By and | 1 August 2014

Ah let’s do new where scarabs click
Resonant dust from hashish headlight
Forever dream thing sweeps through high brocade
And mind is central, serene, lavender mists

With a sucker punch below the graft,
Below a mortar and pestle imprimatur —
Those long licks, those trance flings,
That flash of dry out of the wet;

Remove the quotes and flounce to sun ship
Kingdoms crashing hard with strange assonance,
Ululations distorted by deep rattle, O and
Spoiled silence languishing in its rowdy pleasure.

That’s what left us to our own resources,
To that megaplex of realisation: mode of transport,
Hub of communication, a brutal parrot flying low,
All shadowed in our pastoral no-show.

Pataphysic pill reappears in soft library
Love tongue slips into life time masque
Darby Crash and pals push down Mohawk
Upending trash cans and prepare for (death)(happiness)

And so say all of us, hustled and hoarded,
ridden into the dirt. An echo of track success
grates their nerves and we take a collection
from what’s left — misfire, undertaker, less worthy.

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