of the wall of the Phocians

throw your arms in the air
declare that everything is useless

this is the business, this

now give me the money

.

mournful cries in the upper air

this love of the dead

I look down your top every chance I get
as though the memory
might sustain me as though I might store it
as I fly into the Western Lands

when you are very old I will come
with still this need to fondle your chest

the streets of Cairo run with breasts

huge breasts roll on like zeppelins crushing
houses and those backstreet rooms that serve evil tea

the revolution hits like a wild black dancer whirling her breasts

a whip cracks because the tip breaks the sound barrier

these revolutionary breasts break the sound barrier

they are the god-tongues of huge lizards licking out
crushing with a sort of oomph all indecision
blood and alchemy leak from them

brass birds swoop shrieking loosing their breast feathers
like quarrels

you know what I mean?

everything dead all around

rising again their wings jerking like epilectics oh gods

naht meen?
.

TV light

hugged little faces
in blue adventure
—wild TV light
.

this theory of pottery

I forget myself and devolve into diary poetry. That's sort of okay. It's a function anyway. Means you are sort of alive. But poetry might be about more than issuing life signs. Given the Shamanistic origins, it seems that the most honest and physical use of poetry is in the excavation of the inhuman. I had forgotten that. There ain't nuthin wrong with using it as a diary, I guess, but that's a long way from using it as a distinct art. How do you do this... Well, first off you abandon ship from all ideas of culture and fashion and you just shake that shit outta your hair. Then you damage yourself repeatedly with narcotics and explosives and wild alien sex, however shameful. Then you come back and stand around the crash site with an umbrella, mulling with an over-serious manner the way that insects and fungus have there accreted even in so short a time. And then... then... you turn on Motorhead and you freak in the woods like a fool. No greater honesty will shine upon any human.

this is the real diary.confess nothing and everything simultaneously.you cannot do better ever at this than to engage in every possible way with the Present Time séance.blood fills these gutters.all down the hoot-walls it.imagine the ache of us.reach in and grab these little black shapes.nothing.imagine.the whole ceiling falls in.you under the stuff listening for spades above.a rod in your abdomen signals your rescue.the rods in the great hole.the burdened and battered free.dome in the smoke.like everything:give give give.honesty is the best polizei.blood.where you now down there lost spirit? hear my hook falling...

all my pottery clapses

my new thing

Rabelais walks around in my toytown just coz of he woke up he pisses down the little rivers drowns everything all my toys gone down steaming nothing

I bought water-based lubricant, as advised.i find it abrasive and giving me spots all down my hairline.i feel like a teenager.i am on the beach at the reservoir at dawn tracing the thing that just disappeared.my fingertips in the thick freshwater sand.smoke on the hilltops.that woman in the shop with the dog friends.

a thing of straw and water and light washed up.down there is all copper-thick black i have dived there have diveed there.you have known all this all your life.the theory of poetry is reminding not informing.

again all the round bales flooded up the Aire Valley.every year this now.they've got to stop paying out.the hilltop tower of lead mines.nothing.nowt.red wine is full of news of Egypt.love.stop

everyone else thinks something different.good

.

.

amp-u-like

today I don't feel you out there like you are a book that fell from the hand of a sleeper you and the story lights out—Brer Rabbit

look I said at this hole before us
see how it steams and writhes
oh that hole she said
and fell right in
who wouldn't leave her there to boil away
a little moved by the fleshless grin
she adopted at the last
but busy with forthcoming memories of the séance?

near Chamonix in dreams we traverse
soft the murder glass delineal amphorae age on ape upon neckless fritter

I always like to drink weird drinks on holidays like that, like things I've vaguely heard of but never tried.the sea in Kenya was above blood temperature in the shallows.was uncomfortable until you went further out.don't get eaten by a shark. Jacques Cousteau recommends in the event of shark encounter that you swim towards it shouting and punch it right on the fuckingsnout.this larns em every time.

these strangled stories cut at the neck—
between the release of press... and the imp... don't say everything don't

fairies are accreting/forming/ing form/of/like calcite of statues/faceblock face
in the sunlight the underground light
bad day at blue rook.bayonet.lay out the drogue/father.a bientot
I am not comfortable with this will you please leave

my god she says you have hair and here I am also with hair
this advanced degree of synchronicity must be a past life thing
black/white/black/white dunk no colours on a keyboard

the mass of one fairy haha

our liquid lost footfalls all down the murder glass kisses are not lost things they return at night to settle about the lips like bats jostling and squeaking before sleep in the cave of your titanic head oh god haha haha

I am not uncomfortable with this
will you please grow like grapes?

.

battery of Brel

ee are a maran key shon
lay may ugh
flet sey ogre un parti
ey wey

.

Slimmer Rick's Bar Americain

O wailing gorilla who danced
while at his fat mama he glanced
crikey hey look at me
he criked from his tree
I'm almost quite every advanced

.

this earthly tic

this ran orange alert
by the castle
but really that guy was dead
three hours ago

they stood around watching
a car in a lake

Jacques Brel sounding off insanely

in some astral dance hall

nothing now but standing
and going home

just to be sure
one fat monkey puts a gun to his head
and laughs
jumps on the roof
waves his ass

you want to talk philosophy with me
you'll need a dirty towel

.

cool nun

I am a monk in a tree
with a gun in my ass

a cool nun holds the trigger

this is nothing but my latest attempt
to enter Space as an amateur

I am Wan Hu and I do this with devotion

of course I fucked her first
plied her with extracts
plied her
and inveigled her into the position

but now get real
my time has come

I love everything
everything is nothing
love is a slight panda that starves
slow and mild and bite unconvinced
I am not unconvinced
I am Wan Hu
my heart is in the stars

sister it is time

our love is of the stars

feed my shattered hide to the pigs
of the monastery of Wan len Fu
his pigs are devoted and will eat with care
midnight flutes will play
along the eastern wall

see my detachments
cool nun
fuck

.

more and no more and more

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cinquain

eyes out
on two long stalks
the lecherous old pig
frequents the local student bar
for gawks

.

a ghazal for wide red elision/elysium

lugeto veneres cupidinesque—Catullus
as in a tabula raga/rasa that off with
the fairies drifted through much fog—No One
Molon Labe—Terse Laconics in Hypotaxis

a curious liberation in this announcement
of the Platonic footing all the night
I felt in her that fairies had taken me
I strapped my new feet and thought of fire
eating up the houses all around
their faces pressed against windows
but in this I am not predatory
and would abandon a chase if a slow gazelle
turned with haha heaving breast to demand there be a rest
but still, still
the fire creeps down the houses
and who could believe
in that little box
that no one of us had thought in the fire's steep
and thought still in our sleep
of how it might be
if the gazelle the ghazal had been quickened
in all of its rhymes in its hindquarter chimes
till the breath that flew there
the claws that there grew

fastened all through her hair
in the rain-steeps I am learning
to be mellif as all Eve
always to believe
in the last-lying heave

.

a virtual lekking so proud and denatured were we then

there once was a tyger
whose heart was quite black
fear yet me he cried
whose heart was quite black

a peacock happened there
in that tyger'd tight world
he hop't and he blew
and his tail unfurled

in a scrape and a hollow
such lekking he did
and there in that wallow
he boasted and hid

and slid him a fever
in a packet so tight
that e'en a tyger
could nestle that night

as a cigarette nurstles
in the lips and cavorts
in the lap of all vessels
that sway at his thwarts

[and in the morning the voice
that spake that there was the third
and that there were only three
and of this it was the third
and that no more would there be
but three and this then was the third]

of the tyger was nothing
returned or yet seen
but the slow acre danced
in stripes dun and green

the peacock arose
he flut then his tayle
whereupon he dids't lift
in quite a great gale

[and thereupon he spake again
that this was all of the three
thrice he had spoken from five
to three of which it was the third
and this proclaimed the three]

and now I must flit
where the hearken is through
I wish you were here
where that tyger-root grew
.

the straight and left wing clapping

men die quicker because they are heartbroken
at the age of four
introduced to the violent resolution of conflict
taught that no one is to be trusted
women on the other beat
still believe deep in themselves
that war is a game
that will never fully tear their bodies apart
they can laugh and dance
while the boys do it
to the rock and roll rock and roll radio
not all of this not all of it but enough
still we die four years younger
and it closes as we learn
that war is not all our inheritance
but only a spoken thing that sinks through
the footfalls on the stair outside our yellow-lit rooms
drums into our little hearts
steals us away to the dry place
beyond the warm wet place
and all our songs and speaking
in such loud whispers hereafter
have I already given this to my boys
this infection that will make them stand
beating their little heads
against the long wall of their lives?

.

mass spectrometer

Oradour
like a bubble
they don't lick your fucking toes
these guys
(Plains Indians/Tibet
Das Reich)
every letter a word

tell you what

.

reflux

each human a saccade in which we sincarnate
a stroboscope of serial-slow suspension
a line of leading lights out from the lee
a staccato spasm of apprehension
its mist and moan of siren and the lowest
astronomical tide that divides you from me

.

Maria's childlike delight in chocolate

all night he looks
he can't help himself
for somehow the fact that her nose moves
like a little animal
when she smiles
has eclipsed all the far-off lights
down the eastern road
to the seashore

.

cinquain

a tongue
and a glottis
a cutoff with a flop
all you need for the mythic glot-
tal stop

.

cinquain

with clothes
flapping wildly
the killer on the roof
looks along the railtrack mildly
aloof

.

virus

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

.

Pulpo

the same city on the same day—Carl Sagan

after coitus a tentacled lovecraft that wriggles pink
wild panicked in the retreat it is sea purple that cannot speak
he disengages inked blue from his girlfriend
carries her to the red bathroom and turns her inside out
hangs her on the violet girlfriend armature to drain where

he watches the dirty stuff all disassembled start to live
start to cluster and squeal with multiple heads
vast echoes down the basin the waste the hollow halls
that fill with smoke and

in these spaces Pulpo comes to himself
in the wash in the froth
laughing to the elbows
he washes her out with warm water whereupon

careful to avoid oily soaps that could damage
her delicate tissue
he looks at her there in the basin rolled
inside out oh oh Pulpo what of you
now that your batgirl is

]inside out like Ed Gein like blue soldiers at Shuffling Lances
to hang those interiors high and right and not to slide[

down the lift shafts Pulpo heads in hand bellow
the dropping lift frets mostly
for how not the pus octo on the crash the most

famous successful male sex toy in the world
but what good is that wriggled itself to death
there in the blood
Y chromosome basin

somewhere overt the rainboat?

(they say eight legs walking over your eyes will cure it)

Pulpo, it ain't just about the slamming impact on the wharf
even now it is more than that, Pulpo

)you know Love best when you find it afterwards
just about twitching in starlight floating away(

LOL:WTF:LOL

.

fat Mahdi with concubines in retreat

More Head spoke of a general Gordon who unspeared by running
the time back from Mahdis
to where they ran as ichor and afreets into the sand

the spear was a cold thing that schlupped out of his chest
into the arms of an unravelling young man dark and sweating
who rewound down the steps from the embassy
out into the desert where the words flew from his ears
into the mouth of the Mahdi black and whirling
who in another time would grow fat and apostate
but in this would fade in equal proportion
to the words that flew back in
with such diminishing and disempowering
that he shrank back even then into the far Afrique Interior
where he slowly ceased and shifted, silted and shut up
like a motorcycle a mammoth a monolith half buried in dunes
a skeleton laid across it
all its tools buried in the wind below

ribcage-deep lightfalls in the blow bells of hell


.

the lights wink out

on the mountainside a dead channel suddenly opens
on the cracked radio
a thin human voice calls out

come back you say
through your broken legs
but it is gone and will not speak again

it is in moments of dread that we feel our gods

Vox AC30

Marshall Stack

Fender Twin

Orange

what could you want
you jellyfish of purple cold?

.

Jazz and the flying trapeze

Diana Krall suddenly became the synchronous other-end-arc
of a feedback loop when someone sent me a link from Italy
that could be closure and finality
the beginning of this is obscure and ragged
it is difficult to use it as information

her chords and melodies hammer and collide
throughout this.don't think they are not there.they are as birds
dropping in flight.clouds of ash flooding the troposphere.flowers with bent heads

but two references to the unknown in a few days
means everything and nothing

I think of my uncle in a Lancaster bomber in 1943
young as black rainfall

think of Modernism and high boots sheening out

think of Sinatra and McCoy Tyner

the thrash of those marches

lost children in parks of dream
the attempt to hold them, to stop time

I am clutching in the night for omens
drowning face down in a reflected moon
reaching for poems that are too far away, too deep, too soon

.

snowy fugues in 6/8 time

this inequality of purpose
creates a gyring motion out of which he spins
find himself out of shape, pressed flat, immobile

it is as though a car drives too fast
along a narrow country lane
and you are forced to squeeze yourself
against the hedge
it is as though you came into contact
with a form of energy of a different order
than your own

look into the eyes of someone
who has no interest

know again that your currency
has only marginal value here

that anything can not happen in this denatured tissue

something blew by
looked briefly in at the night window
then moved on full of its reflections

the people in the house stood at the window
for some time afterwards wondering

everything is still and dark and empty outside

whatever it was out there grows more distant
at every moment
in swoops across the fields
where the recent snow melts quickly
and is soon forgotten

.

hard labour
giving birth
to a whole hedgehog

middle-aged woman
pedalling
a little badger

a lighter burning
my arm
the day dies there

John runs over
a big lizard today
then it pops back up

a tortoise walked by
as we picked tomatoes
nothing then

in heaven before your head hits the wall

you have a gun to the head
of the Son of God
it is ten seconds before 0 AD and you are there
you are a laughing waterfall in this scene
that tumbles over rocks
dark-eyed and intense

but still inside
with that calm
of the high mountains
sunbeams swirl about you

everything is wild and full of omens
everything in this moment says yes

now, love-child, blow his brains
into wine-dark mist

.

we are all in the gutter but some of us are looking at the cars

cigarettes pile up
like little corpses
the night smokes

sniper rifle

man on a cross
in the shimmer of distance
sniper rifle

a watch and a strap
my wrist
all scars and time

car in a ditch
rabbits
look through dark grass

three miles away
this murder happened
you can see that far

the pine tree lowers
its limbs
snowy children

.

a hedgehog unrolls
the car the lane the light
run backwards baby

teeth and your big eyes
the slow day
of the Dead

.

the carphouse of love of trees of bitching grassy teeth

we are all fucked up
but some of us are fucking back—Madeleine Shine

the parakeet killer in the treehouse
replete with love stirs himself
to finish the job a little tighter a little more
and this bitch will stop forever
out there the night the day the fields unfold

this love that bubbles up from the saproots below
well it sings and howls

we are having a family party fishing
around a tank adorned with blue and pink ribbons
when we catch one we slide it back in
watch it hang there big and stupid as a dead angel
sinking slow in the trauma and fog

I have forgotten myself again
I am far above the ground
in the treehouse where I first carved your love-teeth

.

Tarot electric disease

we are all in the gutter
but some of us are looking at two years—Stephen Fry

oh my memory has changed around this
it comes back as electric shocks and psychism

I am no longer unkind and can now feel love

up and down the horses dance in starlight
& etc cliché

memory and change together say stuff of reflexive therapy
and disaster

all that night that stood between us

this myth of the stolid farmer who stands by a hedge
looking

and then ashtrays overflowing
music that spills from the radio and crawls all over the floor
like a person whose madness suddenly encroached

uh uh

freak the night the night that keeps leaking
you and I eye to eye

oh I say oh

I can't help attacking you

like that we squirm together attacked and in love with weather

my hand on your breast casual as rabbits but with an edge

all dead now look through new telescopes

my voice has dropped an octave tonight
old man river river
into the flood I will fall

the killer at dawn shaking his shift
worries about crumbs and stains
the boy in the cloud writes of his father's huge shoes

begone stink of outer places

.

A New Year's display of delightful light by my cousin Pamela Parker. Click to make it bigger!

the parade of lagomorphs

and when he answered "your duty to your husband and children",
she demurred—Germaine Greer

fifty even forty years ago these women
are more or less dead [betrothal-scarring-wed of facial coverings//]
at this age sexless damp dishrags
of resentment in bags worn thin and blue as veins in Saxon-skin
by husbandry and the pounding of sheets
in some interior scullery just about kicking in dead sleet
petals and sand and sawdust and hacking spit
now look at them texting up as all outer pimped as reality TV
as though their duty to waste and shrink was somewhere cancelled
redacted between cream and the clash
gesture/furnace/glower at them expectant and sexual every one rodded up
with a pink battery roscoe of Thatcher-Solanas tripstick
somehow some right to fuck forever night etc

when did all these women/whore-hen/harrier of forest law/bust a flutter
from the blood-gutter so loose into all expectation?
[alle the nighte we heard that lytel demon mutter
and we there watched him from the pantry licke at the newe butter]

.

Some mad kids who are rather closely related to me...

harmonic precession (notes)

• new grass through late snow
• an error of 1/1000 of a second in the GPS time differential between satellite and receiver will result in a position displacement of up to 160 miles

the insect attack rate is the frequency at which you feel the departure of your fetch in the mornings out through the cracked green glass across the fields sweeps of rain grey like dead skin in a ditch long as Lustig beating with a hammer a devil in a bag it all circles in scatters of film penetrating the membrane the blows from without hair like corn trodden full of ergot a body found there in the tyre ruts flat and black and dispirited

[your currency is no longer legal tender here it is not intrinsically devalued just not desired, which is the same thing when the hammers ring and the corncrakes sing] when the mummer time is coming & the streets are softly keening all around the booming weather will we grow

glassy-O

her absence of inhibition does not indicate sexual intimacy only the loss of all acknowledgement of you as a mature male you are now in some overlapping Venn category with small children and animals and houseplants so why should she notice if she is semi-naked before you?

this requires an adjustment that only a few only a few people find impossible

Hwæt! if there is no life left in this brass god if another front gathers from the west if the cold wet air mass has overtaken and occluded the preceding relative warmth forcing it upwards into lumps and spikes depicted in iso-violet convention

between the hit or miss governor and the cones are three aluminium valves each resembling a round Greek shield in miniature each functioning as the mouth of a tiny god from which issue steam and several more or less toxic gases

hollow hollow all the beaten bag sounds from that dry devilskin

hot coals forced down the throat of the wolf in that mechanised myth

hollow hollow

imagine her there imagine the shift the sensation of it legs apart knees raised as for congress or delivery beneath the covers slide into focus the eclipse the usurpation the sudden brightness of a new comet all the pieces of you rain invisible as ash falling at night into wet fields your bag full of silver puffs out red spores

and if this is that as their white bellies flop in the shallows

then down & around & below & O all the bells of the barrelling Dead

.

love as practiced in the south

this night she had calm all over her
that quiet inhuman settlement
that they have before they jump

but she was approximate

I reached out for her there
she took my hand and came back

we ate a boiled cat together in the kitchen
then laughed till sunrise

now at noon she reads my tea-leavings

postcards fly in and out
and we mind them not

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

oh 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

read a Stephen King novel

until she fell asleep next to him

in the night she cuddled him

in his dark uncomplicated wetness

.

poked with a stick

four and a half centuries
since last a poking with a stick
all the windows broken back then

paint covers the car
the police flee the scene

their faces frozen in horror
all over the papers
no one talks of anything else

everyone slowly grasps
the vulnerable human that lowers its window
waving like it is somehow still safe
morning coming up through the smoke

scenes of feral children eating rancid offal
in the tricoteuse trees

no one feels anything at all until later

oh everyone's god, this moment

.

or be damned

if we don't kill Julian Assange
any one of us could be fucked in the ass
at any time
during our sleep
even the most innocent rapist or child molester
or otherwise affrighted hare dancing in stolen skin
on the wide sunset
could find himself exposed needlessly
while washing his car one sunday am
looking thoughtfully into the hose rainbows
still full of TV and wine
suddenly a neighbour walking past looks askance
like the world was all changed and gone wrong

all of us fearful now
or perhaps

.

give it up

it is hard to know
the qualitative difference
outside of psychology
of penetration
or penetration
but in the twilight
one feels more like saying
yes I've been travelling over mountains
baby trying to get to you
slide slide
night and day running all the way
lay back open up
this is not any extra
exhortation only the wild dogs in the river
wanting interior commands
wanting to know
what gives

.

nearly walked in halioclines

as though descending into a heat sink
or synch of coldness reached by the going of stairs
the falling not the rising or the strings or nosings
or any others
he spent minutes in her wardrobe amongst her hangings
while she searched herself
it had a fascination like voyeurism or psychosis
like the fix of watching one's reflection in a toilet
all the while the music
this was moments before he inserted the neck of a wine bottle
into her and upended it
then used her as a drinking vessel
knowing her fierce and vivid spirit
would appreciate this intrusive act
of friendship and trust

of the thing in the wardrobe
was nothing much remembered then

the car half on the pavement revving until the engine
nearly blowing his hands in her hair then

this she said this I want to do in the long steam
but only he said yes like everything stretched and beat
in the steam of twilight bells as the day sinks it all

.

if I could be someone else

only last night in the little house
surrounded by ice
the radio began
and it ran and ran
with a story of a man
whose mother died when he was so young
that later his heart exploded while he was driving
on the way to an interview
where he could have become an adult

he never made it there
just everything blew up
across the road
at 9am all his heart coming down like rain
settling out like sad music
high trees on either side
like tall people watching
all of them grieving and concerned
their grief reaching like long dark hands

such was the moment and the shutters blowing
in a sudden wind that came in from the East
his car stopped waiting
wondering what might happen now
all of him just spread there like a soldier
who never got that far
just an exploded star
that came from afar

such are the messages from life and the sky
for one small human
that drove too high
I have made dreadful mistakes
and my heart fearful aches
to watch the outtakes
who doesn't wish

there was a god down the road
watching
while he made human cakes
for all our sakes?

and the music comes in
and it is striding and mournful
like a little angry god
with a hole in his head
where the seasons went
and where at times he would gather himself
and wish as hard as he could
that things had been made better

we are incrementally composed
of all the people and things
we have ever loved and hated
this is soft Politics
and every time is morning
washing up on the long beach
like a lover's hair in your dead hands
and her not yet ready
to ease them out
just lying like that
listening to the waves
neither of you moving
one that can't now
one that wants to lie forever
not moving in case something changes
this is how it will be
when your heart finally hits your head
whoever you are I want you there
to do that like one big word

gasping in the quiet morning all over me
loving this sandy death
that came in at last from the radio

the only question ever
is how to love (d*))000£


.

add lizard

this wind could you believe it
your face like a tree
looking out
the linden trees all astir
another moment I can't believe
and the drains all aghast

the fairies of language have settled here
(oh ah)

we are knocking about together

seeing how it feels

bellyup chumbawamba dancecrack

so much

was ill was not
sonnet
was pill was snot
scotch bonnet

slide see slide
see saw
see rupture see tear

#

.
though snot

(Val Lewton & the locked petticoat hurt) a submarine film review

the entire crew thrown askance by the presence of a female
things they wouldn't do they wear stalking "cologne"
reeks along the companionway bringing down cartoon deer

"cologne" of couscous algorithm for spermatic submarine
penetration she flutters trapped at the centre of this myth
&&& the difference in vapids between the shift the shroud

&&& the hurt everything depends on some intervention
of extraneous men who all of a sudden act strange run up challenges
hey where you from New York??? the man with a gun in his face

fuck you all you pigs

refuses to back off he says silent no I am of the desert places I
and my father I am panicked I will not scream or die the man
at the centre
of this myth dies like the woman in the former though his dying

must be what kumquat oh erectile &
oh pyro spirotechnic (for it is wished that it be known
these earlier (underline) toys themselves)))

[in earlier (underline) myth the dying is concomitant and always a secret
launched into a red future to encrypt in reverse the enigma
tic pulse—Dormier Duval: Dark Always Is The Way]

.

white houses
of shadow frost
—one bird hops

.

Do people come back from Hell?

If you were in Hell and the Pope decided that the particular offence you had been damned for was no longer that bad in your particular case, would that mean you had to be released and allowed into Heaven? And would you be entitled to some compensation? Perhaps even therapy for the probable post-traumatic stress? I mean who goes through x years of unbearable torture without some psychological fallout? If you weren't rehabilitated in some way you could be a liability always starting fights with the cool floaty people in Heaven,, which they might not find very heavenly, and which could lead to complaints and 'problems' in the place without problems.

But maybe if your sins are still pending a final decision as to their scale of mortality etc, you don't go to Hell but rather to some sort of holding complex until the decision is made. This might be 100 or 1000 years in the future, but of course God will know that it's going to happen and won't let you be subjected to any torture for something which He will eventually turn out to have approved of when his various popes realise it. This holding complex will therefore necessarily be a nice place that isn't too different from Heaven.

While we're at it there's something else I'd like to know. If the crucifixion of Christ brought about a new covenant between humanity and God, whereby humans could now be redeemed of their sins and granted safe passage to Heaven upon repentance and acceptance of Christ, then wasn't it sort of the responsibility of God to advertise this to all humans at the point when it became available? I mean why did he only let a few people know about it? I know they told other people and gradually over 2000 years a lot of people found out, but a lot of people died in that time without knowing and must have gone to Hell. Actually, some people still don't know up in the highlands of Papua New Guinea or deep in the rainforest in South America. So are some people still going to Hell every day because they haven't been told they don't need to any more?

I don't mean to be awkward or anything, but this doesn't seem quite fair to me. Are there any theologians out there who can explain these things to me?

And, if God is omnipotent, can He prove He doesn't exist?

.

The Duodeniad

La Rage—sing, goddess, of the Rabies of Achilles

the Pope now has an HIV-infected Gay lover
—this has led to a considerable softening of his position
regarding the use of condoms

words that won't wash out: tubetrain/rucsack/Krak des Chevaliers

the Chinese eat cats like crackers
but that's nothing to the French
who drown young beaked boys in Armagnac
they bury in woodland in Spring let it all mulch down to thick soup
they swear by the fortifying properties

his vegetal body his machine massif
his midriff his central nervous plexus a clock
a barometer to be tapped and adjusted
it tracks responsively the snaking isobars set it in train
like a Victorian clockwork golem
trained to follow a bannister commit strangulation upon
a sleeper on the highest floor he intends instead
the meridians of psychic commerce every time that she
walks in the room rage sing of rage golem sing of
Aung San Suu Kyi at one end of a telescope
a little uniformed general with his mouth grinding the other
like a cat with nothing else

rage sing of rage he says all silly with a new bike and hat

North Utsire/South Utsire: a sea giant moderate to good
occasionally poor at first

who could love your face so full of interior disfigurement?

the Vatican explains that on a case by casis it has never opposed
the use of condoms if you have been kidnapped by Islamist baboons
force you to commit acts of disgusting coitus on a monkey
but regret that you will still attend the 7th Hell on the grounds
that to be able to commit said act you must have had something
going on

we took me and some friends took control of the world sometime yesterday
in ways too subtle to yet be understood

I have decided not to give up wanking
there is a pleasant place just outside Hell where you wait
until the Pope catches up
it's all just a formality now
papers and ID please how often did you do it
were you married no well in here please
try to cool it in the waiting room there will be opportunity later

the Vatican explains that it has never been opposed to the use of
trained monkeys for sex

The Papa has issued clarification-condoms

Hunkpapa winewall at the margo
in eery breathbasks

.
.

urgent cupboards unfold

let the hurt run deep

your hands poised there look at them
the big gun fretting at its work

there in the market mid-afternoon
buying wool for the evening
guffawing away into smoke

I looked down at my finger snapped off
the train coming in
the misty postcard light
rain of blood
is this perfect?

here I will diode
and shrink
like bee wolfs
thick and sharp
full of green

in the thick fear I think of breasts
I think I see them
coming at me
why the sad comfort of dripping eaves
as little cold mouths looking out?

this wine goes everywhere
nothing is elated

is there any difference
facing a bullet
standing on tiptoes
looking down at that fall
I am scared by your sex

love is a pattern recognition
I suppose
here in the wild hills we ride red goats
sleep in wet disaster
wake to explosions

you want to be us
you hate us for it

.

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

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
in vapid trails of fortnum ectoplastic whereupon
He wouldst rush to gripe upon their birdbones in transports
of shuddering & lissome delight

.....................................for such Christian middens
.....................................whose vapours always uppermost

& inveigled & even & unto the lateness of the Ireland
such fettled behoof is as those sauvages
squint inholy trees of trinity affront the passages of
.....................High English Women
....................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 parlay 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 inchaunting
of the galapageese as would give him cause to flutter
and take heart—in the guise of a vast bird

..................he would stoop into Fitzroy's cabin there
..................to demand more pumpkins
be allocated to some dying damned lizards
on the foredeck
(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 äffect that such
lézardice has now no place in the lives of elder men
whose wives yet abide
in their flossing bosoms of yeastertide

this in its askance
is his moral claps


(Published in Burning Gorgeous anthology 2010)

.

blouse a little stretched and face askance I estimate her shapes of disaster

this new assembly of inexplicable light
this alchemy of far things

churchheads in spate the animal forces
of electric the song as lungs of foam

look for it on the sides and flanks
look for it where the season sleeks

here are fairies again
every winter now
their tracks lead away
from the garden

around the bend in the hill

to the old house at the far place
where the dogs no longer bark at night

fairies in our hair
they struggle a little
before sliding in soft
just the long blown-out lanes
Russian horses in songs of wind
a whole new sky of Corsair ships

black approaches

.

Thinking about Nick Clegg...

"I have a set of ethics. If you don't like them I have another set."
—Groucho Marx.

Em and then open EADGBE tuning

it's firework night at the bloodhop

them kaisers need the bodies to earth their magic
—Madeleine Shine

(don't get me wrong I would eat a domestic cat
if that was the done thing in that place
I don't needlessly disdain convention)

but this magnetism this transmission
the body tissue radio that mudslides that spasms
hansels and gretels spilt all over chinatown
jerking there in the sweet dirt

down at the boondocks the mark twain the mark once
in shivers of skittish facehawking a lowly cat gawks
—Galileo of course had this covered suggested an experiment
whereby two men with lanterns on distant hilltops
sending signals of light would be a sure way to ascertain
the average size of a male Catholic dissent

man I find this Injun cream make your balls melt off
like stardust in thick rain with cats cryin low distance
an everythin blowin all round respect see respect
it is like some beautiful death like the marines he was talking
semper distemper—like this last time I see him
only in his filth and hat

a one such a one was he when first beheld

now look black owl now fuckin look at me

—ah now soft they survey with temperate currents & it is more of

a shift than is first apparent as though the fingers that disengaged
the cervical suncogs the lesser cogs these engineered fractals of steam
were exholding the fetch the whole field itself barking as they

wonders within from the exo-inner
you can't do anything reasonable
in fog like this—no one can, not now

we are thinner come the breaking it is a mechanical
detachment we practice here in the Origo Colony

(who is boondock?)
this and no more
we are inured at least to animal ruptures

they looked out on a gaseous future landscape
run by wild dogs,he said, all shifty like he was then

I couldn't believe their eyes

.

keyboards like teeth

the killer at the station
clutching the memory of his moth
mother the killer at the playstation
clutching the mammary of his
disease doubletap frenetic as all
get out of here he was here I at least
saw him writhe with such intent I saw him
walks up to a car window sticks the gun
there and smiles at this moment
don't you want to be this free
to abandon all of the future
what a slave the future makes of all of us
how much better to jump ship
to abandon oneself to the army of ants

listen
the crawling comes in
on the stair I hear it
slow creep and hoot

it is only 1876 in this time zone
far too early even to get up yet

everywhere you look in this hot house
dead people
sit up

downstairs their mother
bakes away her breasts

such love as this
arrives by parachute
through thick cloud

even I crawled in to feel
for a moment the heat

you, octopus, you

.

Oh do me Jacques Brel all night

ooze

the advance the slip the pitch
who can remember these words when needed?
or their human configurations it was a black place
it is late already there is a ladder against the wall
a backyard some cigarette butts a dog or two
no light enters here between the forehead
and the prehistoric I almost cannot speak of it
but am guided by owls
a tilt a summoning into the familiar
my name it speaks my name and how
can I do other but step down from all this
into all that the advance the slip the pitch
it came then the understanding
that this was a summons into a place
in which there was only drowning
blah fucking blah at night they shoot the owls
around here
I miss a train the cab driver has to stop to laugh
when I tell him where I have been
oh no he says oh no you are joking
but I am not joking I have been there
and like a paycock I am shot down later
with words and slow fire flapping
as in their caves they sit drooling
black blood
hating
knowing little else now
sure of themselves and their big bodies
that didn't open
not for a second

.

lyric blowouts

it's late and the trees

it's late and the trees are in hoot

it's late and the trees hot gather

sole cahoot

it's late

the man with the frog in his mouth halfway up the stair
the man the frog stairs something in the cloud frogged me out
the keyboard is a slow politics what tyranny
I am in awe of you your codes that fire up slow
as heath burns hot and wet for weeks after

like weasels something in my mouth I can't
speak it is late and the trees at the window what

was that you where is my mind one pixie more or less
you do this or you die

oomph it comes in
circle of waiting this is not a communicative grammar
that must be left for the catch no one will now
(they might have done then)

it's late and the trees are boiling
I can't keep my head on

have none of it
all of us aslice
flaming slowly this blowing out
(yeah night imagine)
our own black and horrible birthdays

all of you are dead
whipping like kites

.

.

An encounter at a waterfall in 1943 or maybe a year later

not to be abusive exactly
nor to be kind exactly
but to cut him down

they are not unkind

everything you need to know about this other human
can be understood from this congress of cavities
there is not much movement in it
by any geological considerations
but if you swim into it

oh put it here quick do it, she/he says in a voice
that opens him wide

he accepts it
as some crude distinction
at once limiting
and trivial -- O

think of this congress of the soft parts like excavated shellfish

warmed a little
sliding together in the twilight
a hum gathers over all of it
bells ring across the city at dawn
some emergency surely
they look for babies in the rubble
fog slides

their mouths move together
like shellfish now without shells
blind things mouthing without mouths

broken shell of a creature underfoot*

this is no longer confusing
he accepts it and goes far away
all the fight gone out of him
his mouth and his heart always ready
to say the same thing
if only it would be asked of him




* nothing

angels everywhere angels

You are lying; the fish have spoken—Paul Gauguin

in this myth you are the spray
from his mouth
the keyboard lies there empty
there are gods apparently there are gods
but they do not approach

He is almost fastened so avid is he
to her mouth
she will have soreness
a rough reddening
if he got it right she won't care
other considerations will override this one

at this point everything explodes
there are cars full of innocent strangers
but all of them die horribly

we don't care, we keep driving

somewhere down there is a place
where they sell alcohol and drugs until dawn

in the East a cow's head

oh now you are my baby and will be so
until the morning tremor

I was mistaken

speak to me in Spanish or shut up

Vamos a tomar una copa?

///

.

mortar shells in deep softness

so full am I so rain and low pressure
so cyclonic with the urge to love you
in mountains and across wet pools
(now tell me they contain redundancy
if you are so foolish)
anyway so full so wide I am all
of recent towertops and Gothics
my arch really is your arch
pointed are we together at the span
of night I have got it now
all across the bay I am in love
like any other starfish any squid
that muscles up close and sings
one last song

baby please listen
to the last song of the silent squid

.

if like this like this

hands in your hair

your hair your hair of olive wind
if a language flowing outward

if filaments of memory if even the trees
if everything here warm slow
wild and slow-wild if how you come to life

in my hands your hair flows out
if all morning so flowing out descending bright birds
inside us calling long ago this moment keens

your contours your hachures your rising and falling
your planes your whirling your little Sufi gasp

if like this, like this

heartbeat and breath and hollow ground
and midnight morning and all day and dusk that arcs between
blue spirit flames, radio crackles

and if along our hillsides
like this, like this, we start to collapse

in the fading red shadow of this our body

then this, this is the spray of night

[duende, red-black, in murmurs]

.

poem poem a straight poem

you will never understand this
because the sky does not lower
for examination
this magic rabbit more or less flies
over the road singing as he goes
no one knows now who threw him
oh yes guffaw I have written these notes
and no longer understand them
I am incomprehensible to myself
you have no chance
that rabbit look oh let us negotiate
I have drowned in myself
the same rabbit idiot on the hillside
the murderer enters in fancy dress
his ears aloft antennae switching
murder involves this acuity
you want to do it right

the best poet in the world doesn't write
she lives in a cave just below the surface
caressing her own breasts, weirdly

do you know that Atahualpa wore a shirt
made of hummingbird feathers? I'd like to think
it was a shirt of hummingbirds, and each of them
there by consent
what a humming
and a disturbance of the air
around that breast
just before Pizarro arrives and
starts to tread on them one by one.

Word sales run in inverse proportion to literary greatness
a shake over the river
seriously a wild moment of cloud and tremor
from the water a head rising
some vast island head of dragged green
all over it this same wet fury

this is not for you
it is all secret
even its words and footsteps
in all this silver shining night

.

Zoroastrian prayer

these lies these lies these lies
what are you thinking
you are a haze of flies in a field
somewhere I don't know where
maybe far away in some country
where lies are the thing the very thing
where games like this
are exactly the right stuff
explooosions take place in the night
we walk outside and marvel
at such egregious lies
look we cry open-mouthed
look oh God look at such bursting lies
if only we might emulate them
might travel to such fictions
find ourselves there amongst the stars
such superheroes such elevations
would we be there such constellate tridents
meanwhile you are a motherfucker
what got no wings

.

wild chunks of nightly love

tundra, nothing escaping this dream and gas

head whole head
you want more
I have only holding

so full of love am I

ript from the shades your headlove

infernal ah but greatest one

audience think not that something was absent

all of you in my hand collapsed

I can't help these flattened fifths

where are you now

you, your

the drear barn

oh nothing, I meant nothing

your head exploding

suicide love bomber cheese what?

brain everywhere now

such love I feel

your ass through the window

now this

this

is sex

.

Stephen Fry on Catholicism.

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xbvr0m_shortfilms

I want it to be earlier and then later

strange miracles of the world:

some interior Africa of the senses transported
it is 1870 within
the man with the toad in his mouth
sitting next to the woman
made of bricks
is unsure at this moment
whether it is more decorous
to drink on all fours
at the nearby waterhole
or to sip daintily from his own armpit
such are the complications of tradition
and sex politics
he conveys his uncertainty to the green giant
who answers only in prime numbers
upon whose advice he coughs up the large toad
and enters a new life as a hunter in the forest

you look strange, his friends tell him
more stray and feral by the day
it will soon be unlikely that we will invite you
to take syrups with us again

the man is unconcerned, even when the toad grows back
he feels he is on the right path

then a disaster overcomes him
his faculties are lost in some mucus
that floats down

at the last he thinks he sort of thinks
this at least is freedom
as he sinks he sort of sinks

his left bicep is found in a public pool
nearby are performing sharks
but no body is discovered in them
no one can prove anything

the whole bay seems to be full of secrets
you sense this from your room on the second floor
even through grey drapes of rain
but no one gasps enough
not enough to give anything away
,;0&==+tomorr%
the savage again the[]-oh christ this thing
of body easier at least with those animals
who have not gived birth several so forgiving
are they & all the while the tide
the mist the roll and slurry that it does

you what like just shot him when he needed help?
those guys oh those guys
what do we care really?

everywhere in the world is at war
far away I imagine what your mouth feels like

.

seven-league boots or something similar

so these few years it has lain there unused
its excitatory twist and hum unknown
all that splayed potential nestled dark
amongst folds and presses as of some dark inhuman interior
it is not a shibboleth it is just a thing
just an accident just a foolish gift
unpackaged now containing miraculous batteries
that somehow still make it writhe and drone
after years after several years
but never yet applied I am unfamiliar
with this new/old battery technology
I am behind the times my consciousness
stops at the drawer-front
beyond that is this other world of the future
which I do not wish to know

these miracles have fucked me
full of lies and magic batteries
the future past lies hidden
inside someone who knows nothing
of anything

at the first glimmer
she leaps over houses
chickens and kittens scatter
as she flies by

Rah Rah Rasputin
honest I was only urinating
through a letterbox
when the rain started

such messages I had within me

it lays there quiet and filled with dreams
sick now unto its magic batteries

.

oh you know some god that overslept

the server is not well found
look at the details
there at night the air itself at fault
you might imagine some scene of rocking
of the wind and sky travailed
but this is just a politic moment
in which he is flattened like sorghum
oh he cries too much
again I wake with a horse's head
instead of my own
but I am not of these mysteries of castration
though I would love to for a moment occupy
your time machine no no no
even in humanity a hit or miss governor
do you know nothing of mechanics?

after dark she they he all of them lilt like witches
of rivers and crossings
of the soft rains and squawks of doubt

morning eviscerates everything
he shudders soft in his wraps
wonders why he ever started something
that could never be ended

the sun rides him like a hammer

she takes over
she takes cover
she takes coverlets

raise your arms and think of the moon
something has just happened
something just dreadful

all down the Lune River a red streak

some hunched idiot in the rain tends a tiny fire
for years

it goes out
he is bewildered
he totters away

everything goes out now
even the animals go out

there is nothing here

tell you what
someone comes for me after this
they better come
with a storm in the heart
for I am finished with the simulations



.

Vanishing stability

http://www.liveleak.com/view?i=975_1283799588

wild laughter somewhere on the train

this little dropping ash
all of my children are in it
I see them hit the floor and explode

there is nothing I can do to stop this

I feel like a small god asphyxiating
in late sunlight (urgent cries FFS)
thrashing in its own sheets

you can't write the sound
of children exploding

ash

a man from the front carriage hastens
to shake my hand

he makes me furious
I accost him with my tiny umbrella

eventually on the island
I come around to the fact
that it is all over

all night I wash like a coconut
with the waves coming in hard

a dark man is buried in the sand
the waves will uncover him by morning

he is a pirate at least a fetch

the lighthouse sinks acoustic

your language
is a disaster

what anyway is retrofit?

are you mad?

if I had not looked when you looked
and when the train

use this to make your title
i got no use for you fuck

.



.

goblin afar the thing

what is the epic form of Geology?

I have had enough of you, she says
I intend to shift to another layer

do you know that I can barely see?

some substrate has come between us
he.............................says
alone on the hill some cow of the vagabond future
fresh from weddings barely survived
says this

alone in the lias & layers I of all liars
lay least yeast
always looking in storms
to the east oh beast
that I am and unknowing
thankful that thin things at least
nothing was known

I am downhearted (she cries) at my new shape
i wish i could go beyond cowish things now
i wish i new what was

the epic form of meteorology
like you said rabbit child

I too down holes vanish
or of vanishing wish
.

rifle association

.
sit down you ugly scrape no I haven't
all the windows blasted in like that imagine
just a parrot that was all that was left
to speak for them the very sort of air and DNA
left there like that the high seas oh christ
just what a handcart rotten scraps am I
supposed to believe in history? the Clovis
I apologise all day on the same bench
no one knows this shit like my mate Charlie
he's your man for signing and stuff only
he is diseased now a air rifle out the back window
Georgie and Paul now that was no way to live
cans everywhere and a lawyer too then the Jazz starting
you're fucked mate yeah well only by your mother 3 to 2 they sledge
oh god attack attack my car got nicked
all day alone in the waterfall look an orange floating
in a million years you couldn't grab it
a little baby crow right in the middle
of Ambleside we had to stop the Runes
pressed us so he stripped off and went in
I was more cautious, less elevated

let me caress you such needs as I have

.

testing the banal reflex

.
what about you over the fence
with the wind whipping white about you
what about you?

all down the dingle the dell the dingle
dangle yards I collapse like reeling dreams

my house is full of the breathing of ghosts
I can't abide their nightly hoof
on the floor above the floor above O the latch
and the lantern and then
how about I live with you instead? where
is your other place
.............where I ///brush the animals at night///

moan of recent nuclear clouds O (how this is a folk song)

there you were (I couldn't understand it)
i had tryd evething
there you were (I at least serious could not
stand under it without you)

unsure of yourself
sure that you were a disaster of some kind
I was fucked up
I couldn't even hold your hand or touch your keys
on which it was my habit to spread

there were no volcanoes or earthquakes
lame shit like there were ever volcanoes or earthquakes
all of it was politics my chest heaved
itself out my lungs glocked purple
on your carpet but you were kind
you pretended not to notice
as my rats ran into you
you wanna smoke I asked then sure
you said why not let's both smoke
from all our holes at once? this is a movie

An Odysseus myth explaining the invention
of cigarettes: an all-consuming polythene sack
that contains endless moments
it whips there in the wind over the rags of fence

none of this is enough he is coming for me

over the church rooftop something animate cries
ripped away by bags of stark air
only just saw it, me
didn't see it at all just a flag a flit of something
fly there and the the the bells start up an inverse amnesty
of the innocent

diagram of ear wine glass wall episode loud unclear
late as elves the winewall of which glass pantoums

.

Deb Calverley poetry reading.

My poetry mate and fellow conspirator from Winnipeg, Debbie Calverley, is giving a reading of her stuff at the Winnipeg Art Gallery on September 25th. It's a little far for me to attend (3300 miles!), but if you are in the area check it out and give her some support. The details are here:

http://www.culturedays.ca/en/celebration-schedule/view/4c62b2a5-f8c4-4bd4-ada4-0db44c4a89be

.

Philishave & Violette

Thou shalt upon another forest set—John Donne

raising the sunken fleet a man at every pinnacle

such attenuated animosity

the only thing wrong with this building
is that there are places
from which it can be seen

Ho!

a giant pair of buttocks and a bus station

glint upon the eagle the late bell the backlit spume
all the earthly welter yours now

in code (the life that i have is yours &)
=francogerman erupt her name=
of course
face down in the attic bath
dot matrix
=wait for me and I'll return=
all the volga creek hey hey
a-wimoweh a wimoweh
in the pixels the quiet pixels
the bions leap to night

such a difference I suppose

.

Glock 26

fixed together at the lips like oysters
all the world sealed in a congress
without words or sound or silence

keep drawing it in keep only this
consciousness of mouth and eyes
in the dark world below fire

but only this shared space of mouth
eyes hollow ground heartbeat
breath fixed together at the hips

speak from below speak in no language
to and fro the air the mouth air
air of the hair and face hands around

a face and in the hair clutch
the air from within without sound
fix on this this kiss from here afar

all night one flute and a falling star

.

white heads in spate

the man rams his head down the toilet violently
bang bang splash bang fucking bang
it's late at night he has a gun up his ass
the man now coneheaded from the ramming
wet and stupid and bloody and all a fury of sewage
he shouts to James Joyce
Jim you Jim come back up I hadn't finished Jim
Jim it's shit but not as we know it

briefly Jim's head drifts up
but retreats at the first headbutt

the man now has to catch a train he rushes out
to the station
what's with you all wet and covered in shit they ask

I was arguing with Jim he says fuck you
he is my muse

next time leave your muse at home the station
master says
or I personally kill you by nail your head
to the track how you like that?

he is a big guy
the man doesn't want to mess
but he can't help it
sorry he says now is that a rare ocelot in that tree
yonder?

when his back is turned the man
the toilet James Joyce man
rushes from behind and his head

enters the ass of the station master
who issues a suitable gumph

now the man parades upon the platform blind
as a shouting lollipop of nothing

drosophila of stem cells of words

Jim's head both eyes hanging poised
in urgent sewers

all up the line the winter whistle blows as mad
as white bowls of butterflies & blood

.

politics of the hipglass outcrowded

a young man a quite innocent man only really a bypasser

stops at the shop window to examine a display
horrorstruck he sees from the back of the shop
another man a naked man [maybe the naked shopkeeper
maybe a god in a low guise a satyr or pederast]
with an erection oh christ a look of delight run towards him
he crashes into the glass in slow motion the glass
the glass rises now in millibars of hectopascals of analects
of love and time's first forgotten disorient
crazes and maps itself cobwebs and meridians
of disaster spread now this is meaning slide into this
the whole street shimmy everything in birds of fracture
rupture around this flow this node of impact
perhaps made of steel first exits into the street
while from another world a different time register a crow
swoops in it pecks with fury at the shopkeeper's cock
he screams brings down the rest of the mosaic
in blinding jigsaw shatters the sky the entire sky
fatally injured spasms there in the street there & there
nods and collapses there the innocent young man the crow
the shopkeeper hover in CCTV glass falls around them
waterfalls & cataracts blind the moment the shopman
reaches for others a crow in his mouth blood runs
down his chest this now this he cries is politics at its best

.

the press

it is an iron plate applied as The Question the question it is a fear
and a iron miner's miracule
(why do flies sink in lakes he asks well because of their spiracule)
of light and fission a fission of faces that now look
the fire the inquisitory press beneath which most things
cease to struggle or digress it is a rusty iron level
a heavy flat of a fatherhand but the witch stuff in this fug
the chug chug burd aloft jug jug bird O gone soft
is entirely contraband outwards eyeballs squeeze
inwards air doth rush upon the flags that gutter there
some ichor now doth gush and geeze & wheeze & fleas
O fleas: Mark, butt these fleas...

it is a heaviness and heft dragged up from in a delf
it is a squeak of kick and cock collapsed upon itself
a leaden place of heat and beat and it is then a river
slowed almost now to death
there skinned unto a sliver

now nothing can be known as true
as this press yet obtains
now sideward slick the sluices-oh
now outward slide the brains

I look upon myself anews
as planar kangaroo
what I awready knew's
in hi-winds i has blew

xxx

the trombone loneliness of the hammer monkey

gradually he became nothing
his voice lost its harmonics and grew thin
his friends dropped away
this was Buddhism he thought
this was the ranking southgate weatherfront farce of escape I will kill you
he says I will kill you with my smother my idiot submerging overcoat
out in the garden I fire over and over
many have I killed

you fucking scrape, he said
why are you there always?

in a stinking den a man grew a beard

look at me now
look at me

in the night he cogitates highly
real love is not that love that lasts forever
that is circumspection, survival
real love is the thing that lasts
for three weeks and brings you close to suicide
you are an electric cable
connected at one end
but not at the other
you are a boy in the rain sick of choirs
throwing a trombone
off a clifftop
somehow the wind gushes through its tunnel
it screams out low magma

it is a slow day
three boys are beating a monkey to death
by the roadside
with small bronze hammers

why would kudos be considered a plural anyway
and who would think such a thing?

and who would think such a thing

there are markers, coordinates
you are no longer ordinary
your time has not arrived

the man with the beard smelt bad
all night we stared at each other
but nothing was resolved

it was a city full of holes back then
left by the Luftwaffe
even years later
the holes unfilled
imagine the entire place in love
with nothing
just desperate now
to connect that other end of itself
to a grid that is understandable
for which there is a name

in such ways we have died like monkeys
at the hands of boys
who were unconnected

every generation the same
every god failing to ignite

a brass shadow falling

a low screech as the hammers climax

my little love
come hither

.

Fitzroy's Moral Collapse (a reading)

Fitzroy's Moral Collapse

supermarket terrorist consciousness

it is a bad time in the season of your throat

this is not that gag about Linda

Linda don't inflect yourself
on the crabshelf of lingual attack

a brother points age 4 says look
there there is a lady a tiny lady at night

she is just there across the water
you could almost have reached her with your fibres
but then nothing this is not that nun thing
that done thing that fling that they sing about warm beer
not there but here you hear

in far rooms the hoovers come and go
humming of Michael I worked in a hotel
in Israel
we plundered their fridges oh hell
feasted on their remains
the MFO and UN boys from the North
their scrota emptied into the well of Eilat
flat-feeling uncertain they went back
leaving steak and beer and plastic gin

always better after they leave she told us
their money left behind with their semen
floating out towards Aqaba
and the animals all running dry not that
it mattered cigarettes are cheap and days are long
full of whiteness everyone speaks a white sibilant
language under the breath and no one here
ever quite gets to it—occasionally the outburst
but that is nothing just the soldiers come home
late at night with lost keys for headbutting the door
open competitions the Norwegians were best
at this for their running up while the Americans
didn't wish for the same bruises but would be cruel
to the feral kittens round the lobby one morning

the Golden Gate got sploded all to bits we almost
but then a bag by its alone in the bus station

bricked up the Dung Gate long aloof
only spiders now listen ahoof listen early one morning
the gate explode the sire got shraps and flaffs
all up hizarm

he don't blame no one for not comin back
it's late after all
was just hopin for a party
he an Linda an Mike

once on a beach my sister belinda she pissed out the winda

the wind erased it all

anyone wanna fuckin arm wrassle
see him with the arm
lookin out on the bay
with all that attitude

the pigeons come here to drink they would say
they go back there to shit

no way of knowing what's best
not ever

.