Thursday, April 30, 2009

the libido theory

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

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

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

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

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

by everything
measure it by

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

all over

emergency measures screwed into face

I understand
& I wish to continue

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

some unfinished boatflarf

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

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

Sunday, April 26, 2009

A short film about Wilhelm Reich:

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

improvised poem

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

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

broad son lit up lands

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

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

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

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

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

(Published in Intercapillary Space April 09)

Monday, April 20, 2009

caribou dive dive we have only these moments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

temple of ten thousand buddhas

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

atavism riff

you have to wake up to it
people have died already

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, April 19, 2009


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

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

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

Saturday, April 18, 2009

no place like home

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

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

(Publication forthcoming in Intercapillary Space)


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

Saturday, April 11, 2009

notes for a poem about cursing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

oh we told him right there and then:'ve had an episode are reassembling things
.............................without a plan

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

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

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

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

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

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

the beat goes on & the beat goes on

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

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

this computer has not recovered
from a fatal error

(Published in Intercapillary Space April 09)

smelted parataxis exercise

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

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

Monday, April 06, 2009

Jeremy Prynne Zahawiri bin Laden Gianna Michaels gulfed up nohow

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

Sunday, April 05, 2009

Fitzroy's moral collapse

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

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

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

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

this in its askance
is his moral claps

(This revision published in Burning Gorgeous:
An Anthology of Seven 21st Century Poets 2010.

Original version published in The Triggerfish Critical Review 2009.)

Saturday, April 04, 2009

phosphorus face

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

bathtime year zero flarf

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

Carlito the lair of the white worm ken russell etc

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

Friday, April 03, 2009

sometime after it's got to stop

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

gilgamesh runs hard for the border

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

CBU-97 Sensor Fuzed Weapon Zen on a stick

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

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

into bilderberg my slipstream peels ass but war war

what is it bad for?

giving of names to warriors

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