Melt

Posted in 67: A BRITISH / IRISH | Tagged

Too Weak to Be Modern

Posted in 67: A BRITISH / IRISH | Tagged

poem for you

I’ve been trying to write a poem for you
that’s lacking in lust, that has a point of reference outside of itself
which is you, not the rhetorical you
and me, the real me-misis
not cornered in a self that frankly even as a feminist
I’m getting tired of problematising

I’m being devastated by the hard lines of words
and the absorbing whiteness of it all, the sheet
the mirror suck of the
context of these blocks waiting to be filled
for me to touch them into being and say
something that I couldn’t just say
because it doesn’t exist yet, how could it?

One thing that went wrong is I’ve been
trying to construct a metaphor
around the way that
keys on a keyboard are pressed to make letters which make words
which a word processor can decipher and register

it probably involves electromagnetism or
code or something but there’s no way of googling that doesn’t
lead nowhere, like
I’ve tried how does word work and how do we make writing
and computer typing science and how does word word
which was a typo and nothing so no metaphor, barely any poem at all

it was supposed to say something about form, about a meaning filling
up its neat preformed box and the relatively limited
materials we have to work with and way language ultimatey blocks communication
and I was going to fill the serious space in the middle with some
pasted scientific words
(cf. all the poetry I’ve ever read or written)
but as I’ve no idea how it works
there’s no hope for my metaphor
but there’s still a poem for you
it’s not disappointing, it’s not vacuous
it’s not me, it’s not you, it’s
really for the reader, who’s being a brat

What’s the worst thing about this poem?
Well, it might actually throw the whole thing out
like, this is me at full stretch and this is the best you’ll get
What did you expect? Do you even know what it’s like being alive right now?
Someone’s probably emailing somebody else right now

I’m only good for my carbon
I’m offset by tax breaks and charmed by incentives
for our love
house prices are improbably going up and
the sky is frozen like its been stuffed
at the back of the fridge
I’ve been winded like a horse
stashed in the out-buildings like a corpse
strung up like road kill meat, free and illegal
and broken all the way through
shook up like change
rolled up, crushed between forefinger and thumb,
kept in a bag, lost on the Tube
befriended by cats, stuck all over with hairs and making
peace with corners and undersides and insects and
the enormous cells of their eyes
nonbeing is the new being
muyu is the new yu
one of the things about the self is that its edges bleed, and please

I get so sick of these poetry boyz being always making a fuss
writing poems about love like it’s the final cleverest metaphor
LOVE
if you were in love with me you’d shut the fuck up about it

Posted in 67: A BRITISH / IRISH | Tagged

iii. (Eris)

I’m a part   of a cult. We follow the Goddess of discord. We’re going to bring down the government.
We don’t believe in things that we don’t need to / we use fruits we splendour & never harm.

I’m all alone. Only yesterday, the aphids, the aphid food, the full beetle I
sore through the eschaton,, prop up the yen,, hold my hands,,
fuck with ye friend there’s a want in us all, cut, statement of surrender, TIC cut, TIC this
cheap violent discomfort sniping for
I

to kill you. TUP // what does killing you?
to want some of purity, no muck in the wound, keeSOME PURITph/scabbing clean. I’m a member of a
cult where what we do is to / we take up the bait put out the bait talk in that tense


/

….asph.. yc ...aps TIC ..dus ashyi .ahips

Satisfied she. Move t’_i wards arms acrossed our feet polder inept wing hands no this no but more you still crimp under gas light wait ,, oft I solder varicose bluff the no room serial bind out. Turn that down.
DON’T UNSCREW THE PART SLATS SMASH THE FUCKING CHAIR YOU cool!
, don’ tyousee there’s a sense in saying████blieve that if murder in a room and that room is cleaned out leaving no trace then the next group of people in the room replicate,, are affected by what happened previously and we should kill t/; iiiiiiiiaxhphapi
/

Do n’t. L oom. Had ron. Pu lser.

/what we want is to / to do is have you(ahsixtphi) ,(p ’ll use kind of magics,,, hose of my people and that in me skeptic ,,, welling up and she bent down took my cheek between my thumbs, and kneading it pulled me through cumming cumming that we should have purged
The thing unpack hold onto the ] flash out (cl!) no muck in the wound so much to wash in the service station loo, ketamine wait, thee bastards get to the bar hold down his arms. and legs, sweet man!! Turn that down.
First purge (subtly): “Daniel Heatherton, Edward Heatherton, George Heatherton, Oliver Heatherton, Tim Heatherton, Bryony Pring, Naomi Smith, Phoebe Harrison, Ranolph Harrison, Jacob Bate, Verity Bird, Phillip Cunningham, Jamie and Alex Donaldson. Also Lucy Donaldson (some time later), Sam Palmer, Jack Watson, Bay Watson, Edward Norton, Kevin Cox Guy Stanway, Brook Adams, Lord Arthur Fitzalan Howard (b.1991), James Cooper, Miles Frost & Hilary Pring, Crispin Beilby Forbes Adam & Hal Francis Forbes Adam & Charlotte India Forbes Adam. & why not Charles David Forbes Adam and████both with the same Kali dagger in the stables, lo. And how will they die? By the weapons they leave lying around their houses. Richard Shepperd MBE, Steve Rainbow, Simon Griffiths, James Kirk, Ben Hudson, Alex McClean, Marc Jones, Ruth Tether, Rory Henderson, Clive Friedrich, Debbie Deans, Alex Randall, Stuart Wilkinson, Sam Jamieson, Simon Howson, Jackie Goddard & David Beavers in the guise of a post horror sex jaunt down the banks of the Foss where cover story has them pulling plastic bags over their heads and slamming claw hammers into their rectums and faces, flashes of crimson, foams and sewage rising splendidly to snow down upon the wretched fumbling torsos. Amen. Helen Botterill, Jane Pick, Alicia Hudson, Catherine McClean, Helen Ashby and certainly Tarnia Hudson who shall hammer his own hands to her own forehead, screw a lock in its lung, take one retching breath through a nosebag of iron filings & chew them into a bullet, spit the bullet into the air through a blowpipe where the bullet will fall into its frontal lobe. ZOOM”. And when this first purge is done any political motive for the killings will be discredited by the madness of their personal orbit. These are the first people our party will dispatch. “Amen”.
Hallowed globe. A baste hate inflect [hold onto the parts of the chair and take the chair to bits before he sits down] (cool!) P&B as (but for) spit on dye whip rivet chest on in the stratosphere, it’s killed to cough in dust of phones Hands on if deviate no hours and always at minus that. The rigid peeled back skin, the dick on teeth, the teeth on it, swallow at the time spit and to not care, and not do, turn down.
but. I’ve been working hard I’ve been going to the right people with my problems those private inflections of /./.kiss my stomach no my actual stomach not the skin on top of the stomach g;. get into the skin and kiss the or.;,mkl;,..//g /

Tire d by will s to g et on wh at o ver m ust she

Second Purge (funtime - perceived public/celebrity enemies etc): Terry Bozzio, Professor Brian Cox, Mortis, Stephen Fry, Richard Dawkins, Janet Street Porter, Terry Eagleton, Peter Hitchens, Gary Ablett, Glenn Hoddle, Claire Short, Rosie Lugosi, Scroobius Pip, Paul Foot, Kate Nash, Melvyn Bragg, Paul Daniels, Nicky Gumbel, Russell Brand, Tim Minchin (& all other intersectionalists), Guido Fawkes, Joanne Harris, Katie Hopkins, Matt Redman, Jodi Picoult, Lee Child & of course Prince who comes over here and who nicks our jobs. & Matthew Kelly, Harry Styles, Sergey Lavrov, Vic Reeves, Brian Blessed, Georgina Fitzalan Howard & of course her housemaid’s knee Edward Fitzalan Howard VERTICAL, HORIZONTAL, TOP DOWN, SIDE ANGLE TO THE LEFT, LEARN DEAN, EACH HELICAL RECIPROCAL DREAM today is the most humble R rectal POST ILLUMINATION WOMB BOMBS, Damien Hirst, Ben Fogle, Zoe Ball, Brian Limond (see this purge is the publics ‘what the fuck is going on?’ moment, & so we’ll be aiming arrows in a democratic display of political fairness which is why we’ll also take down some public left leaners: Stewart Lee, Terry Eagleton (again), Laurie Penny & obvs Mark steel)... We’ll be preferring men generally, mind, men like Johann Hari, Mohammed Al Fayed, Bruce Dickinson, Johnny Rotten & someone in our ranks sickly suggested we put one through the throat of Bill Drummond, so I decided enough was enough & that this was no longer our party but mine. I put Bill Drummond in a nuclear bunker and headed to the next party meeting with a broomhandle mauser. Next purge (party sadness, end of madness): I shot bullets into almost every one of my comrades killing most of them, mortally wounding some, firing novelty ‘bang’ flags into a few. These, though, were sharpened projectile flags which jabbed into the sick party skins, left ppl bleeding not laughing. You deserved every last bit of that, I mean look what you’ve done… Can’t you see, ‘(Rupert Murdoch) we find that violence resides everywhere behind the false appearance of universal peace’ / ‘Today is the most humble day of your life’ I’m sorry I shot you Jonny / we need ppl to kill still more my comrades slithering in heaps of bolognaise blood ,, they crawl and play, sashay through the windows of the party promise neo what there fell my lover’s strobe upon the pouring guts and cheeks what now that all the F██████have been felled what I want is an approximation of what comes next see the allegory is set as me and mine in the tent and the aristocracy and damaged celeb figures, their national infliction, the goddess, who by way of smiting in spite and lols threw the apple to the prissy rulers, the party, for self tearing. ON. KILL R. CHARMICHAEL,, on summer’s breach and FRINGE FESTIVAL desocate sleep sweetly as LARRY Dwavin && FLAGS Tim Fields within without and fall into the heather on top of the points of dear Tara Kray and Jow Montreux, be parted. And now go over to me in my bed and hex on IBEX Global Solutions plc (AIM: IBEX), a leading provider of contact centre services and other business process outsourcing solutions, is pleased to confirm an interim dividend of 1.9 pence per share which amounts to an aggregate cash cost of approximately $1.25 million. And be and be beautiful and be only and be purged. Politcal purge (parties and thinkers): get past the skin and kiss the organ grip the skin hold the skin in your hands pull it apart coalesce our boots the same sounds cascade over the gentle waves the rock’s babble. Then when we touch, our quiet comes. TN CLFF/@ Then when we make (sfz) for arms sprayed PARSEQ in 7 y/p to induction of staff, and thereby, COOL ye inducement the seed is the night burst a smell so amoebic . Then return the self same once we did it slowly there was glass everywhere and long massive hopeless bottles they used them to push me apart and they were very funny. What they did and do now it is funny. It’s hard to know what you’ve done. Climb aboard for the kissing of the genitals mounted on the stomach, putting your lips onto asses, screaming at the bus making me take hold of the number for the bus service complaints centre. That number pull the your face ou of the computer fox. Set it down by G, the well sure fucking little mug, smarmy assed Reborn frog marched on the quiet sideline this is not a criticism. Shadowed as were / forget well schooled £,t%*^(he movement in total funds for the year is a net when it out wityh hnda ha9irkdeficit of £0.1m mainly due All digitised documents shriek to fuck stirp search SACK it now to has been done, and to has been and associated Thi traffic is abstracted powerhjfd.;ll; ljh5;u phehr with l,ej use that it’s thethat it is the best i cabnl achi best I can abstract power ,lwe can just hold off but the traffic scoop taff and Managers on issues such what a sound data can be accessed through Parseq's (2010: £1.5m), up £0.1m. This movement eto expenditure from designated funds bdvice to sas Maternity, Paternity, pay, tax, SSP, SMP, Holiday and Sicknerought forward. Move forward to do it better. I can get you returns on some logic thusly: Having not been a fishmonger. Having never been in the guts or scooping them out. Or to never have built a fishmongers then if George truly, and I believe it, is the power significant for development of the sustainability of, say, fish. Or, say, business models, then it is to return later. We will discuss the man who builds with both his hands. The man exalted and funny. We’ll go back there to him don’t you worry. He’s always about. Thank God. Don’t tell me how to shit up my lids. And when you get to him hold on because things’ll move quickly, we’ll have to keep up as long as we can if we are to fuck him if he is kind enough to be fucking us then we are kind enough to have his mouth out the excited peripheral cult-heads clutched at the rim of my calf. Why was I thinking that under the massive gold Kallisti singalong when I should have been aware of the gravity of the situation and not thinking about him! He gets a blowjob for each initiate. It’s the late sixties and you’re writing for Playboy. Everyone gets one. But it’s still of little use to say nothing; Mumu pre-exists, erm, George. But not Playboy. I’m still thinking about that now under the sun it is my right to do it and to do whatever the fuck I like. Remember the Beanfields? Now come in from 2010, my dear. Reflecting this, Every part each of eyes use each . Thi` traffic is abstracted power use that it’s the best I can abstract power then maybe we can just hold off but the traffic scoop Providing asswhat a sound it was / yu underneath the grass bridge what no it heard it. net current assets have reduced to £1.3m at the balance sheet date (2010: £1.4m). The main asset of the charity is Cash at bank, Reckoned on the cusp of the year, cooking out Now come down kiss the raw the course as you appeared to run out at suck through it, the wick merrie call, THE BIRDS!! Karl Holweger o with an snapper hear ts tap tapping at the rhythd . Now tether both our (no just tether me) teeth of bit no just use what you need// O my Eris, my life is so boring. Could I be in the middle of a significant historical moment at least once in my life Push me into my self, bend me forward over myself. Tie my hands and ankles to a wooden frame before the ascendency. We went down in to the pool of snakes in the middle of a significant historical moment at least once in my life I can hear her fucked up muffled screams through the wall / I can have lustily been of those we had killed. For their hollow hearts, all empathy abandoned.ctor suf Pellk Creditors: amounts fall decry scrap use / ; one year - which stood at £1.6m at the balance sheet date & was offset by a reduction in Debtors from £0.7m to £0.2m nominally due to decreased prepayments & BIRDS!! But befor e the ascendency we went down in to the pool of snakes where we decreased to £0.5m from £0.8m designated purge funds knocked & brought forward ! Where we now consider the field of our vision (trippy) so totally stuck what promise little is there have you fully formed creatures in the belly were paid out. At the year end, & George, We are still even now unable after all/ v ert33 cut the throat under the mud guard on the wheel and once the throat is out of the wheel lovingly dismantle the chair, thoughtfully await the return of your manager. He may go to sit in the chair; he kicks me, & I echo with it,, his unconscious good blood nullity surpassed by transcendence, do that to his chair, file it under BENT FUCK DOUBLE IN come on HA then wheel it over to a place neglected by wolves, show him the lack of wolves there, show him the operatied dexterity of your gender in the ambition to have his hair flayed in the stocks under the general area managerial promise I did my best and my best was always 4 percent below target, the target to be representative in and at your true self, to explain for everyone their comprehension of your details, your preferred terms, your position on toilet breaks, your sexual & gender identity, and for that reason the chair and I will be forever left hoping to transcend something else. BIRDS are mocked at disassembly, so is the octopus, and the mussel, and the yellowtail and the substance of TRACTION oil,, & I could have been the back gas in a bulb, I could have been a part of this laptop. What have you made in your life? Constructed to be put at large into the rendition of its power? Men are very funny lining up one by one to be brilliant in speeches, and that is what they are they are very very funny. My love skids lumps over the harbour lights because they are so full, the men in the lights and in their planning! I can feel their speeches, and the voiceover pilloried in the speaker on the inside of the office toilet wall that says you freak they are so so funny when one says to the next what has happened in your life my man is you’ve created something, and without bragging you’ve become humble and funny and peaked, and keep peaking. I would want to suck on you all and suck its harmless spectral shape on my teeth, he is there on the outside of my digestion, his face is staring out covered by my skin. I like u. I’ve come out 4% below my claim that the chairs in this room can no longer hold onto your heroic back. Kill everyone on Warren Street, piss on their furniture and children, have their children sexually abuse you. It’s what they do best. Now that hadron pulser under the motto cannis / carnem / ecky thump resolves to do, and do better ; to be willing to or to have dispatched by decree & in separate parts him: This, as my body at least is, unmanageable. (This movement is concluded by the singing of a childhood hymn).






기드온






גדעון

Posted in 67: A BRITISH / IRISH | Tagged

from ‘[of sirens / body & faultlines]’

 (london will die)
                            as all we ever bought here w/
                            suffering & condemnation,
                                                                          , by the basis
                                                                          disinvested in lives & the
                                                                          workings of the hospital / 
                            dereliction carved vital into tony blair & white teeth 
                                               & smiles sound
                                                                         tracked back to work &
                                               bed closing circuit wage differentials [::]
                                                          of cyclic years cutting & our 
                                                          difference rendered the same [£]
                                                                         of things can only craned speculative
                                                                         of financial blood / abandon f’
                                                                         contemporary rot
                                                                                                          tangible 
                                between alarm rent clock day & the damp 
                                bred work & less well, you
                                sick on the skill shortage & IWGB:
                                collateral of wages for living, dear
                                                                                        boris opinion violence
                                               distributed / digested to the point of / common false 
                                                                                        you
                                               killing clean for the purpose crimeswept &
                                               arteries oligarchical, [[applause of yur latest
                                                                                                                                friends sung
                                                                until the housing bubble detonates all 
                                                                drunk dressed up to leicester square & post-
                                                    public school, 
                                                                             as solidarity bored 
                                        office cellular goes to 
                                                                             foodbank & the 
                                                                             paving, cloud top
                                                                                                           of the shard as the 
                                                                                   working class vanished severe & you
                                                                                   puke underground 
                                                                                   apology,,  
                                                                                                   [f forgot from friends 
                                                                                   carved glass through the throat
                                               poem is easy & as inevitable
                                               as the next collapse :: 
                                                                  productivity absent bled 
                                                                  arms from the city
                                  , strand dust poured
                                  ashes of our work onto parliament square, which you can
                                             holiday w/ police throwing knives charge
                                                    / odeful hallway snailing city 
                                                    hall glass, your murder of
                                                                                                   frequencies & hours
                                                                                                   barb the workday
                                  & A&E warped into yur lux home to filth
                                                      to gull & garbage struck still & labourless 
                                                      & ancient foul of thameswash

                                                                                                      (14.10.14)

                                                          
     
 





                   our archives of health, abstraction 
                   & belonging / precarity, sirens
                   of work & body & home 
                                                          // consider the boss as virus attached 
                                                          tissue / muscle, our agony 
                                                                                                        growth of the 
                                                 city, sprouts & off ‘natural’ until 
                                                 collapse, where we
                                                                              organs hollow left 
                                                            heat w/out clambering 
                                                            ingredients f’ each hour had 
                           built 2008 2001 1993 
                                                            1986 1973 1929 1907 
                           1901 1896-73 1866 
                                                        1847 1837 1825 1819 
                                                            1796 1772 1720 ,, ventriloquist towns 
                                                            of our births, of death finance personified
                                                     , extract suffer
                                                                               /ance & life support / premium 
                                                            foodbanks & detentions, border strictures & 
                                                            hang of “the law private &
                                                                                                            up close / I
                                                            wanted to […] be a joke”, cracked
                                                            fetish : canary wharf
 











                                              second split
                             of all fireworks looping / saturate 
                             entire sky compliment w/ every
                                                                                       siren bright to 
                                                                                       point of tearing all ears &
                                                                                       eyes enlightenment 
                                              . you turned to thank
                             offering , obscured constitution 
                             of minds, bloods, limbs charred
                                                                                       , an image for digital
                                                                                       friends / rats myth as equal
                                             owners ground rivers knee-skimmed viral
                                             mutated official hygiene brand
                                                              now they took your name & flagged , so
                                                              happy in the minor distribution
                                                              of warmth \\ season abolished the soil
                                                                    abolished, radiation-free ocean abolished,
                                                                                                         economic democracy
                           beautiful in yur passport headshot entry in
                                                                                                         paleness destin-
                                                                                                         ations of vitality / descent the
                                                                                                         traffic according to theresa
                                                                                                         may ‘cut by
                                                                                                                             drowning at sea’ 
                             k-hole politik to point of sharing where
                             all essential intention & contradiction 
                             are outside the click of understanding, 
                                                                              glam ancient react to grow
                                                                              up in progress & happy keep
                                                                              the global south enchained
Posted in 67: A BRITISH / IRISH | Tagged

from Lip Trills

Strung out goes hard wired
into the signature scarring
so shown on arching barks
as sampled tolerance slurs
and ligatures, he shall have
music wherever he goes to
stack accumulating pocket
money with foxed gatefold
and the bells on his fingers.

A sugar here, green readies
there, all burns to sidereal
industries in breath attacks,
skip the slow ballads come
pace making sunny tinnitus
so hot, so feted to become
neat, merely cute or spent
the worse if not to nothing
in impertinent middle age.

Timbre taken up against all
and the dues sorely stated,
slimy substantial thereness
hails the hero sulk in slacks
up, up in neighbouring fields
levellers, hip hands on deck
the devil take the crupper o
go slow, hindrance bellows,
greenbacks in festive mud.

Calling out moonings in full
to tinpan alley deal-breaker
sure slung tunes to counter
trigger happy folk-tales shot
loving to hunger emphases,
vault the songbook and flag
the white heat, the white lie
the white that broke the ice
from Vietnam to Greenland.

Then salt chip desert scalds
lunge to betterment means
shimmering treecraft to rock
the port or shake the filling
the passive-aggressive strum
on portmanteau, evening sun
to the creditors, to the tune
tinkled space rock longueurs
to ring out inner ear symbols.

Here we go a-looping down
the estrangements, down so
proper nouns can soul press
seasonal drift, everything on
eleven, still sounding ochres,
will it be a flower of droned
evils you’ll be wanting next,
no? sweet tooth, make some
chat to bit distortion chords.

Ah how housework befriends
the prospect of brooms into
microphones, ploughs on to
virtual humidicribs, lacklustre
remedies to plangent call, a
northern so-so face obelisk
tempting kitchen sentience,
really, isn’t that enough to
realise its penitent acetates.

At half the going half baked
so to prevail on Moog mode
you find the diode in dismals
or the Berlin option, slackers
for the road, slackers for the
office, clubbing, showboating
the aura of militancy sewn in
to solid states, sold diatonics
down to regress in celestials.

Another drive calls, another
looping of continents does a
feedback image, a snatching
for hallmarks out of thin air
echo off glossal restoratives
to Head of Bight, long swim
back down refrigerated water
less chilled fridges, rebirthed
radiator gurgle, hold it there.

Posted in 67: A BRITISH / IRISH | Tagged ,

192.168.0.1

as propagating through a system
whether discourse or node
(of discourse

sighting the node behind fog is better than stars
hungry for azores ,,, or bestiary

triumph flashes in wildness
in an ontic way ,,,
appenine or propagates
takes ridges
blood-network of linked peaks

take this as though ,,, you are in bat country
my friend
we are as links of blood sausage

what we know of each other comes down the navel now

take my shit
constellated though it be
fine and exemplary

do not escalate this encounter hold hands
in the human chain

just finally say hello and disappear (

Posted in 67: A BRITISH / IRISH | Tagged

clear jams

I saw the first one
come down
as a bride adorned
ornate with sorrows

roid rage
incarnadine
for pushing amber
all succumb
to the ideal stir up

tumbledown sky
was all euphoria
star encasement
Worth Fighting For

Posted in 67: A BRITISH / IRISH | Tagged

from Becoming

I.

Writing. Out of the birth inamorata that shelters me.
I: cleansed. I communicate from parallel data density
socket. Eye: alright. Eye definitive K-Mart complex.
I here, touched, where technology is abandoned. I,
falling aboard. Eye rope in the primacy of winter
daylight. Numb wash of keen swallows pound the face.
I : citric water. I : dissolved into acid counts. Unhook
the temerity of walking as matched shore to shore.
Your belly goes against me like a bruise, or garbage
sack spilling. Repeat: dispenser. Repeat: the sexual
gap of your mouth (a dark rose) – love/bloody spittle/vomit.
We constitute ourselves as liquid rubber running through
the town’s tar pits. Isolated: lassitude. Hairy numbers
come crawling out with the populace’s skulls between
their teeth. River: rivulet. Scarlet flesh of a shell notated
& hollowed by grim virgin birth itemised 1st para. Not the
hole I dwell in: love–blood–vomit. Prise open the can
with a gear shift & swap genitalia albeit monkey surprise
glove excitement. The story’s O couldn’t rid me of
glossolalia no matter how hard they tried. I sang on,
vowels cresting a unintelligible glass. Cracked laminate:
the Duchy. Failed omniscience hunts to gloss panda, we.
Once were. Animals hindered by subject lines &
multiple proclivities. Every time I try to be funny
or clever my body screams so I have to stop. I have
to sacrifice my need for love or the abuse known as
interpretive approval. The body beautiful, the sunk
navigator tuned to inner anchor. Now then the body
flames it shrieks it hovers it blasts it’s been plundered
by years, animations, shit, flows. Unhindered by
sustenance, attacked for entertainment, & now
surfaces in the grass before a waiting smile.

Posted in 67: A BRITISH / IRISH | Tagged

Trees Not Tending Leaves (extract)

infestation to own leaf-order, that people are now the science of the park how root makes increment from what surfaces of disadvantage assort
heaving over root-steer, so many leaves to have been stripped on form, they are not the reprisal but the retro- sags of design, where alignment puts them ahead of itself
displacement cut to leaf only to envy a lightened origin to this siphonable intent trees rebegin here, not at offering a duplicate sprig but at the leaves’ own myriad tubulars
a canopy pulls itself up onto the shallows from which any larger proffering may combine with the hardstanding it has retracted onto not structurally but out of care of a mass terminal flutter
tresses gained each day across slight incline of trunkal vein
not tended because pure relief of shelter dissolved to catchment and without any skin of it desiring the trees’ advancement
untentative separables out of a rash of gummy leaf at drop-point the deep pitching into tree posture where abandonment is its moundal and the stubble of loss evenly recessive
whose leaf-production inclines to no crop and whose distribution of cast-offs pervades what is previous of shortened limb in tree
not lenient in leaf but a cusp fluid, the curve of any slight ontological retainment strip by strip, not least of any static if staring into its own unobstructed scatter
leaves flow to the core of what doesn’t go with them, the apex was a nurture untended at its slightened-erect: intended debaseable vertical offering, all equation though scarcely any inclusion
a tree alone with its dead propulsion along shaft once out of leaf
relinquishing the ribs of tree but never its hoop speculative immensity out of a previously thieving system
love the tree but be at bay outside it defect onto its tinge of touchy aggregation a reflex of unshuffled steepness and not a limb among it
a filter rubble baling out trees but dried to its vegetative plane of momentarily tethered elongation
the prophetic frame brittle enough to overleaf itself, the slightness takes that ontological vetting into net
slurs are the leaf amount into woods to fore-tie an eclipse of any solo depth brushward so flat at thread these extreme lintels of surface lenses flushing off intemperate core delay
leaves prolong, in failing, any ride along curve of the diminishment, hipless leaf set to hip by choice of a descendent (root-purge) array the turning airs of the darkening sheaf
settlement stride now disclosing a rammed condition in at the leaf and proposing veterate ramification through the pore
if leaf profile drew into tree it was no longer a summary envelope at drop-time the immaculate fritter is a shutter, ie the click towards season, the roller armature off branch delivery
leaf-cowl? but less any towelling, why be hooded to a pin of tree precinct?
unbestrewable hinterland at the root-well itself what leaves are covering here is how ground hovers
what is window to leaf is a shadow to tree
the sender nervure, communitarian leap reckoned token arch, staple breach
casting a fingerable spell through the arm, the harmlessness of heavy to root
there may be tacit reserves of leaves but no substrata all layering is towards light suckles along a trial of minimally anchored deposits opposition drawn (to root) but already thawing at a latitude of surface
a compaction of the local at its real space deep root a lyric life rattling off stem dried to a vertical vegetative immersion
partition only along peculiar planes of adjustment how a toll of tree flies to its neighbour connection, on every leaf of collision
if tree is what petrifies on its stand, the haze of leafage was even earlier than resuscitation onto trivial sill
lengthening the immateriality of diaphanous sewing, seams accrete veins, display spares for credentials of concrete wing, tree at its filmiest span
leafings not so much in trans-ascension as condensers of soft shield towards a target at the drape of rise
leave it to leaf level to flatten out the condensation a lair of tree nursed into leaf, hung there from finer hairs of its concealment lap, trunk to disc of random depth
what is lent out is for a time worthless in leaves leaf out of leaf, done with branching off some wry platform terror
the trees’ self-handling of a girth of earth
insular but leafed over onto the thud of defection foiling all tenderness as though it were itself a soil, the seal’s rim at this several of flap just out
with leaves on scrap, to afford what the bark ratio scarps verticaled towards
leafage is a concision of origin but no reversal, scathing opposite traversal at such a lean fillip of beginning
this tending to finitives is not for coaching leaves, render them their apprehending lapse of the cult of themselves: not boughs freshen them but the whole blunder of tree
the knack of lift through branches not green in their own weight how the unplenty fails its forest onto leaves of acquisition
that trees are clotted to leaf-synthetic mutual contusion: only then the trip-circuits become root systemic, accelerated reserves
Posted in 67: A BRITISH / IRISH | Tagged

Through

i.

Let’s go then

Because if we don’t nobody will –
I had that this thought for the morning,
We could concentrate our energies on the movement through
Weigh down on the action
Work out where the word becomes feeling
Through
Step over into the traffic through.

Not that it has to be a morning thing,
I work late above the dooryard

The sheer distance
That
Abstract reckoning
For no other reason
The world.

Which is chatting with you
Watching movies with you
In which the most innocent gesture

Or the smallest forgetfulness

Waiting a letter with

ii.

This I can say:
It showed me finally
That the actions of a person
Clear and pale
Thus effectively lost
Witness
The evidence
Calm, unbroken
Occur here.

I can say this in the morning
Nobody statements foreclose
No tribunal today
Not this sunshine
No letter either,
Just some life story
Folded through
Played out piecemeal as
Biography happens:

Steady
Anonymous
Simultaneous
Activity.

I talk to Simon
Simon sets the birdsong out of Peckham
We listen awhile and
Over the traffic
Somebody cultivates
The Old Kent Road –
Which is the way things go
Things go gracelessly as we go
Aware –
No one asking today
Nobody auditing –
As persons

Standing still
Which is I submit
The evidence necessary,
Trousers nothing special
Watching the way
The wind blows
In your telltale shoes,
The case against
Habouring affections
In the face of
Politics:

Six
Brushed teeth
Noticed the world wake
All dewy
And Confused.
 
Topsy
Turvy.

As these societies became more complex
The need for writing
For administrative purposes
For recording legends

For Myths
All dewy
Woke up startled into consciousness
All the evidence today assembled argued
Through

iii.

MIDNIGHT
And all the while some kind of
Collective emergency
Leafing through Mayakovsky
I look at politics in poems
Bargains

struck at dead of night

I’m thinking

LET’S GET THE TRANSLATION RIGHT SHALL WE

Habiter
From habitation

I look at politics
And stones

And use the word advisedly
I use the word ‘advisedly’ advisedly
Picture us in some kind of ruin
Waiting for the rhetoric to show
Sea whacked
And no-one home
I shake hands with Lucy Williams
You standing on the battlements
Contemplating the prospect

possibly
so.

iv.

And so the sun kicks on.
I think I’ll take that document now please
And then maybe later
We’ll come up with some kind of plan
Since this is serious and you’re so well dressed
Shoes shined like your life depended on it
In the rubble
Maintenant en Français
Oui c’est grave.

You say the word ‘grave’ advisedly,
There is no word for ‘all’ in English,
Standing watching the traffic
Waiting for the agencies to show,
Tout le monde,
Waiting for the world to show
Outside your doorstep
Like lilac like
Standing still and walking
Waiting while the dogwood
At your garden door.

Which it doesn’t happen
The way the lyric steps up all uninvited
Like lilac all
You had to do was listen
Waiting in the doorway while
The world rolled past
Some kind of presidency
One by one

I am no recipient of culture
It’s an agency thing
I listen to Jarvis
Jarvis Cocker plays
LeRoi Jones

At the doorway singing
Jarvis plays Gill Scott Heron
Collis starts up
Jarvis plays Olson
I had to learn the simplest things last
Not an ocean stretching out beneath my feet
Just that it’s a you and I thing
Crossing somewhere
Making an agreement
Following the language
Through

v.

But if we had to start over
Even only air and such
Slate grey April
Nobody roots attached
If we had to start lengthen bodies out
Set down a canopy out of nothing
Table something out of nowhere
Wouldn’t it go like this?

This is my question.
I note down books people talk to me:

Edward Casey, The Fate of Place

Mystic sheer distance
That beautiful abstract reckoning
Sun drift over Camberwell
I write a poem about space

Waiting in case the world
Let’s get the implication right shall we
Standing sampling Massive Attack
Down by the salle d’attente
And we shall construct at variance
Singing in the present participle
Urban today everybody
Uninvited

Like some document filled with other people’s songs
The only surviving parchment of the twenty-first century
Some kind of air crash
In which the only thing remaining
Was a line out of Gertrude Stein
Quoted by Simon Smith
In a train just departed Dartford
Space of time filled with moving

I write a poem about Margate
Folded out toward an abstract reckoning
Assemble this night
In the present participle
Watching the uninvited
As they start to sing
The Wreck of the Deutschland
Set down a canopy out of nowhere
Footage you are now exiting the future.

vi.

So the names roll out again
Dartford, Chennai
The angel in the doorway clicks his teeth
Because here is how he likes it
Dirty intense
Ibuprofen heavy
Thick with song.

And ready to go again
Because these folds are exquisite.
Only the phone equal
To the next spike
Blond euphoric
And so the names roll back
San Diego, Margate,
Margate, Kent.

Though nobody will vouch.
What we’re talking here is compound interest
Which stands, at a certain vantage, for love in politics
You sit
You do nothing wrong
Maybe you go for a walk.
That way there’s no redemption.

But it’s not impossible
We assemble a line
Picture a strictly ornamental universe
Geography situationism
The twenty-four hour news cycle
Your soul at bay
You like it here
Don’t you.

vii.

Lucked out didn’t we
That historic evening
When the angel of summer waved the whole thing through
And you stood outside the yard
Picking up the remains of the century
Assembling outbuildings
The way we asked them to be built.
Possibly.

Remember nothing
Immigration man.

I have this document in my pocket
Waiting to be rote
And I’m thinking if we could just do lunch
Maybe pick up something easy

Recording equipment
Is not allowed in the building.

Standing
Watching the trucks
Shake down the evening
Into particulars

Video evidence cannot be used in a court of law.

Please be aware
That any person
With picture taking capabilities
May not this
Person
Dealt according.

The way the evening stepped forth –
This broken English
At the outbreak of the century
A sensibility at work
All singing all dancing
Only a notebook in which to annotate
Totally unconvinced by anybody’s back-story.

viii.

‘Marcie’ starts up.
Hello Marcie.
Marcie knows everything
There is to know about feedback.
She stands at the edge
Listening to the qualities
Of transmission
You stand alongside her
She pushes some kind of song.

On drums:
Max Ernst.
On bass:
Hannah Arendt.
Things to address directly:
The way the story ends.
Rubble.
Mediation.
Marcie buys a bag of peaches.
Eats one.
Hides the rest from the state.

You sing along with her
Some kind of dictionary of sensibility
In the right hands it’s a love thing
Hitting all the wrong notes
A siren, a cigarette
Sure signs of somebody’s emergency
Riffing when the song stops.
Marcie cuts her own hair.

Stands outside the arcade
Learning to trust the way a person tells it
As a blackbird locks down the skyline
Scarcely credible on such a scale
Only this is the way the story opens out

People clustered together
In the Arab spring

Marcie not confident of anything
Save some kind of reckoning
Occurring here.

Marcie

A car horn

Did the percussion section leave you standing?

A cigarette
burning
indecipherable
cause
that extends.
On rhythm:

Did you call a taxi yet Marcie?
Or did the footage persuade you
This is somewhere you could stay
At night
Lined up against the square
Though nobody said so
Capable of a simple
Straightforward anger.

Marcie checks out.
The blackbird sings into
A person’s whereabouts
In the city
Some person’s washing
Leaving them hanging
In the wind to dry.
Air and such
While the networks go down
And you just standing
As the story breaks –
Still no letter
Only the operations.
Good to see you
Marcie

ix.

We should stay up all night
Watch the law prosecute its business
Still no letter

Walking the beach
Watching the aircraft drop

And you dance sometimes and I work
Because all this meantime
What else is there?

To signify
Arms laid against him.

Still no letter. Possibly so.

Things to address directly:
POLITICAL
GEOGRAPHY

In the dooryard momentarily the traffic stops
Too late for birds
And no sound happening
Of anybody’s emergency
You smile in another language
I sense a dance coming on.
Because there is space
Jarvis samples Arrested Development
Crowded only by the skyline
Not a measured room
And not stopped
Arrêté
We decline the implication

One must not have a permit

Push the tables
Back.

He slept deeply until morning
Went out into the brilliant
Threshold.
It’s what we should pitch I think:
The ground is now the sky.
Jonquil.
Bones.
Breeze to zero.
Streets roof-tops.
A person takes notes

Watch as you dance
Foot out the architecture of the century
Co-ordinated in somebody else’s neighbourhood
Only a history to call your own
Riffing on the direction of travel
Silently annotating the new geology
Pictures told in three dimensions

Even by telephone in dead of night

Quietly brilliantly
In all the available spaces
Dapper like the morning
In those tell-tale shoes
A rebuke confronted

with the structure of exception

Clockwise and counter-clockwise
Turning.

x.

Still no letter.
I use the word still advisedly.
Still you say still
Struggle to get the intonation right.
Stutter over the doorway
A plane goes down
Airburst
People gather before the wreck.

There must be something we can make of it.
You stand there radiant before the court
Explaining everything
The moment you first came through
Impossible to frame
Only this is the way things happen

Eyes set deep
Subjected to examination.

In this broken English
The sun sets laterally across the century
The fugitive lands
Crowd under separate names
Joined in semi-abstraction
You stand and regulate your bearing

Airports
Certain outskirts of our cities

Hardly a way back through
Down along the Medway River
Strolling annotating
Shipyards in the cold
Bystander taking notes
Down by the intersect
Where the language happens
Syntax
Forms like lilac
Where the uninvited
Stand in line.

And the radio fades
Nobody certain which way we’re headed
You shrug
Maybe somebody somewhere
Assembled evidence enough
At variance with the theme
Some stack of mistranslations

Statements rendered
unacceptable
Inadmissible
By the state.

But that’s their story.

Remember nothing.

I make a mappemundi
To include this point.
Your story air and such
stones bearing
Doorjamb at variance

Existing claim

Posted in 67: A BRITISH / IRISH | Tagged

Fantasy Index

In the past, you are a cocaine-laced nougat lozenge iridescently cascading down the mouth of a cold war dictator’s single-toothed intern, itself having been beaten by the authorities so frequently and with such relish that this host has absorbed several of your most cherished personality traits, including, but not limited to, that array of qualities distinguishing you from your half-twin Moloch, a hot caramel liquid ingested piping hot at “Punishing Delicacies”, a chic steroid babe hangout next door to “Crips ‘n Dales”, a generally officious locale where heavyset male dancers vie with wiry street muscle.


Posted in 67: A BRITISH / IRISH | Tagged

from Not Without Tree


/Not without problems
Metered by the waterline
What tells is amazement
From stretchers of testimonies’
Hesitant breath


Whispers of the ineffable
Sutures closing
The gape


These are the stalwarts
Of the unnoticeable


Where negotiations of silence
Seam obsolete
Among a strand


Of just what this is
Not without sorrow


Grit


Not without tree

Posted in 67: A BRITISH / IRISH | Tagged

Slow Bird

A sensorium makes you abstract
grilled right into yourself into the grille
a sobby plasticity of childhood
or the lot that behooves women,
imposes doom and the negative
clings to negative non-women,
loves the negative,
& loves women.

There was a time in the early nineties
words like “exigencies”
and “antagonism” did not exist
Freud and Marx were beyond dead, worse,
Carolyn Steedman and Bernadette Mayer
were completely mute, nowhere around.
She fêted abstraction and
pursued it relentlessly.
Like a bat in a cave

Or a dedicated virgin saint, maybe—
then maybe:

One day, a man hammered at the door.
Who is that! Who is that man

(list of things I wanted as a girl)
A man’s arm resting around me
Black Book of Capitalism’s Embrace
Kids whose parents make them take fencing lessons
But you’re nobody, til somebody – it kills you
Etoliation gradually over the night
Suffolk as a green, green plant
We suffered and resentfully died

Posted in 67: A BRITISH / IRISH | Tagged

Last Year

This poem is an erasure of existing film subtitles, returning to clichés of memory in the form of the stills. The soundtrack created in response by Edmund Hardy is partly collaged from the same sources. The two pieces can be read and played together or one after the other, as joint or separate versions of déjà vu. The failure of memory is often depicted as a failure of faithfulness. But how can one keep faith with a memory that has gone missing?

[audio:http://cordite.org.au/audio/last-year-hardy.mp3|titles=Last Year – Edmund Hardy]Last Year (5:03)

Posted in 67: A BRITISH / IRISH | Tagged ,

rising from aquifers

In the middle of the map they put Medea.
As if to say of the site DO NOT ENTER.
As if to admit how they had provoked her.

HAZCHEM: a warning almost invocation.
Lord of the poison, sacred their mission.
That nuclear familiar wasp-sting of a sign.

She: triangle or angular. She: triangulating
all causes, all histories, all laws and all lines,
infectious connections she chews to the horizon.
Late Old English curs, of unknown origin;
no word of similar form and sense is known in Germanic, Romanic, or Celtic.

rising from aquifers salt ghost vengeful
kinstrife betrayal voices persistent
crying out birth scars here’s your physician

open cut mouth or slickwater microfractures
“reducing friction” right in the womb

take that motherfucker take that kidkiller
white ulcer written on living tissue
skulls in museums labelled in cursive

An utterance consigning, or supposed or intended to consign, (a person or thing)

hashtag/gash/gulp/pulp
rape rape rape is an “insult
to our [his] honour” is
to spiritual and temporal evil, the vengeance of the deity, the blasting of

the sticking-of in is the politics
of take, saying “virgin land” saying
peak oil Peak oil PEAK oil does it
malignant fate, etc. It may be uttered by the deity, or by persons supposed

get you hot (like to wallow) follow follow
the shockwaves to swim in poison calling
leak at every turn, shale the safe stuffed
to speak in his name, or to be listened to by him.

w/
nothing
but
In its various uses the opposite of blessing.

sweet raintrickle through earthskin
whisper the dry through
wordmaps cave to cave place to place

serpent blood
pooling in dark/worldthroat
speaking its slow song

living water living stone the upthrust living
nets of whole

you take it in your steely hand
saying “mine”
mine it

under
mine

umber
amber
sand &
ochre

no
yoke
choke
hold
no
“no”

aerial map the veins
break the vessel open
suck out the blood
discard the husk

songtalk lovetouch story
drying leaves in the wind
carcass fell & rot

and yet
still red still hot
lips still singing

shesong snaketongue to
gather            
sweetgrass       
loosestrife       
lady’s bedstraw    

all our names lovegiven
all our names soft pretties
& complex experiment
 
on our            

lipstills(t)inging
the nettle of grasp/gasp/rasp/
but
sap rISing

Posted in 67: A BRITISH / IRISH | Tagged ,

Working – please stand by

In my house I have a dead father and a dog I care about
in my heart house // I mean the dead dog
the thing that cares //
not the man who is not only dead
but only in my dreams // not in fact
though he lost his way from life
a long while ago // found this stupid rip
fell right through the gap

In my house // my head house //
he is not someone I detest
(though you might think it)
he is not someone to pity
(he’s a survival expert)
though he is the first and only
thing to come without
any feeling //
he is in that heart rip
that stupid // It would be better
if he were dead of course
it would // not only for him
the dog & me //
but maybe the dog I cared about
& me maybe could
lay down some memory feelings
if he were at last not somewhere

but probably we wouldn’t.

Posted in 67: A BRITISH / IRISH | Tagged

for Tim Atkins who reminded me what matters

Waking with a whelp & a tiny prod
& head of fire
of love
for you once more my rose bud
my dear girl
all quaver like when I try to change you
all tears & limbs
extinguishing the world
with one small tear or smile
like a wine drop in Seferis’ sea
Let me not remember the trouble
of before you
Besides, it was another country
Let’s look forward instead to blossom & ducks
walking – you precious bobble head – the way you fall
on yr bottom then a second’s pause as you work out what feels
before caterwauling or a laugh – depending on what!
Who knows the little mysteries of you – space worm
tiny stranger
come to save her mama
from not knowing what’s important in life
Here’s to all the precious minutes
of every colour with each other & to papa & to poems
with happy endings

Posted in 67: A BRITISH / IRISH | Tagged

End Notes

from Apocalypse Dreams

it’s the end the end of the city end
of your city which is also a country
ending at stake the city on shut down
the city a military zone full of vigilantes
we hide everyone hides hard to tell who
might be hiding to hurt and to stay still
it feels like happening ending hiding
is utterly inadequate I am scared


in a back room perhaps 20 bodies
in black face down with backpacks
are these military forces or civilian
why did they die so odd flip one
over and not people but preparation
packs for people jumpsuits with back
packs attached provisions where are
the people to fill them why my mistake


because I am scared and seeing is
so many things I’ve never seen
before or want to again that the
incredible is not a category now
but a present feeling end of this
moment into the next too fast
for surprise a young girl relieved
to find a group of people dressed
as fierce military birds why is she
smiling they are smiling it is not


I look away I know what will now
happen to the smiling girl and do
not want to see when the moment
she thinks she is in becomes another
she will panic I would panic I am
watching this from safety and I
turn away glad of safety and sick
does she scream I cannot tell
always there is screaming somewhere
now it is the end of the city the end


a waterfall of effluence tumbling
people with everything else how
far it can fall off the edge of this
city as I watch I see people grasp
autonomy in face of the end for
some are surfing if I could feel
incredulity I would have first when
I saw people dying in this water
can it be fun to surf before you die
in sewage washed to the end the
is it hope or embrace or mastery it is
the end of the fall the pool I cannot see


with others on a boat a man is stitching
my hand I understand I am a refugee with
other refugees that I am hurt and he is help
yet he pricks my hand first in the palm to
test I do not know I know the sharpness
it hurts and the stitching continues the hurt
I cannot speak Spanish the comfort of English
is a stupidity I cannot resist with the stitcher
I feel safe but he hurts me he does not need to
it feels like after the end there are no boats in
the city this is a boat not in the city is there an
end of the city of the boat of the river will it end
in sea in spring in city when the end does not stop
ending and the present stretches the ending out

Posted in 67: A BRITISH / IRISH | Tagged

Dream

from Apocalypse Dreams

how shit would it be if the end of the world
was a rave in the snow. yet here it is. muddy
snowy footfalls & loud music & stoned eyes
with drugs generated from beetroot compounds
nicknamed ‘banz’ and my brother discovers this
& loves it, raves. we dance or rest from dancing
as the edges of the world get smaller and closer
& the snow drips its blobs from the shrinking sky.

Posted in 67: A BRITISH / IRISH | Tagged

Carry On

from Apocalypse Dreams

I did not expect to find myself at the end of the world
camping. But I am and now naturally: the tent peg &
tarpaulin are familiars of many before me, before us.

A small enough encampment with quick smiles we
don’t believe our hopes for this taut new world
though we speak them out loud with dejected hair.

Rain here does not clean; it muddies: we feel this as
justice. At the edge of what we have made & believe in
is the thick meniscus, firm & trembling: it is impenetrable

but fragile: a thin sac separating the old world from the new.
I am afraid of our jellied lens, our cervix, through which we
emerged dewy-eyed, behind which the old world carries itself

murky & still in a cradle of watery poison. So it is that life’s
little necessities turn on us as we gulp down. Turn on us, we say
incorrectly. Man undoing his own kindness again and again.

Posted in 67: A BRITISH / IRISH | Tagged

Dream

from Apocalypse Dreams

The world is green and in flower, delicate but fecund
So green it almost hurts: no deadness anyplace, not a twig
Nor a fallen leaf but the bright greens of later spring
and waving vari-coloured flowerheads. Everywhere is growing,
the ground & the treetrunks have trails of climber’s leaves
twisting their extensions, their ascents. This is life.
We too are bubbling and irrepressible: laughing, shouting.
I am on your shoulders, rollicking, others too are playing,
romping: we are highly happy and we are young. Each one
of us knows that this is doomed, that we and the greengreen world
are dying; that soon, so soon, obliteration. We know
there is poison in the leaves and in our laughter.
That there are only minutes left. Our knowledge is
incommensurable. We are happy.

Posted in 67: A BRITISH / IRISH | Tagged

Sky Writing

from Apocalypse Dreams

The democracy of water: shocking
really in the stratified worlds we are losing.
But these internal compulsions of tidal ligaments
deeper, older than me
and simply unstoppable.

On the edge I consider these realities
with the likelihood I will die
and the sure knowledge that if I live
I don’t know what that will mean,
look like, be or where located.
At best: pain; an after blank.

Like the others, I give myself up
to the waters. Acquiescence
is inevitable.
We bob. Quickly, sinking a bit, swimming a little
tugged.

We are happy – are we stupid?
Horseplay and banter despite
the swill of speed and the salt swallows.
[Do worse things happen at sea?]
Here is the corner. Ahead – hello Homer! –
a rocky basin swells and falls, white and blue and spray.
The very meaning of spume.
Sea contractions expose coarse corals, smash
matter to matter.
We are bloodless; shit fish.
And it is just water coming down on people.

Posted in 67: A BRITISH / IRISH | Tagged

I Alice

from Apocalypse Dreams

on a journey i discover i have a magic power: i can make objects larger or smaller with my index finger though i don’t know which way they will go until i touch them. i make a goose go very small and turn a scrawny boy into a body builder. there is a familiar sense of apocalypse and danger, the need to escape. i tiptoe into a darkened wooden lecture theatre, a man is delivering an incomprehensible talk on physics, the others are here and we leave through a ritual circle into a magic house, sparkling with chandeliers in huge rooms. we land in a new world, a small island, it looks perfect, although a little flooded. american streets in rows, suburban large houses. young people approach, they are beautiful coming towards us wading through the water, automata-esque, silent, all alike. fear. they surround me; curious but impassive. we begin to leave this street, heading for a checkpoint, a tunnel and an old car. you and i have sex on a table at the checkpoint and you tell me you think of children when you screw me and i am surprised because at this moment that is what i too am thinking. no one is remotely interested in our lovemaking, the new ones have lost the urge for sex, they do not reproduce in the same way anymore.


Posted in 67: A BRITISH / IRISH | Tagged