“Write more about me?”
Like a likeness
I could not do without
Her words preach
Like without a doubt;
In-between in between
Spaces lie for me
She beyond reach
Where she makes free.
Trespass!
aye alike
a likeness hues past
huge pasts caught
cohort, or something
some things here
He, eh, rings ————-
d o o r s t e p s bring gaunt salesman
submerged above surfaces
mind meets none but
false of purgatory of prophets
looking-through-rail-road-tracks:
O bosom serpent O, blackest of cats:
the word of God in the accents of men.
Cambridge, England.
The Triumph
Reclaim the chinks
The night’s glib
as an atheist’s smile
Prostrated vicars on the surgery-
slab.
(I can make you rhyme horizon with arisen!)
Welcome to live life in allegories
A word for the children
Whilst the villagers are busy
-ask Bruegel-
with whores, and accountants.
Automatons in Print
There is light, hollow
crystals topped blood
And Navy-men without description
War in parenthesis / dust
flesh seasoned in mires.
Alarum! Oppress me
against shoulders lie
And waistcoat-strapped gentlewomen
Evil in live / must
demands a better reasons.
I think dreams, divide
and answer TelePrompTers
And supermen exeunt stages distracted
Salvation in / lust
typical familiarities try that.
Blue missiles, Athena
unhinge Olympus loopholes
And cavewomen disseminate flowers
In something / just
and justifiable to some known.
The Death of the Flame
I roll stones &
wicker-men sigh at me
inflamed druid I am.
Savage archeries
I, metempsychosis, yet
carnage is ethereal.
Sacrifice one’s-self
And head all headlines
I am all ambiguities.
‘I was God, in glimpses’
I saw God, in glimpses
doing words reflected
words doing necessaries
super-moons and eclipses
illuminated switches
madmen chanted “Hey-yo, Hey-yo”
stranded on corners
drip-ping
puddles shaped like horizons
without ease man’s nam—
A snake!
looking-glass looked through
dustbins taken
scraps on floor
cuisine of calibre
hand-picked from the line of evolution
and God, of course, in glimpses.
Holy
The world is fixed. God predetermined
And given rules. Hate all who hate just
To hate. Think about words. Each of us
Sing hymns in graveyards. We are left
And leave nothing but dust. It made us
To make it, but we never will –
Watchmakers gave God rules.
We hop through loops chaining commandments
Purging one another of each other, absolute.
eponymous
when day dropped
puffs on cigarette
sip whisk- not gulp
martian deported
the feral satellites
probing moons our terror
bell-shop rang
out come hungry villagers
marching abodes
thistle layered identities
swept amongst heaps
found-out lair vacated
mind restless pen no ink
rain silent, nothing to hit
The Unbearable Anxiety of Being
All systems silenced. Proof-readers needed!
Harbingers of taste, stripy purples on feet
Acquiesced – or something. (I have taught
myself to neologise, and to count in nines.)
A special request of a special request, the –
Something acquiesced without even learning
the word. A slip. Of sorts. Of course. Colours
Colour, tombstones on repeat prescriptions:
I have something to say, no need to say something.
All systems silenced. Chaos does not answer.
Who do I have left to call? (I have taught myself.)
A Chamber
I am spent
button jeans and newspaper socks
time has clocked
before long came short
superseded
squashed betwixt pages
crushed with each turn
and ironies ironise,
still
eyes’ brown and locks lovers’
underhand on the countertop
nothing else to spend
sticks for bars
counterfeit notes (like
auto-tune, spark, etc.)
the self-concious clowns
holo-grams
blades in the pockets, but
no philosophy, only beards.
Nihilism: An Aphorism
He saw beauty where others see destruction,
And destruction where others see destruction.
Small Words
to speak illustrated, ordered thereabouts
with straight lines and full full stops, but
what need me be able read in flips and turn-
ing churnings, tombstones to set-stones
in the minion’s dominion under gale and shade
burnt-out firelights and anaemic buttercups
those times of creativity lapsed, sunken sulking
thunder on the walls, chimeras for thought,
yet punctuated. Wrong read that again.
now I must be small
THE HIRED GUN
“When he awoke in the night, he remembered falling asleep in the morning. Everything around him enforced his shame. There was no recess or hiding from the strictness of the shame that the dark dictated: it told him, you should be asleep with the rest of them, but you don’t deserve to be asleep with the rest of them. When they wake, you sleep. When they sleep, you wake. He had got drunk again. And now the task opened itself before him. Now, another reminder buzzed in the corner of his mind.”
NO – bad writing. We do not allow for that. The writer writing this reclines, reclined, and remained reclining whilst the sentence finished itself automatically. Hands typing, minds thinking, cigarettes smoking, but no heart’s heartbeat.
something told him he wasn’t right
something spoke to him
something heard him
something came
something left
somethings
something
some-thing
something taught him everything
somethings gave him nothing
something warned him
somethings scared him
something left
somethings came
some-things
some-thing
something
