Tuesday, 19 October 2010



. they stitched disintegrations to make a cloak
her toes swam among music
night was short & of violence
winter was a closed door thrown wide open
they took them to somewhere where the searchlights were
they burned wrens in front of their frightened jaws
he took the cloak from its hanger & conjured her smell
it was never night
by the river we took a stroll
the trees were grey & cold
the hot sun lay on my lips & wept
they butchered them to the rhythm of markets
the dance steps were easy to practise
we practised them though troubled by engravings
it was a standoff between the police & ghosts
the river went away it was an orchestra it was an axe in
the wrens burned to ash then to flowers
the flowers were illegal the night went away
“it was an orchestra it was a walk in the country”
the sea hung precariously above the earth

like that you look like a soldier
the beautiful crunchy maps
living among the ice of the room
the flowers hung precariously above the sea
the waves were hard as fists
with calm & quiet gestures he unscrewed his eyes to rest
them on burnt cotton wool
now he could hear again
her warm coat will be good for her to own
they said their names longingly
the little wren blocked out the moon
i could speak italian in your dream
i must buy some warm clothes
the orchestra was divided into several sections
now all was perfectly unvisible
they wiped themselves clean with flowers
everything was superimposed
nothing was superimposed
i could play your dream in italian
they drank milk from the fridge on their knees.


Fragments of blinded cities attached themselves to his good warm coat. The lovers held fingertips & listened to a setting sun set & a rising moon not rise. He pulled back the sheets of the bed & rested with storm clouds gently rocking his dreamlessness.

She drove the car on a salty black road, whose whiteness reminded her of rain. On the back seat her brother laughed, lifting up into the falling storm. A maimed piano began to sing a theoretical popular song.

They were at the beach. She’d left her wristwatch in a city, she slept on.
Fog sleeked the backs of cats, spitting.

The lovers hunched down by a roadside fire. Seashells dripped from my eyes. Der Pomeranzenwälder in Italien.


They were hiding by numbers
Who knows the meaning
Of that pictorial tradition

They were fat & thin
They kissed & ran
Subsequent adventures

Angels like to burn
Their fleshes with cigarette
It became unfeasibly

They were reading
Writing in madness
Non created world


resistant dancer. winter in the eye.
mutant affection. 1 room of lace.
hesitant. xarp. thence
technique. photograph speech.

immune/d chrysanthemum.
hhollowalo terrain. tears collecting in
1 empty cigarette packet. of no
utility. mesmeric. bendy bus.


gnawed upon its own thigh
meadowlanders forgot to weep
so took in hand a brick
a burning alphabet
as these are photographs of speech
(cobweb glaze at proximity
– objectified – trembling)

excess, gentle.
1 lip to lip lipped
no song
no movement


land of de-suicided
incongruous butter
some alien-ed experience
“along the rusty tides”
superb lantern shaking
with noise & acrid
they cut down bodies
up in the dawn
sheltered suburb
serenely a
sleep on the back seat
shadow of a bird
wiping those eyes
they took the blue needle
from night & dreamless
no words no owls no deckchairs no metal soup
“ as i shall eat dirt"

Miaowing like a dog.


The train ended.
Desolate map reference.
The pavements a crowd.
The rain a dispossession.
It was designed to ease.
Calculable incalculable pain.
A wonderful picture of trees.
Shone in the rain above the trees.
That was an old language where.
It ended to say goodbye.
A wonderful picture of the sea.
Floated beneath the sea.

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