Friday, November 28, 2014

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


Tuesday, November 25, 2014

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


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
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

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


Monday, November 24, 2014


I thought I knew about it
I even shouted at it
it didn't shout back
it was a difficult child
sitting there smirking
without a Wah
pedal, no man will be fully able
to find a clitoris
even at this hour
footsteps past the door
loud river of souls
this string thing
this mist-ridden dawn
that will never stop

in/of/and lonely places (for Diana Manister)

the firs voice what falls off
the surrounding fire the wall at the call
you in the outer place far off as angels
we have no discipline outside of children
do not eat sprouts for they are unlovely
and resemble the genitalia of aliens
for which reason alone negotiate
parsnips and neeps on the other hand
are perhaps sent for teaching
and although undesirable may have higher

you with no voice or face in the firs
is a different story a cast-up from the bore
that sweeps at dawn all things
at the pace of tidal horses

think now of Hong Kong how they clean themselves
daily and wear tight stuff under the LED drumbeat
how they time their ashdrops to their pace
their fake Rolex between mouthsful
of Blue Girl prawns in white Mah Jong
and the shout that goes on forever
up Temple Street I am there in my bright
white eye at dusk at dawn at nightfall at the hour
in the crepuscular dance of half this half that
where you as a ghost wrap around

for this is the purple deep where our dreams
return impatient in their hooves look how they steam
and stamp upon the iron bridges over the slight river
so wide and hollow such a torrent of silence
nothing was known nothing of the Dead
who still gnashing crossed and were gone
in lucky money swirls of smoked love

just think of all of it at the hypnagogue as you fall
as you ache as you collide as you enter as the incoming
as the fire in the hole wakes you again
to what could have been

phosphene, I must call you that as a summoning
for the pressure and outer edges
think then phosphene, think of me
down there in the river and strait
turbulent and unrelenting as drowned childs without
drifting below without faces
looking up always up


what in animal sleep he sits next

when his girlfriend goes to sleep he sits
next to her seeing rainbows around her breath
with sparrows in the air everywhere like Edith

holding the gun to her head
wondering if it's worth it
for just that momentary sensation

where in one jerk all is lost forever
everyone must ask at this moment
whether Jackson is better than Rembrandt
but in the intervention

between the idea and the blooded-up wall
even in the moment of light
between the bullet penetrating and the spray

it is unanswerable
however far we double-tap dance
in the river's sweet waterwheel wreckage
sleep you stoned iron cage

.anyway, he does it
didn't you know
her brain drains through
the woodchip
but he is requited
silence at the very least
runs down like a vast beetle
lost in the mosaics of commitment


oh eat this devil say'd she

on a field like Columbine
now you're dumb I don't know why
bang bang tremor at the I for what is
as boring says/sayd he/she at the taable
tablets of demand the ten demandments
listen to this then one's unholy new fuckriff
watch this spread eat this evil
as though dead she lies as though
all the Dead were liars now lying alone
Woh, one needs to say, oh look
at the colours in the rain, festival boy, look
how they flood in marriage fornever

these portmanteau things clunk as leaden
hoofs/hoofs—on or of which, brother
clutch ghost-clutch in broad breadlight


Saturday, November 22, 2014

words one will not

a word you say or will ever say
as though parachutists were not usually
men from the sky

sky, get the weep of that
for this is not a poem of longitude
dark though you may like to appear
in your shells your atomic decay
even you whoever
do not yet tread the greater flats
watch for instance now
how this
Blues band so fat and uneven
falls from the sky



Monday, November 17, 2014

if it weren't
for this breath
I just couldn't


dark lagomorphs at dawn's whirl

already your heartbeat
has overtaken mine
I clutch your heels
and so we fall together
planted at the mouth
shriek, mother-child
for this love of wishing wells
and the buzzing disease
that surrounds oh shout shout
it is hot here
and our hands are lined and loose
be that only forever
endlessly, let us decrypt that
in the lorn shadow of what love maybe


blood and hair everywhere who can explain? one's love poem already

so borne down in the scheme
as a rat that scurried or perhaps
even didn't
it was all inconsequential anyway
considering what came next

wow there was a bang
and then the door fell in
a ratman ran in with a gun and said yes
to everything yes I am saying yes

and even though I hold a gun

in a threatening manner I feel love
somewhere though at this time I care not
to display it

for I feel as though I am the very essence of Gertrude
and Damon, whose names anyway

mean evil and delight       listen

I am not serious

so broken are we that our hearts now
hang full of blood in our mouths
but what else what else are hearts for
if not for bloody hanging as we, cripes,

are lowered unto

the singing roses below

joker that you are, Pale Death-face

fear ain't here, only marbles
oh he/she meant marvels
like all disasters.sing.shrink.ring

bang for it is time already.strange deer of the outhouse
jokerfaced lover
careless of thy prints, imprinter, implant, embedder
cock-eye half out and in

so choose life when it is urgent
for this god got a deep running problem

oh but you know
these fear places of love/hate/love

enough now:let's go there

don't look back.i have to try to mean this

it's not funny


Sunday, November 16, 2014

dead leaves seen active in ceremony

so engulfed were we then
that we of course
could not continue
but found instead harbours
of sea-laughter
amidst the snatching birds there


Wednesday, November 12, 2014

so sink the minutes to starry death

not in a million years/tears/fears with one so jellow-jaundiced would I travail
—Madeleine Shine

the wild packets that adorn
the futon of course photon heat of glossing rock and roll

stars these were, with which pulsing

her hands fairly exploded
as she /lifted them/ around her face
feeling-felt as press'd hair for presum'd tics
that/would/would/were not stop

(press hard unto thine eyes and then

with the stuff --@the stuff{
the hands that wriggle and straighten
oh that at least.think. if there were gerunds

here they are gone now yellow as dead
as ashtrays and cult films.dead they are or
may be.think.think how

withall without religion or sex-phosphenes so
anyway we s/leapt

one's eyes yellw and your heart-fear bellw for

in this of all this we find ' s/peace
no more or other
than that dinosaur what lookpt up
what didst marvel and momentarily
signify and complain
oh look, oh no no no
after all it was not he crieth
the great lizard god what done it but

fiery ctastrophs frm on high

)bearing oxies und gens they cometh(

such maravels and songs now hasten on white
wings behold


Thursday, November 06, 2014


in making the concept of entropy precise
any of his comments had an open mind
which represents rank and enfilade do you
overstep the mark not much short
of blood loss involved in a member
of its own affairs—he gave them the slip
by getting no idea is that true it can be EEK
shaken off simply by getting relocation
powers the difference everything they could

in the succession of firstborn girls to push
it through in one day—stay right where
you are in a single day in the opposite direction
unaltered even with incomplete reassurance-
an old question back into the consciousness
no other frontiers
whose lands had been,
I felt, deeply ashamed 
(finally after centuries it steps out, the PANTHer the ThInG)

...........................[it didn't work] ****

veering later, backing in the commons
at the forefront of arguing 
year on year he too has shaped
the voices of the living/their/appalling/histories

now, now they saw a chance to do the same 

the whole land has become


“Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able? Then he is not omnipotent.
Is he able, but not willing? Then he is malevolent.
Is he both able and willing? Then whence cometh evil?
Is he neither able nor willing? Then why call him God?”

—Epicurus (341 BC – 270 BC)