fairies caught
in the headlights—
all engines stopped

exphrastix

All the men and women I have faced in that final moment ...
I have not prevented a single murder—Albert Pierrepoint
We were very much in love ... I wish I could have found it
in my heart to forgive him while he was alive—Ruth Ellis
A country road. A tree. Evening—Samuel Beckett

two hours from three am
i makes a picture of a fucked-up fairy
that no one will ever see
plays quiet sounds over

to settle its stages add sage
a smoke to quiet it
the silence in the stoppage
feeling more like it more important
scrunched it in plastic like a commodity

added money for the wishing well
smoked now smoked like a fish
banged it all into place

so Irish are we me and the fucked fairy
in the darkness so unbounded
by these and this our hollow hills
reel out at night in their blood

their thrashing
their white gasp

.

cinquain

Granddad
caught in the anti-air-raid lights
his ghost in the cellar
the dull guffaw
of nights

.

cinquain

the dawn
lit up her hair
as I watched her leaving
now every damn sunrise leaves me
grieving

.

nervous systems of aquatic animals

any way you dress it up
this recreational fishing
is a form of psychosis
to be marvelled at
in years beyond

.

when I was all a elephant says you

It's you, it's you. It's always been you
and it's always been in you—The Funloving Criminals

everything will break all systems
will corrupt and fly
pie it was known for its innards
in Liverpool of all, naked one
corrupt and vagabond
for yes it's you it's you
Jesus, you might say
my fly pie will die

the lonely. then he stuck
the french prussik below
the descender and nearly became
fly pie himself down there on the rusty rails
at Hodge Close imagine the sense
of nearly dying like that for

tomorrow for the cutting
and removal how wayward
of these secretions to fill holes
left by musculature detaching
one's elephantine belief in fishgods
or other for how is such imperfection

the work of the omnipotent
and benign?even toothache
says no or else malign.or eek
what a sick burden of humour

[but there are iambs and counterbids
the world holds
it holds for a while]

it's quite a thing looking back
but whatever we say of hardship
of the primitive
will be said of us soon

the fry writhe with life

and in such spaces we love

.

Wikipedia's etymology of jackdaws, just because I love crows.

The western jackdaw was one of the many species originally described by Carl Linnaeus in his 18th century work Systema Naturae.^[2] Owing to its supposed fondness for picking up coins, Linnaeus gave it the binomial name Corvus monedula, choosing the specific name mǒnēdŭla, which is derived from moneta, the Latin stem of the word "money".^[3][4] The genus Coloeus, from the Ancient Greek κολοιός (koloios) for jackdaw,^[5] was created byPeter Pallas in 1766, though most subsequent works have retained the two jackdaw species in Corvus.^[6]

The original Old English word cēo (pronounced with initial ch) gave modern English "chough"; Chaucer sometimes used this word to refer to the western jackdaw,^[7] as did Shakespeare in Hamlet although there has been debate about which species he was referring to.^[8] This onomatopoeicname, based on the western jackdaw's call, now refers to corvids of the genus Pyrrhocorax; the red-billed chough (Pyrrhocorax pyrrhocorax), formerly particularly common in Cornwall, became known initially as the "Cornish chough" and then just the "chough", the name transferring from one species to the other.^[9]

The common name jackdaw first appeared in the 16th century, and is thought to be a compound of the forename Jack, used in animal names to signify a small form (e.g. jack snipe), and the archaic native English word daw. Formerly, western jackdaws were simply called "daws".^[7] The metallic chyak call may be the origin of the jack part of the common name,^[10] but this is not supported by theOxford English Dictionary.^[11] Daw, first used for the bird in the 15th century, is held by the Oxford English Dictionary to be derived from the postulated Old English dawe, citing the cognates in Old High German tāha, Middle High German tāhe or tāchele, and modern German Dahle or Dohle, and dialectal Tach, Dähi, Däche and Dacha.

Names in English dialects are numerous. Scottish and north English dialects have included ka or kae since the 14th century. The Midlands form of this word was co or coo. Caddow is potentially a compound of ka and dow, a variant of daw. Other dialectal or obsolete names include caddesse, cawdaw, caddy, chauk, college-bird, jackerdaw, jacko, ka-wattie, chimney-sweep bird (from their nesting propensities), and sea-crow (from the frequency with which they are found on coasts). It was also frequently known quasi-nominally as Jack.^{[12][13][14][15]}

An archaic collective noun for a group of jackdaws is a "clattering".^[16] Another name for a flock is a "train".^[17]

I do believe
Wordsworth was only there
for the gingerbread

.

Click the following text:

Petition to pardon the estimated 49,000 men, who, like Alan Turing, were convicted of 'gross indecency' for same-sex relations in the UK under an inhuman and absurd law which was only finally repealed in 2003.

How heartbreakingly cool that the Pale Blue Dot picture was taken on a Valentine's Day.

The Pale Blue Dot.

many worlds theory

at your elbow the downtrodden
at your cough the desist
oh look another spark oh look
how we shift
there is here/there another
this is the astro=stronomy of cool
relationships at every other (cough)
a new snake slide up
into the outser
what miracules then what freaks
it appears
watch youself pirouettes on skeins
of cold and hot
children... oh lawks childs above and below
well who'da and what little spiracles
what true eyes what hid hud in the hair
like unto Huck down tha river
and the cannons thereafter
floating up bread for the undead beginnings
of the next crash all lights on
the crazy gin what just jumped

it your time
jump not in but on

this your new riverbank religion
believe real and hard

.

Most of this is lies now. All the better. Click that.

Jah ajar (almost [all most])

They will stay there
to and fro they will
a cut lip—JH Prynne


Prynne is Romantic
almost antic with Romantic

i get cardiac shadow

think of easy in the garden
it is sure Eliot and Wordsworth
just in that. it enough iterate

then look at that par a thigh
almost a condition spread
for someone i knew or know

had such a spread had to had
its parathyroid took in a hospit
shoulda see the scar but then see

he breaks up breaketh his

signal absolve inner static
or cardiac listen and glisten
he never or maybe got
the hit or miss governor
anyway I think he would
like that naked as he shines
in that abandon of the sheer

frantic love of these black
confusing machine-drops-through
the page listen now
the sun is big shafts almost
pyramids burnt into
the very the fabric of trees
striding home somehow
and every last treehoisted lofting a way
to the Wordsworth Grimms
for they are barely different
3000 or more years old app

not now that we know

& hear his to and fro
for he has too much of pride
ever to use the word 'parse'
and hail cannot happen in Winter
oh look if you don't believe
it's almost true
.

I love flarf
but flarf
for all its authentic voice
is always devoid of love

.

not enough, ever

my lost children
in the tunnels
reach out

it is that time
and then the other time
when it all whirs
and goes backwards

towards the other place
the further place

look now look
soft as the dead hands
that stroke
cool and slow
it comes

over everything
little dark dead angel
watch it happen

the happening
beyond everything
that you know
and your mouth

in the morning
when the door
almost cries

think yourself
like oxen through the dawn forest
then never think again

yes, yes

.

poem for Lif

the first purple crocuses
hence will burn in the wind
with language unabate

sick it up a little tiny

it is not April or lipreading

this is in anyway tribute
to one day
where the bad slick
was all but no not nearly
all or if so then the entire

history of everything

maybe now none of us
can make it
all of us jumping always
singing as we fall

all we got then
us falling heroes
ripping at ourselves
watching it zoom up
doors bang bang bang
as we go

I want the best thing ever for you

all my love for what could
all we got left
is everything

it's written now
we is what surviveth
through the window

other worlds everywhere
burst

.lilacs bred up from the cold
evil

crocuses
looking up like babies
stroking
clouds into the future

yes, just say yes
and fall into the sunlit place

we'll all be there
all of us

we all promise

.

a glimmer only that unvoiced fricative fetch and shade

think of hate as a compound noun
two words in one portmanteaud into sex
in the Germanic/Japanese as though
a martial art spirit wafted as burning money
fragments aflame along the alleys and cataracts
why anyway would they call it a stroke
and why so gentle so tender

as though some dark angel had reached down
stroked away the circuits but gently
through the skull something in the byways

the lanes the backs of beyond the wainscot
something frozen and haunted mid-afternoon
watching the smoke-ghosts of Shatin
the temple of twenty thousand million golden ghost

buddhas horseback for the racecourse
but look again stop and feel

as the money blows smokestacks for the dead
listen now listen there is nothing to hear
only the tiny shove just beyond the sensory
horizon for even sense has an event

horizon where we freeze and all is stop't
listen there to the dead money end of yourself
great golden one so in factitude great
that it takes twenty thousand million

facets to express the one nothing of the dead
the unstuck crusaders the templars hospitallers
undone unseamed from the navel
at the horns of hateen think there in your smoky ardour
of Burckhardt digdug his own ungrave in gravel

to Shendy and Orens they the trains a-blowing
what then? now nothing? so quick to end and so long
to fashion. think of Gorlice Tarnow. think
of the passion. think of biscuits
one might just as well. all for nothing now. all.

.

Anyway, listen to this

WTF, Blogger? Am I therefore a pornographer?

"We're writing to tell you about an upcoming change to the Blogger Content 
Policy that may affect your account.

In the coming weeks, we'll no longer allow blogs that contain sexually 
explicit or graphic nude images or video. We'll still allow nudity 
presented in artistic, educational, documentary, or scientific contexts, or 
where there are other substantial benefits to the public from not taking 
action on the content. 

The new policy will go into effect on the 23rd of March 2015. After this 
policy goes into effect, Google will restrict access to any blog identified 
as being in violation of our revised policy. No content will be deleted, 
but only blog authors and those with whom they have expressly shared the 
blog will be able to see the content we've made private. 

Our records indicate that your account may be affected by this policy 
change. Please refrain from creating new content that would violate this 
policy. Also, we ask that you make any necessary changes to your existing 
blog to comply as soon as possible, so that you won't experience any 
interruptions in service. You may also choose to create an archive of your 
content via Google Takeout."

.

slut (work in progress)

...nearer to the sun and air—Wind in the Willows
I am the son and the heir—The Smiths
Yeah, man, the elements—anon

I want to be in the sunny place
[she says points]
—points across the valley—
(like John County Clare
magicking a far-off sheep)

even to use that word is abuse

yes, the s-word (or its many toxic siblings 

for it cannot be—is itself

an act of self-negative life-negative

sexual colonization
—Alice Aforethought

oh oh how elemental oh how mythic
she cries out above, 'cross the valley
but now /(she feels silly.and. her voice
is weak and unconvincing

(Librivox audiobooks:

the American woman reading Herodotus

pronounces Herakles to rhyme

with some plural of hysterical)

although one cannot quibble

at such democratizat or ask this of the lulz

—how much is left to go, Eli?

is it so very hard to die?

(ells left to go, many ells: strange, almost
Dada Nells from Imbros)

" 'We think,' they say, " 'that it is unjust

to carry women off, but to be anxious

to avenge rape is foolish—wise men

take no notice of such things' "—

attrib' 'The Persians'—Herodotus.

[the legal heirs to 'treasure L'
from the Calvert mound-side
of Hisarlik in dispute with
the Pushkin—Sophie Schliemann
arrayed in gold—who now
can say what when

— for thereof the arcsin of width/length
.4 indicates a 24 degree angle of *spatter*
.·´¯`·.´¯`·.¸¸.·´¯`·.¸><(((º>,

the bullet and the rainbow

this will apply equally: archaeology/geology
..........................as murder
the trajectory the rainbow the drift the erratics the spatter
extrusion and intrusion/the rapid cooling or the slow
—rate of insect attack post mortem

and after all this it was not after all
the black rats but infacto the gerbils
proliferate [adj] one malbenign sommer
in northern Chine in Mongolia
what spread the buboes of after all blackdeath
to Europus—

on the backs of the Mongol hordes—Simon Schama

go easy, go slow, Schliemann
says Calvert, alarmed at the sight
of a million spades. axes, steam hammers, explosives
most of all the robot tank-moles
such industry, such heedless illustry
he will cry
..........................so shall we all, breathless child of the hill
.........................(thief of future past)—Madeleine Shine. 2008.

it merely means 'work,' says Heinrich
read Kapek when I hear the word
I reach for my Hanns Johst
when I hear the heart says Reich
I reach for my Brownian Motion
to rouse us, Waring, who's alive?

for the time has come the walrus said
to live of many things—Madeleine Shine. 2008.

*lustration (come back to this point?)*

"I don't know what to do"
—Anon 2015

these words uttered listlessly:
give me a look like a hostage crisis
(a culebra cut in Trojan prophylactic gold)

is this enough, Eli?
is it so very hard to die?

is bucket a compound noun?

is mama a compound noun-well

a clerkenwell     (Oh well—John Winston Smith the Resignation-Lennon)

"I will try my best for that not to happen

if I feel suspicious I will

throw THROW it out of my head"

for we are holding a drug bee a writing bee

a sex bee a cookery bee a future bee a bee to be

—unknown; possibly from ben, a prayer or prayer meeting—

it is only formally and foolishly fortunate that we are not apiarists

(for what do you call it when a bunch of apiarists

gather to tend and discuss their livestock?

for though Anglo-Saxon, it rhymes

with the Arabic word for darling)

[shibari kinbaku lingchi -- come back to this?]

the kessel envisaged as a giant hedgehog

From Middle English frithien, from Old English friþian (“to give frith to, make peace with, be at peace with, cherish, protect, guard, defend, keep, observe”), from Proto-Germanic*friþōną (“to make peace, secure, protect”), from Proto-Indo-European *prēy-, *prāy- (“to like, love”). Cognate with Scots frethe, freith (“to set free, liberate”), Danish frede (“to have peace, protect, inclose, fence in”), Swedish freda (“to cover, protect, quiet, inclose, fence in”), Icelandic friða (“to make peace, preserve”).

when you were gestating birthing fixing 

what dreams were begat of the world?

Margaret Shakespeare died age 1 year 1563
400 years before one's birth, before the deaths of Huxley
Kennedy [Jelly Fish Kiss] Robert Frost, Sylvia
Plath, Edith Piaf, Patsy Cline, a bullet from
the back of a bush Medgar Evers, William
Carlos Williams, Tristan Tzara, Tough Tony,
Jean Cocteau, Georges
Braque, Theodore Roethke, Elmore
James I gather unto myself such magic harvest
in sustenance for the late survival of birth
such dreams for a year for which also
the invention of sex and the Beatles-also-born
in vinyl and Bond-born in celluloid—Profumo,
well one need not mention

[that Ulster-rendered 'now' is a clusterfuck

of /ah/aw/ee/ phonemes (visibility moderate

to good, becoming schwa later)

and high-rising/falling terminal becoming cyclonic

quite unlike the monotone English a-oo

(Utsire an island around which herring swim

far, a long-long...)]

evidence of an immortal typist-monkey

unearthed near Stratford where ever ...

(Miss Fay Wray, come down come down—

ever too high in the widening gyre and gimble

in the Dædalus of thine own inner hast borne 

thee too lofted in the Empire inner statehood

whose freudian grillers now will tak thee back ...)

... to that sweep of sunlit snow across the valley
—but something had gone out in her
and would not come again)

and then he knew
that was not where
he was going

OR

another time-things: ice

OR

O dark traveller, click the hyper-link 'the Weshesh'
on the 'Sea-Peoples' page of Wikipedia
find out, at last
where we have been all along
bouncing along the corridor
we did not take
to the hall of mirrors
for humankind cannot bear
very much bouncing bloody reflection

OR

"Do you know Carl Garner, Brandon Garner

or Fast Eddie?" 

I do not.

You don't have junk here (hooray!) 

—Microsoft SmartScreen is working

to keep it out of your inbox too.

OR

in the 1980s I worked as a recreation assistant
in Meanwood Park Hospital in Leeds, running a 'music
and movement workshop' for the 'mentally
disabled' residents. once while exploring
in this incapacity I found a dried-out brain in a dish
in a sunny (unused) upstairs room. whose abandoned brain,
I wondered, was that, left there to dry
like so much cast-off-offal, uneaten?

OR

Dear Maria, before arrival in Umbria must we pass through Penumbria?

OR

Ladies and Gentlemen we are floating in space—Spiritualized

OR

Hold back the edges of your gowns, Ladies, 

we are going through hell—William Carlos Williams

OR

Please expect a little turbulence, ladies and gentlemen;

there are monsters in our midst—Alice Aforethought 1988

.OR

to join the Mile High Club

you really have to give a flying fuck 

"Ach, ja"—Der Rosenkavalier, Richard Strauss

.

one by one, your lights...

oh there is such a thing to be said now but who can say it?

.

can't be any condition
so dire
that 100 straight hours
of binge-viewing
can't fix it

.

scatter of dead crows
on the snowy field—
eyes in the hedges

.

clamouring quiet
the vast black hole
of 3 am

.

One is getting spiritualized...

Goodbye Joe, CLICK me got to go me oh my oh...

limerick

a celebrity chef from Bombay
wished his rivals would all go away
he cried I'll fry the lot
stuff them all in a pot
where the bastards can bloody flambé!

.

Eboricum

Yorvik's the site of coprolites
with petrified gut parasites
black and tan and rich in bran
are these historic Viking shites

.

winding sheets to the wind (a riff of demusing)

one awakes to the awful reality that the dream was not a dream, 
that there is no way out—Madeleine Shine, The Dreamers' Cookbook
denial ain't just a river in Africa—Mark Twain
By the mark twain...—Trad: Mississippi piloting call

in the dream the chemical turns his face yellow removes his hair and teeth it gives him the ability to fly, though weakly—even in the dream he remembers that he cannot fly when waking—
the creature clings close about me like some irritating over-affectionate pet wanting always to 

embrace
watching always for a chance
to bite

old friends are everywhere all of them grown malevolent, suspect—our hair is long, dark red, matted we do not know our reflections over it all a sense of dulled panic the dream figure represents sickness he wakes with its sweet slick like poison all down his throat his face stuck to the sheet with some syrup leached from his pores as though the night the bed were a poultice to draw out

evil spirits and allow passage
but something is unfinished

and this dream, like the other where he recalls the murders the concealment of corpses will come again, again by the mark twain, the mark pain, the creak down the lane behind the wall the call
behind behind the counterpane we remember this from when we were ill as children.stop

ill as children.stop

.

lost child

in what creeps and rills
unknown at dawn

in what shrills at night
what calls what hoots of dream

in what marsh lanterns
what ghost fires arousal

only rainbows in the spray
drifting outward, growing less

in other, crueller language
nearing nothing
your lights sinking

one by one
your lights

.

koyaanisqatsi

no excuses or tears
death comes too soon
whatever needs to happen
is already trying to happen
move out of the way
for you are blocking
your own sunlight

.

being the bad man

you are discovered in the searchlights
crouched leering over a body
revealed suddenly for what you are

no one will harbour you now
there will be no peace, no rest
no shelter for you now

that you are seen
that you are known

run, accursed one
to the badlands the darkness
thou who hast defiled our hearts

embrace filth itself
and die alone

.

why are we not also all
Moaz al-Kasasbeh?

.

try to breathe

only the move ahead
no up nor down

crying of the wind
loss of all future

all that is gone
shades in an empty house
a door banging somewhere
through the mist

sadness of oceans at dusk
offering up forms
that will wake no more

to their bright swell

all you ever have
this one move ahead
let it be enough
to rouse your spirit
again to its dance

look, a creature came to our fire
as we slept
for here
are its tracks in the snow

but we slept
and it would not linger
in our broken house

not with us ghosts
who cannot find in the looking
up and down any future

for now the snow covers all tracks
in its deep quiet

look no further

.

.

this is your moment
little shaky bird
all your life watches

.

singing in the well

even if anyway
and how they must have laughed
in their souls or reasons or cans otherwise
think of them there
challenging und awkward yes
lefthanded and frisky as awks
in the drowned kingdoms of the Sea
shoving yes shoving the shale
white and black

with a frequency as voice
that hollers yes hollers up
of the hollers

say that differently
flash, creep, stark at night
resound etc
but this is not night

and huge now the plash
and all of time the difference
look at this, though,
the differential in the coo the evil coo
on the rooftop
and why there is no space
Freude freude

[full stop/Falstaff]

Faust be thy name
I intend and do not intend
any ode to joy
only sheer unutterable starkness

naked as wailing
die now, just die

(for all Time has come
about)

dead wells in the gourd
and laughs lifted bumpy as
outer swell — clocks adrift
everywhere we look & do not

shush

.

I can't ever say
what I mean
how can this be?

.

you are not
half as bad as you think
pink start to the day

.

the sudden shock
at dawn, of a gun
in your neighbour's house

.

remnants of snow
everywhere—
palimpsests

.

how would you
approximate the dawn sound
pigeonhead?

.

get this
that tomorrow didn't start
until later

.

pale
early morning
drums all quiet now

.

We are all Raif...

table-rappin' with the air-pope an' the new dead king—a séance riff

I believe strongly in the rights of women—
King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia
hairway to Steven—The Butthole Surfers

every reader like-it-or-not
the auteur—earlier this month
an air strike not only but also
we are told it's not clear
/a missile/the country/has/no new cases
[reported but Pope Francis

is flying Pope Francis] the popefantastic
king of droppingbirds today we are
flying Air Francis

he make his way
wear a cheap plistic outercoat
stucks to a hardline

[by the water of the new life
where does the slapback echo live?]

—this-of-course about how many children
he would (& have (& in Brussels)
(& scientists in Britain)

what about eye colour
the sperm and egg fusing
in mice?

in the Vatican in Riyadh
the Haj and heading, the course to steer
Osama and the hole in the sky the skid

the starboard and steerboard and stern 

the[mecca/mecha]soramimi
oh so sorra, Mimi...

starving prisoners the royal daughters
and Friday floggings O Bluebeard but
it is surely Scheherezade and Hassan i Sabbah

(//Indonesia [executed[ six people\\)

a man who made trouble and doubted, an evildoer

"the presence of our target army"

Oh goddamn she cries these people
who care so much

don't you see?
don't you see?

(even as we peak)
(evil as we squeak)

.

Max Ernst goes shopping

where really does one
accept/want to be of the hearth and home
anyway?
is it safe or unreal?
when it really matters
do you want to confront
your vast denial?

I suggest an island
loaded with birds
exotica
drugs
and a far horizon
on which to forget

either that or hear the alarm
right now
it is 06:46
and the rest of your
fucking life
in doubt or hope

seriously,
put that gun to your head
and say yes

.

woman struggles at night,

for God's ache
I remember making it
now I can't speak
put that in
this doesn't mean I'm dead
I think it would wake me more awake
I'd quite like you to shave
would you be cross
I've thought about it
yes please
do you want me to make it
I don't know what you mean
I haven't got anything
I haven't got anything
so you can do your fucking
I haven't got anything
oh dear hot liquid
why is the bed so wet
no you didn't

if I was living on my own
I would have set fire to myself
no, that's it, finished

.

of all things

what is otherwise or elsewhere
in the pipes before dawn yes you you
start thinking though it be
a creaky engine that shakes the house

from its other. O think and sink as
the marsh birds in the reeds and rills

for there is nothing better more benighted
more loving than this water underground
and of a sudden a night bird

aloft, who cries

of all things, in the crevices, yes

.

parrots in the pipes

Sandwich gone. Sunyata. The wheeling. No mouth to put it in. Park bench. Flippancy. Oh think. Traffic. Peace. What distant shrills of sandwich. Pursued by a squirrel. What is nevertheless filling. Eat up.

.

engines at how

if only this
with such
oh look
at how
and all of it
engines
engines
of love
coughing
awry
O how
it clouds
about
this machine
love like motors
in the eye
of all
butterfly
whir and slack
love
down
as the deep-
drifted up
from wells
dripping
with eye-love
buckets
look and look
again
into all wells
and deeps
look now
with such
buckets and pails
as they spill
our words
beyond-oh

fire and then
fire-wet

of the fret-
fire and only
three more
sleeps

.

.

a pink prohibition era

anteriors in his eyes now he has left
the last elevation
up and down as angels

it is not clear or stark now
this thing
look again and look not

for the chance will not come again
to gaze upon
such wonder of the body
anyway what?

you are a fool only
for such elevated jealously
what regrets all night and therefore

love/

.

a some infatuation with rare birds

one would if only like the scrapes
dig deep
in canyons
the inter-gluteal cleft

wherein the song of solomon
abets for now

it is always 6 AM

and we always oh god

if only it were possible to wipe
these things

now, though, now
the sickness
of all reality

larfing all over itself

baby won't you wake?

.

dark of the Nibelungen, only worse

turkish headdress up there
as gamoots or other eunuch frollies
in a park at mid or after
threatened with large-ish stones
all our trinkets were lost
though this may anyway

have been a dream
a wild man or two
you know how it goes
the sprinkle the dark the blue-black

wine that reeks so
of the Prophet's blood and ichor
though surely rape.is.or.ever.was
illness/in a bag one/has heard

such things as wild cries
but they cannot suffice
not now in the vapour[]
where all is true

such stark elevations
says Speer
what majesty and fire
with his silk, with his oil

I don't trust him for a moment

you know what they say now?
what's the difference between the Turks and the Jews?

The Turks have got it all to come...

blue-eyed kohl bring it back
bring it back
bring us all
to Charlie

.



.

all the way out

such a thing has come upon me now
where even the rainfall appears slanted
and uneven

missus in the rain oh stop it
with your wild birds

for it is even enough of the hooting

of disaster like they are Tarot birds
that will not stop

even when the water reaches
out and up to

such a thing such a collapsing thing
no, it is love, so please
continue though it breaks and storms
though everything
though the rain breaks the windows
yes
it is only our hearts that resist
fear fear fear
all its devices
but all our hearts here are wild hearts
and will not stop

their little engines
of dread

is this your stuff I found
along the path, discarded
on the way to the door?
did you walk naked
to this midnight?

hoot now
as never before
hoot as though your mere heart
depended

.

.

proximity, prolapse, intercrura, cartography

why would you curse the future
for such motorbikes in the rain
yes outside smoking
inside looking and thinking
yes yes I have no standards
and anything now yes anything
upstairs no don't just don't

in the hallowed hall with the fan
heater blowing

rainfall in the east window
slight oh slight
lakes that hurt all over the map
here be dragons baby
off the very edges of the known world
no no

,

.

Schlock of the future

the holding back think of your secrets
that are blockages to love

all night and all day smoking dope

my parents have fallen by ill chance
into a huge tank
full of shit
in your/my dreams they flounder
rescuing puppies in their mouths

like komodo dragons in their salivatory filth
someone light it up
danger danger danger
at your leg it biteth

oh it was never love
just first aid gone mad

what give itself to everyone anyway
with scant regard

.

spring tide—
the sun jumps
over the moon

.

that's not even wrong

the child that wakes at dawn child of patterns
(by the fainting episode) the magic lantern
through the blue curtains their shimmer their streetlife
who listens to the lights at night that track the angles
of the only room so the faces the spectators loom
so every room another box without a door

sees the child in the future the child without eyes
feeling for his/her alongside in a crumpled still-warm
stillborn silence now there has been enough
there is no news today of the escaped thing
perhaps it has not happened, not here
the child that escalates and vaults

the child that in its father's arms looks out
on reeling fields of mist to remember
futures of unlived blood and love
in the mirror he will not wake
in the other mirror she will not wake
not in this or other futures
but still he is held she is held
as though the leaves reeling down
in wind and rain had purpose had time had past
the child its little eyes alive to this
starting starting in fear and background love
the child that will not wake to this
will not dream here
the child with three sleeps left
child with flowers for hands
child of emergency lights
dreaming undreamed child of the fog-ridden pines
and pulses child in the angel light
and the police are here and it is really all over
but hold him hold her close at the fading
the quickening of this child, of this, child
your instincts will not be will not be born or lorn
not for nothing.not for nothing

she was not ill in that way, not in that way
child you had a chance to wake but did not
and what engine now clamours
but nothing now shall it wake
not for the sun or stars
shall it creak its earthly eye
not for nothing engine not for engine nothing
only cast away by our fear in the wasteland
behind the wall between the houses
alongside the streets where once
a page yet to write itself
newly vacated still-warm
these unlived forgotten episodes
of love on which he looks
still in arms in the garden only this afternoon
she looks out from the swaddle
though she is too old for this and cannot now settle
see in her in his eyes it starts again
it cannot rest and hush it deeply
deep as houses and the backs of beyond
deep as the blue startle of long-ago dawn
unlived, unlived, only dreamed
in your castaway gaze
from the arms of unborn fathers

for she was not ill, not in that way
and all your futures out of time, unredeemed
reward of the scraping she was not ill nor will be
nor was that life born along those backstreets
or in the wainscot or in the wall or in the panels
the fabric the joists the horsehair the signatures
beneath the paper and paint and plaint
nor did the wind moan there in autumn
or in the fog or at dusk when you would
feel it most if feeling had been born

bring me your dead children to house, to rehome
to accost as roosters who dance in the thick cloud
tonight/today/after all/later and all of a sudden and only
perhaps where the winds meet

for this does not end here
or there or in between

for she was not ill, not like that
in the fairy vat the leaden kettle
the idea of it has no place no home
no spot to settle, no dapple or apple
of its eye in the orchard I-spy in mid-afternoon
in the moss or mosses or picaroon
or isoglosses topes and tropes or thropes or other substance
of mist and scopes where you after all
are not shown any ropes, after all anyway the moon
after all and anyway the stars and their hurtle their gravity
that cannot act or anyway turn turtle

for yes and no and this never can never come too soon

.

les ombres de la rue/some riffs of Edith/La Mome Piaf

it was these appropriations which first enabled
her covetousness of the skin and at 05:30 in Easter
she separated from her father and took a room

Edith deducted from frequenting of prostitutes
in the brothel of her grandmother. her
weakness towards men. imagine her miracles
of blindness fooled only by folklore for yes

it was a thing that started and darted a small thing
that shone and did not shine all the while the sound
of water a hubbub and blub and through the hot hotel

as if in a confined hot water tank an angel
of limitation had careered and crashed
found itself reborn in froth all down the street

the singing street with its verve and violence
and was and was not and was again
while all the while even in its smallness/ugliness

what anyway can men know of this?
.

future crime

and your looking like that
as though and then the tides
the tides that come as if another
did not yet exist wait wait stop
one would cry from the time
machine no wait for it cannot be long until
all this is borne down subsumed
where you will
have no visa no right or rightly
with this think and think
again what and wherefore for this moment
will pass deeper in the crystal
feel the shapes that will become
when you wake to the horror
that passeth for excitation
of the merest the most perfunctory
but not one no was missed
or stayed or neglected all these
crimes were duly dutifully shouldered
to the wheel of list and lissome lust
too late then for any of it
now only the exploding debris
to be plucked from the mud
by the avid little fingers
of the light

.

.

cowarding the dread mythopoeia of lissome some-fay and ancient self-hatred/anger of others/the other and as if the duendé were for the moment shielded/occulted by a passing body far off/close as the fug of hot-oil kitchens and bayed rooms: in other words, disaster

and I'm on my knees
looking for the answers—The Killers

How to Succeed and How
to Suck Eggs
—The Book of Lies, Chapter 69. Aleister Crowley

how to ruin a space a body a time
with continua such she/she in fervours
of atavist agitate done this/then this

must follow like a river down a throat
of crime against the future writing
crazed patterns on your bedmaps

hold hold one would'st cry aloud
there or not mid the [eschscholzia
one inserts for mere linguistic relief]
all of it dream made real unreal

city full of rats how you wish at heart
that you were what you wish you
were at heart back then in the dichot

but no the word/world must erupt
in tomy the cutting if there is injustice
to match or swatch your innertomy

in fever in heat in must your spoor
your blood trail led you to this to arrive
fully unformed from the head up

or down as though a wind or other
irruption of blowing or sucking
had'st tooked it all away left nothing

no responsibility no reason
no understanding just shrinking
delight und horror unmappable

when/where it matters
most or mostly least seeming
now leastmost and hindmost

echoes through the wire the boast
along the coastways of that
that forbidden and most-bidden

to arrive at the midnight door
dragging her corpses laughing
hoping both for resurrection

and the deep omerta of all
that is past, unhearing
of its own laughing

about its own midnight
unsecret garden

.

Look at it this way: Modernism did this experiment of eschewing the past, of establishing a year zero. That was about as successful as any other religious force that denied that we had antecedents.

Look at it this way: you have just arrived at a football stadium, but you have no song to sing because nothing has existed before. It has really, but suddenly it's all disallowed. You have no history. It's not going to be that great an experience. Postmodernism is the huge laughter from that assembled crowd when they realised that no one even had a song. That laughter became the song. That *is* postmodernism. And yes, it's all echoes now.

The Grand Narratives of religion and belief and State were our hypnotics, our song losing or winning.

One day we awoke. But really we wanted to sleep some more. We didn't like being awake. Now we build Dutch/Hanoverian sinovial brick turrets that people call 'Lego buildings.' Some of us are still larfing ourselves sick on the terraces at the entire structuralism of post-structuralism. Oh, I mean postmodernism. Oh, I mean toothpaste.

Dan Brown didn't arrive fully formed from Hell. He was courted and solicited. Regard him as the post-postmodern throwback to the primordial firelight. He didn't just cough up Roslyn Chapel; you asked for it.

Mwah x

.

.

sideways down the holes
our tender buttons
claps

.

in case of sodden cows

a cow once ate rotten apples
in an orchard in Kent
went around butting trees
for three days drunk
on sort-of-cider
honking like a goose
sometimes it lowed up
at the bottom of my ladder
all plaintive and cow-eyed
come down it cried and let
me ravish those apples
you have upon your back
but no, surely no, I cried back

northern cunt, it said then
(that's what they say, down there
in that Kentish place)
from its many stomachs
full of ferment, just wait
until you come down

from your perch for I will
surely renounce vegetarianism
on your behoof
and will eat you from the apple up

three long days in a tree
terrorized by a mad cow disease
but it grew upon me
like moss and mould and yawns
now my entire family
grandparents, dead, and all
hanging
arboreal are we now
swingers all, the junglee VIP
three by three
banana-eaters amidst the rainy oaks
me and King Louie adrift
in this Agatha mystery case
of the sodden Kentish cow

.

Aizino avec curt

25/10/2015
think of those lead-faced deformed archers
lop-sided, lop-eared, crop-eared
shitting where they stood
in their fluxy blood
finally, after all that
had been shat
stretching and letting fly
their bloody bodkins
at the horses
at anything, actually
but mostly the horses

for that is how you do that
.

where big birds bask in the methyl

a beginning, a muddle, and an end — Philip Larkin

it is all so big

like a chicken he danced across it the whole desert cape
and others of which one darest not
that was anyway only a thing of the stars
look at it now in the filth
(like that she stank of the chemical)
(think of Wednesday and what it has gathered,
what it has become — is it even possible
to recover?)
that escapes from its broken mouth its south mouth
look and maybe kick at it as you pass by reviling

[a little black dress of a day-flying moth—
one must say, cinnabar in the marram]

sin, abar, sin nombre and you anyway the buzz and battery
not cell not uni but multiple we name you electrician 

you and your stars anyway, is it always about you?
pshaw, unholy earth and unfinished unfinishable blowjob
that you are or would be for all of us saw you

]empty-eyed (whisper etc) as starry spaces in that bath of lead that night
whereof anyway the openings of tiny cameras but of course
that means flowers for chambers are flowers by definition

and reason alone would requite it so just watch[
(who/hoo and what is that that bangs in the wall?)
if you don't believe then dig deep for your hexenoic acid

freak and fertility superfecund triorchid of the noon star

O dead thing, we are only here to worship your trail

one had something to say but that is all so lost

you, the vast and continuum of you
your own f-stops fuck
dead in your silver/gold emulsion
light replaced by light
box yourself, box yourself
think of it and box it
at last, as love, boxed in, yes
covered and worked out
in all your seams

.