Sunday, August 22, 2010

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


Sunday, August 15, 2010

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:


Friday, August 13, 2010

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


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


Sunday, August 08, 2010

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


Saturday, August 07, 2010

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

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


Friday, August 06, 2010

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


Wednesday, August 04, 2010

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


Tuesday, August 03, 2010

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