SPIRAL NEBULAE
Juxtapose the traverse. All word worlds corrupted sunk
beauty with horror mingle converse now the chickens have come home to roost
inter-play weeded out hooked on its final ending
upon a crevasse holed out broken damaged beyond repair could
hold on to it most likely this grip will burst a mind
the ring signifies something left blank horrible waste matter
capture hateful psychotic pamphlet that will come back to haunt
entreaty
entity.
Nothing is coming
It’s all going
Vanishing future space
Blocks for the new
energy remain isotopes
here’s hoping what resonates overlapping ghost’s
brings the ‘definitive’ culture to bare
over skulls and bones
hear them crunch beneath a plaintive cello solo
so hollowed out it grows over newly seeded thought
descending down the back some abandoned alleyway where
nature died once
framed by approved memories
And this we love
‘the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous
regeneration of primordial myth.’
Because in a homely way it tells us we are loved by ourselves and
That this is enough to go on breathing with
This apparatus we call human.
What if nothing connects with nothing
All you signify is gone empty
Shelves or what is left
Scuds to a halt.
Hearth light runway freeze frame hex
What do we gain from your experience?
Cum-up-ence that’s to show them this internal mangling was all gone wrong
But you had that experience unshakeable
Unspeakable eyes dilated blinking
Traffic lights each one a winking eye up and down up and down for hours
On that bend in the road over the hump back bridge go there
Still the night air burning electric inside nostrils
Pylon lines crackling with communication thoughts flying
Out across the field’s spirits flecked in silent shadows
The smart sell.
Don’t look for any deep meaning or greater significance. There is none
Or there may be some. I don’t know what these words mean; they could mean
Something or nothing: that depends on you. I don’t feel happy or sad with these words. I’m
Not either of those emotions; perhaps you could say I’m satisfied with the outcomes that some of these
Word combinations present. I would say, yes that's the best way to describe it; that I’m looking for the best
Possible outcomes from these ‘spirited’ word combinations. Just please don’t ask what any of it ‘means’ because I don’t know; does anyone?
I’ll put a comma there to tell it to fuck off.
CREOSOTE AMBITIONS
I’m the opposite of that
All I have is my other
Not purpose less life
Invisible containment
In the Estuary is estuarine life containment
Cosy cabbage patch disused radio masts
Cargo from other era’s scar the sea defence
Your truck is swift
So swift that I narrowly avoid a broken axle
As I swerve into a pothole.
Up the bank howling down lanes
Hang on a minute what’s down
That chicken shed overhanging wisteria
Densely plotted next to a busy B road
Acquisitions and mergers take on
Commodities this month
Squirming attention span of a rat
Your stumped up salted into
A cul-de-sac turning the arched back
To watering cans livery of thatched lives
Pot holes plots that lie undisturbed
The music of a mine craft funeral
Hanging half-mast like a one cabin
Day boat gone to seed
Roiled up against the sea wall’s year on year
Decline, what magic
Could contain it?
TIDAL HAEMORRHAGE SUN GRIP
Today, aches from within. Not the day but us inside it.
(SACRIFICE EVERYTHING FOR NEW GROWTH)
The point between here and then, aches as if inside a body.
(BRUTE ABUTMENTS OF DURATION.)
That was the point of what we were trying to say, “Come wither with me.”
(PLEASE CHASTISE ME)
Collapse and spread out in a heap of bliss. “Take it from me it’s one of those coke addict website typos,” she distilled it with a glance of microscopic contempt; that was enough to conclude matters. Totally out-to-space bone tired weighed down by memories of repetitive work but not.
(TOKENS OF MY SINCERE LUST)
Like 50 years at the jam factory WITH ‘Big Mary’. Noble intentions lightly prey on words that evoke an envoy of grand regard from that you distinguish the guts of narrative. Cold cabbage fields feel collapsed corn cusk under wet frost rubber glove tantric Atman.
(REJOIN YOUR FRIENDS IN THE HEALING FIELD)
Now corpse pose into a new vision map; one that takes an aggregate approach to the alluvium of sediment for concrete rights. Oral fleets come through on the brackish to preach up new builds; clear everything in sight to uphold vision rights on sheer glass upwards concurrent with the seraphim that enchant market bandwidths holding grip tight on today’s trading.
(THIS WILL BE THE SUMMER FOR FESTIVAL FUN)
Dear Corpse
it can be enjoyed and we have, regrettably, but reading your tight liquid tone it
can be
disappointing.
to publish your poems is to hear rotting inertia frozen, a very subjective issue;
how to hear
the most queer
unimaginable fucking polyphony; this news we have, us
here, unfortunately aren't able to process all overall
best wishes
