Tuesday, 4 June 2013

Numb ember


I observe several canoes, unmanned, laden with rotting fruit

Description of a daydream: dandelions & quarrelsome jays

Coins fall from dead eyes, sun risen

& memories of a lilac moon in the hyper-realistic atmosphere

The dance proceeds so slowly, with such extraordinary solemnity, that one might think it no dance at all

Iain Duncan Smith is

An anagram of The Exterminating Angel

Nothing makes any sense, or nothing makes some sense, or nothing makes no sense

Or anything makes no sense of nothing nor something is nothing’s sense of fear

In line 1 I spelt canoes incorrectly

Initially I observe several incorrectly, unmanned, laden with rotting fruit

How warm it is today, breezes gently drifting through a shopfront of pantaloons & a fair prospect of fairground rides

“The conquerors’ dogs ripped the victims to shreds”

Torta dell’abbondanza


  1. Simon,

    Back in that earlier Glaciation, when I was but a lad, slow dancing was thought to be the very best kind, especially satisfying any time a Missa Solemnis was underway. And now that time has come round again, and glad of it am I, for it has delivered this very particular music of serial swirling eddies.

    Do you think everything might perhaps make a wee bit more sense, though, if the fruit had been equipped with a paddle?

  2. The fruit I fear is truly up a creek without a paddle.

    I was never much of a dancer: when I was but a lad we had Friday night rituals of excruciating awkwardness known as discos. In truth I'd rather have been listening to the Missa Solemnis, but hey ho.