Tuesday, February 28, 2012

in the sinking dead places submarine tube-hats quite the new thing

a man in the torpedo tube breaks oh his kneecap silence

it takes sixteen hours
to find him
[killing at least thirty people[]
I'd have fired him out of there
like a human cipher/cigar/UFO/father/moustache/Guinea
(in some areas it's beginning to look (hard)

as though the tents were never there)
let him breathe briefly though before
the subsummation
when the waves. the recoil, the hammerhead
of underwater love and the incoming Big Wave Face
throw him a thousand feet/foot into the air
in wild shakes of rainbow
what now what now, he cries
I am agape and aloft all my things
are as after a fire in the engine room

falling soft into the surf
oh yeah we say again we say

we look at him broken on the beach
the whole vessel floating adrift
and what we see
and what we hear

a small plume from the V
a scratch when first you stroke
goosebumps and shaving
knocked out its generators

see what we see
hear what we hear

this isn't just death any more


anyone anyway?

Marie Colvin parachutes from the sky
she is in the 101st Airborne
she ends up surrounded
but like they say
paratroops are always supposed to be surrounded
she is not a gimp
don't think that
let's respect her
she's not that
she is a burning airship with its radio burning out
just the last crackles
of wartime code
coming down through the screams
looking for her shoes
which for probably cares not she
not like this
the endless
the cake of all delight
gone like that
who gets it?


Monday, February 27, 2012

the railway tide-swells of inverse foot-fetish

at 03:03 one night a woman sawed off
the feet of her companion in that bed in that place
in that hour and in that love and context and poetry

press it all flat as a train up the valley
just before it starts to snow
........................that plume
press it flat as steam
say it keep saying it
into the future
.............oh his face was now all ashlar-offset
so smooth so white so smooth so

...........and how weird and the rubble
as doorways into ..............rustication
as though someone awoke
at 5am to find both his feet cut off
all the lower bed soaked in blood
the feet and a red saw cast upon the floor
..........................................an open door
..........................................the wind blowing in like that
..........................................blowing things around
a car gone outside only the wind
—instead of calling the cops
he bandages himself up hunkers down until the pain stops
press he thinks press

he writes the long poem of amputation/love

he wonders where his girlfriend went
........................why she never called
........................what went wrong
........................why she hated his feet
why this was the song she wanted when her coin dropped when her bloody saw
when her feet when her dinosaur when her whirling pets her fish her elevation her distinction
of carriage of podia...

these are the things that happen in relationships
he thinks—these are the things that happen

somewhere far off she sucks at his dead feet
........................................watching reality TV
....................................thinking shit
..........................I need more tea than I could ever get down me
.............................................................................to do this job

this ain't fucking China


Thursday, February 23, 2012

dead frogs haiku

dead white frogs
float in the early melt
—no snooze button



learning difficulties haiku

a squirrel plays
in snowy pines
—learning difficulties


Saturday, February 18, 2012

Virginia Woolf's suicide note to her husband.

"Dearest, I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier 'til this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write this properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that – everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer. I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been. V."

On the 28th of March 1941, Virginia Woolf filled the pockets of her overcoat with stones and walked into the River Ouse.


Friday, February 17, 2012

some monsters with three heads silently applaud the assembly

this is mental illness

the fingers that reach for the keys, the buttons, the zip
have no heads they are mouthing but nothing
he wants to unearth your chest your breasts but has
no equipment which will suffice for this ancient task

all day he has been but only because surely
it is down there somewhere—but that's not nearly
good enough, not as language or anything else

this is language illness

that came suddenly and unexpectedly on the cold moor
and you with your head in a pool of moonlight

the birds silent in their hollow chests

please expect a little turbulence, ladies and gentlemen
for there are monsters in our midst

this is just illness


just stop now, okay
one is all out of everything
and has nothing to give


hundreds of men burned alive trapped in cells

this is all somehow

feral and dangerous—that fifteen minutes of appraisal
and the engine running let's go get wasted let's get shitfaced let's
pretty much spill and die I sleep on your rooftop at night dressed
as a bat or rat or other nocturna your roof sags now
from so much anxiousness and she next door with too much

[some sharing occurs—fleurs for after all it is/was/will be a Valentine's Day]

wine and cricket and all of it so filled with mountains and our little sons
repeating what we are /time in excess/ the red/orange the fiery
tip that is the readout the very tickertape-day the growth-point
of all this and not-this

such beginnings such disastrous conclave a ladder only
the man slithers down in some hurt after all I thought it was

a good film any way they recommend it


one electric cello senses its other shape

one phantom swell      that gulfs from the deepst
that played or foundered as feld/spa for its innate.exate.rotunda
see whaT I coulda BEEN only was a for this habit see how ex/inquisite

a tiny flower along the path look how
everything has become different
since the quartzes move in

[of a suddenly] /the/why do black people say question
moves in the steepswells of.hack.hack the throat of this
the throat and the culvert the ulvert and verte—the o-vert of like this:

you have no game, Joe, you, you
have no game, not no more that was
your phantom swell like a dipper that went nowhere

that turned bad that cooked down into frass and sea kale
two hares dancing the crepuscule think of that
the other place glimpsed from afar in momentary light

some scattered gorse and a certain quality of grass
can it only be the creation the creature of light and not-light?
these are vistas or vectors the oceanic cow-swells of geology

underlying but putting forth through inflence or subtle influenza
the heft and curdle so deeply sexual all that fur and skin
but for now for now only this—for everything really is intransitive

[as Ruskin sensing a malaria seeping from the industry centres
the sex dead or dying aloft tingeing through tropospheres]

in its deep unconnection.or maybe not not

no, imagine nothing


Thursday, February 02, 2012

a sad house in lava bubbles

the dead place the voice place
the noises of pigeons scrabbling on the roof chirping
in 1924/a man/from The East/with a curved sword
erupted on Trafalgar Square
his fontanelles re-opened spurting out lava
at passers-by and tourists
the streets sprayed with death
from the dead place the voice place
the tinge of grey that has infected your tissue
now you sit in the kitchen so strange looking at me so strange
the pigeons scampering the hot air balloons coming over
)'ballooooon,' we cry, 'ballooooooon...'(there is no pronouncing of this)(us fucking freaks always unpronounced(
us there forever in the hot kitchen your body surrendering
to insults to the dead place the voice to the lava
that erupts from a man's head
the taxis aflame the buses exploding
the pedestrians walking on fire unconcerned
us together slicing off our vagrant tissue
all full of ash and dead spots
knowing for the first times love
its slow necrosis even afterwards
then a startling moment when a man
you he says you, there in the dead place
I am gonna rip off your ass
this is what he says

[punctuation is direction of how to talk onstage.that's all.oh the other.also.the forest.breaking in]

the crowd goes quiet
while the helicopters descend to pick him up

okay, son, he's one of ours
they say, the helicopters
kind of a firework but one of ours
meanwhile let it spray

dead now all of it dead
from the far eastern tiles to the western outwire

over the sand-fields tonight again
London calling
stifled, dead