and
Three Poems by Marty Hiatt and Sam Langer

31 January 2013

home tunnel game approaching all get-out

fried afternoon fright great wing of gulls
as a clump of eyes
in the mail
sadness of cubes
rejected their networking lens,
nevertheless their reflex worlds
that meet & part amber
in the sky & one grey of waves
hailing & hatting st kilda,
remembered people,
an article about creamed face
head included
followed by reactionary tears
where eaters live

lay down 46 times in a world gone mad
to no avail, the lack of cost
evidence of how stupid

one had been, kissing
& kissing in the moonlight as ELWOOD
rose from sea at end
squint into lighthouse
then drive to park where gods
are their hatred of us, & us ourselves
treading down the light grass
& asseverating turgid inanities
we who wrote for nothing but
those planted kidneys & rich,
spastic babies, their lines of flight
a bible for airports
inflating a canopy to catch the souls of tars

hush! echo speaks!

it is a long fermata
smarting under the patina the
same nothing can feel
up a question about method:

you wrote at key points,
basically generated in bits
of other heads
struggling to work off
the planet of our letters

rafting now, between rats
w/ tiny hammers being
mind in the fountains.
the leaves sing: i’m glad
we’re beggars squirting cologne,
drawing this volatile burden,
glueing models. we never close.

there are a number of updates
from around the world.
in the mountains rainbow crows
tear up a book by doctor
justice. a paean to ato notes
weeping agents lacking
evidence. ask about our new
distant fantasies, suck the
energy of ghosts, important
hero found in moist syntax.
trade like its the 90s! i
work w/ data/children,
unexamined tasks. lift imp
ortant: hard clear sad cubes
turned up. betimes fire part
icles at trunk, cop missile.
look the window i’m vomiting

nevertheless the duplex world
rose from the emulsion sea
to reject clump of eyes and mail
in a looped story of net work forgiveness.

the business partner’s
random numb legs
encapsulate destruction
embrace death
he uses this kind of locution:
—i am a useless artist—

dropped digger’s rest implant shipment cargo cult

clam hands not for victory of public
sin taste rank wounds w/o dreams
instead i ask your bed: did
you get the anxiety? V exciting
like vice and coma in time
for crisis. tell the story of this truck
gliding into gleaming moistness.
then sad part in her curls sees crime’s
chipped tooth gnawing concrete
bust. my sterile catkin lay
down 46 times, blown
off by the world of insurance
broker coveting soiled report
of widely distributed friend.
it is not a friendship of grey
st kilda gulls, because deadlocked.
i mean to the atrophy cabinet.
behemoth films often considered
important suck wounded cones
of the dead. hollow boredom
applauded, then discarded.

this is only a surmise.
lying alone, godless, a whopping
tube of spirit slime branded
by the unmanifest after storm, more
nothing. graph suggest i’m building
bomb. but i’ve no way to verify this.
how long can we let
the “mummies” fuck us
up? spin wheels in
pure and formless
mud for levitation.

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