The goods

I mean, to say, despondently alone in thinking below the chin, naked or inevitable.

I suppose the arms of silence impassably palpable, impossible and palpable, the sensation of listening, word for copy in the promise of mouth parts.

Mouth parts from body.

Next, tomorrow.

Next, next. Tractatus logico—-to-do-list. I think, in the first place, through disease, unlike everything, I don’t know, I believe, so, how absently good night is all about, is all about predestination.

Time cancelled, time costly, time breathing, time courteous, are perhaps time retarded, primitive fucking deceleration before installation, mounts enlivened, nervous and uninterrupted, moving and computer-generated, the intention sightless, the murmur is, meaning, everything breaks down, cube-shaped boxes of endangered species—-go—-not—-like—-vacant, like stones on the island, but not… standing, pissed, for a while, hissing between questions, final finial questions in a trickle at the edges, in disquiet now

one is

trying to tell

the shape of nothing

who is that?


* * *



here first appeared, but abandoned structural design, in the mix, performing, using a transcript, I turned up, repeat travelling

slip your arms inside and sidestep substitute violence, defenceless, electrical, warm knots and secret skin, a panic of the loveless marketplace, which is dead, sayable, breathless, ideographic, like…

burdened in your hand?

obscure, the corridor, interior whispering, talking useless, making…

to hear

sure loving, too far, here, some kind of start; remember it; haphazard; not talking; getting my eyesight beautiful, wireless new and less forsaken

follow your place

it doesn’t matter


* * *


maintain silence


* * *


The intention of betrayal…

I don’t know. Whatever.

Everything breaks down, fascinatingly childlike, saying deviously; barely inhibited; receiving an ache, threatening wirelessly endangered, rolling: a lie can be so lonely sick, losing, separate


* * *


Body overwhelmed whispering, whispering; static flows, not desire but a kind of care.

That is, one named person whose family has been informed, to the extent that any of them are; something… left over… dreams…

Remember, on the outside,


* * *


Bombs which have gone off include the creation. The creation.

Travelling makes us remotely.

Escapology is organisation. Light is in attendance in a flashy frame. Also, it is the frame. Also, and, as well, it is the onward rush; and the rest. The not shadow. The potential. What is still in formation when all information is on the move.

And the move itself. The move moving. The way of seeing. Privacy of soundlessly zero on an unliquid surface of an emptiness or vacancy.

Bang on.

There is so much nothing.

One is untotally loved, a blurred intractable; a drift of circular bare; the sensation of far-flung forsaken, twirling a bookmark, and ironic; darkness learning to fold.

You’ll learn. Don’t cooperate, having different words near completion.

Fallen. Kind. In a tower of memories.


Goods for Songs

The arms of silence impassably
mouth parts, a hissing without words
we call that standing, breathing
with an ache, shape. And what is a
shape but a curve around nothing,
this Who is That and Where are We?

Sure, loving’s a kind of eyesight
that goes to things quite clearly, quickly.
And what haphazard surface are we plying?
It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter,
maintain the silence and be
an imperfect analogy. Something singing
this way blooms, and droning, and losing,
and child’s pose, and fury, a body
overwhelmed by being something.

Remember the outside is a surface
you are claiming, the radical force
of an idea moving outward to the skin,
made membrane, a little wobble
from an inside that holds you

holds you to a surface, this fiery sun
or that cooling moon, pure conjecture
blue and green, pure cow
a curve to an apple
upon which you are writing writing.

Revise nothing, escapology is an organ
by which you begin, begin a next devotion
to the arms of silence. I am beginning
to think my way bare.

I am beginning to think a new mouth.


annexed meditation

there are solar months,
which we invented;
and lunar months,
which invent us,
mad as made things,

dismayed by alms of silence
in passable parting words
words parting
from their speaker
and speakers of love
in the corner humming
impassable words
kissing without verbiage
darling I—-
a mess
matted hair
a mammary frenzy at the mart
I meant
words that stand a round
words that are team members
fully engorged players, you know

and you don’t mind
giving a hand
having a play
you know?

we call that nothing
but it’s where we are
it’s what makes us
that process
talk curving into comparisons and other poetry
eye meant

sure, loving’s a kind eyesight;
which happens to be hazardous
that gets to things quite quickly—-

it doesn’t manufacture though

a little more than pith
but less skin

it loses weight and gravity

you don’t want to
look like a tangerine walking down the street
rolling along like fiery sun
or blood oranges

train yourself
to silence it, the body
an idea moving outward
by the way it wobbles others
making its presence known by

like Neptune

or not properly looked at

like Uranus

or else the Earth
green and blue
more blue than green

an impure conjecture

don’t go over there
that would hurt
daddy’s there

jump back

* * *

variation of theme

We lose our senses;
and lack inside.
This happens often.

Then we believe we’re immortal.
We stop laughing
or laugh for bad reason.

It twists the body on to other worlds
through cleared space
which is silent and seems uneasy

until we provide the sound

all creatures dead
flowers crushed

trees cut

And force managers leer absurdly
on embattled fields,
walking round each other,
talking word-engines of idiocy.

Look at these corpses.
Imagine them crying.
Construct their likely explanations.


Cow Song

blarney’s the cow that runs the road

sun under glass of the don’t mind

you can mean a thing and meditate

and learn to call that nothing

nothingness     the something by which

we put down the hum the hammer

an always wobble to the thing

properly looked at


blood oranges the sallow face

of a distant daughter     planets

as distant containers / a risible concept

called skin     skin of the inexorable

bluegreen     ‘it twists the body on to other worlds’

words an exhortation to the cow

down the road

second skin we hive

and hive again

*  *  *

Wolf Song

The animals are being devoured by their wolves

I replace the general lie with the specific tooth

by which I mean I am devoured

by my selves who have one mouth


I houses something though address slips away

an open door     ferocity

all doors are open / acts of representation

but the house stays empty


Wolf at the door I desire

to be replaced by a general animal

an animal who leads

and by example kills the history of Peter

who owns the house


Sharp teeth     these are my animals running

through doors by which I mean




Knowledge slips aweigh

Animals do not explain themselves.
They leave that to those who study
for love of written words valued
more than stuff of Nature. Creatures
know they are creatures. Just ask them.
They will tell you that Good told them.
(They don’t say God. It rhymes with odd.
And they do not like much oddity.
Though all of them do speak English.
And some have now tried some Chinese.

A finch whispered that to my ear
in between sharp calls and warbles
in the style of Alfred Jingle,
anxious not to be detected,
the voice harsh on descending notes,
cautious, maybe disaffected)

They talk, largely to entertain
those whom they admire; but rarely
speculate. And the birds which do so
are ripped apart, left like pillows
torn wide, blood-stained, wind-blown, flattening.

Only humans are uncertain,
as a generality.
And they misunderstand most things
they learn from the other species.

They do not have beliefs as we
speak of such things. They tell accounts
which have been tested by all auditors
in their world. Tested and approved.

I rely on the trust I feel.
I do not have much confidence.

Here is something that I accept.
On the third day, I’ve often heard,
staple of chatter as light fails,
Good created the cow and said,
“You must go into many fields,
all day long if the farmer says;
and suffer pain under bright sun;
give births; and yield milk to support
your human masters, even
if they slaughter your calves for meat
and some of them beat you. However,
for this, I will give you a life
of sixty years to compensate.”

The cow was unimpressed. She said:
“That’s tough existential duty.
How about twenty years? I’ll return
the other forty. Then I want peace.

There is some dispute round this tale.
But that is for birds. Truth’s in it;
and I believe the jackdaw’s line
that, on the first day, Good created
the dog; and several canines
have confirmed this as their science.

It seems that only men assume
environments were created.

But the indolent pekinese
gets jumpy and asks “What was here?
Do you mean to say nothing was?
Fuck off! That’s all yap. How could it?
You have to twist your tongue roughly
to even say it. It’s not true.
It’s not a proper dog saying.
Only Man could growl such nonsense.
Good told us, on the bad day, “Sit!
Stay always by the door; and bark
at anything and everyone.
For this you may live twenty years.”

The first dog said, “I can’t bark long.
I’ve got worms. I must rub my arse
quite often on the lawn. I’d miss things.
Feeling my bottom, I’d forget.
I wouldn’t be a true guardian.
It’s my affliction. Let me off.”
He whined. His tail drooped.. He dribbled.
“How about I do just ten years
and I’ll give back the other ten?
You haven’t got a weak anus
itching, although you did shape mine.”

And Good agreed; and evening came;
and everyone scratched and slept well.
I believe this.
On the second day,
Good created a small monkey
and said: “Trick people. Entertain.
Make us laugh for repeated years.
I’ll give you twenty of your own.
The monkey said, “That’s a long time.
I want the same deal as the dog.”

And that is where the cow’s idea
was taken from. Cows just munch leaves.
They have no cleverness or wit.

On the fourth day, Good made humans
and said, “Eat, sleep, play, procreate
and enjoy life. You’ve twenty years.”

But they were already numerous.
They shouted at him in a crowd.
“Only twenty years? Our twenty,
the forty that the cow gave back,
the ten the monkey and the dog’s ten.
That makes eighty. We deserve that.
There’s much to do. Improvement work.”

There is no record of response.
Good does not speak to humans now.
Perhaps there is still enmity
between the way things are and Men.
Who can decipher them? They’re weird.

We are all strings pulled at by code,
with external storage for some
and that nearly splits some mothers
which have to be cut to save life
all for bits of mobile data
that rewrite themselves at each sleep;
and you know how they like their beds!
Most of them are peripherals
hanging on telephone networks
governed by bad programming: if this
then that; and no error trapping—-
falsehood builds like fatty tissue.

DNA. RNA. And escapees!
Unlikely body parts
within cosmetic containers.
We are and shall be the elect.
I do as I am bound to do.

In my father’s house are many,
each voice-talking to each other
without listening, jabbering to hums
of the global selfless warning:
what we are doing is not good.
Whenever was it really good?
Unexpected end of file



Different world, what enables us
to live and be a better race?

The ordinary shoves up
against the monumental, there
a summer darkness
enlapses the City

A red fox appears/disappears
in the sulfurous glow, a woman
cleans up a piece of cake

Our job is to be both epic and tiny
between us the partially obscured

Later, a sun over Maryland
and we neither mesmerized nor bored

Differences, dreams of race
nor especially frightened, the little man
sweeping the sidewalk

A local version of asymmetrical warfare
these things take time
we must attend and work

We cannot avoid global tensions
the charms of the various climes

We have many common causes
here on earth, poverty and privilege
both a memory of childhood

Water and the need for cake
we riot together and clean the streets

Good will on both sides, no sides
our target was home and others

Now we are monsters trumped
of all concern, not
everyone is a monster


Three related texts

View poem here (PDF)



Miller’s Tale

Six lines     three doubts     a self-selecting voice

It is news

of our experience

inadequate to succeed


If I wait by the seaside

something blue always there

beasts and minimal confusion

the least best skin


A crowd is gathering

at the exit sign     the exit sign

is crowding the sky


If I move from the city to the sea

the greater luxury


Spines enclose falls

falls protect us

the poor illusion moving away


Freeways through the villages

scapegoating the poor

the linden tree poor and suffering


Flats     sublets     subways

People in places to and from


Women are carrion in expensive suits

Men are vermin in the lying down cause


If we are burning     continuing to burn

in gray flannel suits     if the man

on the freeway is not lying


Woman with a microphone

Man at a drive-up window

Speech at the seaside full of salt


There are no calculations to the erections

we get     there are no erections

without cities


A plane overhead and the racking noise

The gulp in the gulley of tin


If I am obverse obtuse ortund

unadorned pinion in the gulley of tin

six limes     three drinking voices     many sides

Blond child with a sign

And black child with a sign

Signs in the gullwings     the bees the bees

Please sign this petition to pass it along


In this way the if

And in that way the cause

causes everywhere inadequate

to the experience


I keep going bound straight for glory

I keep goings on straight and narrow

The narrow bridge is the lion bridge

The animals are dying of thirst


I am with you always     sometimes

the upright of spines

movies     gutters    roofs here and there

the elegant wind blowing down again


There are no calculations     the boxes

there are boxes on the move

Review your numbers our numbers


If everyday struggles continue we continue

This is a body hold


Cavern in which we are held

Pub in which we are held

Page in which we were held


The bridge is the contrail cutting across

My childhood and your hunger

A woman at a microphone

If I follow the contrail I will make it across


Source and sound of water

By the seaside a view of the distant city

shot through and broken into

source and sound of water


The poor illusion moving away

To succeed is the spine and to fail is the spine

The upright appropriation of flesh by crows


Caws     faces through train windows     a man

in a blue flannel suit

Outside is the flame of allegiance

Caught outside is the true blue of colour


Contrail moving across     the crows

in a murderous rage

A man vomits     evacuated language

what he holds


Glass and our hands to the glass

If he and she speak

of the page in which they are held

If laws and consolations

and bury the fact

we are on our way


The city in flames of summer

No one tell us anything



Green grow the rushes

One twists a radio dial half round
with a spare movement of a big hand,
giving it one! quite carelessly,
as if it were smashing a toy.

There are too many Africans
living yet under autocracies.
We must free them, to be able
to live in large corporations.

Horowitz playing Liszt’s transcription
of Isoldes Liebestod wrestling
angel at the piano keys
as each takes what we remember

into grammatical pieces
of something else—-it’s disruptive
but many doors will be unlocked.
And I’ll never have that recipe—-

John Coltrane loosening the chords
of favourite things, exposing tinctures,
controlling their volatility
with quick fingering, dead certainty,

as one unties a knot; butchers
a rabbit, making it ready
for heat to get down into flesh;
as one strives to understand ideas.

Two or more would last for some time
as a dialogue develops
though branching and splitting, holding on, or off,
brains programmed on barest metal

for the gleams into understanding,
senses fooled by momentous flashing,
pushing out from what it’s possible
beyond owned comprehension, yes?


Hive’s Lament

Words cut down the tubs of our mortal keening.

Play the note slowly for the letters to rest.

Two or more players could last an entire lifetime.

What dialogue gives / takes away mere happiness.

To attempt the quiet bride loose the bridle.

Days go by and nothingness in signs.

How the bees hum gatherings in sleep.

Each takes and talks remember into his arms.

Her arms green rushes of infinite swoons.

The colour’s going ghostlier demarcation.

Just like that the keening becomes a sign.

Comprehension incorporates endless bodies.

Slave to the thirst that makes grass grow.

Want for the bees to comb their honey hair.


Periglis Beach, 4 a.m.

High tide is reached; and, with it, comes wind.
It’s a bit like vomiting; to some extent;
and therefore unlike. It’s not stoppable,
yet it ends soon in that it changes some,
rather than being one convulsive act.
It’s not an ejection from one set up
into another and quite different system—-
vomit into the world has no power
to compare with the burning inside
an oesophagus, or the damage caused
to equanimity of individuals
emitting unbearable contents.
Yet the main tent shudders peristaltically.
Perhaps it is simpler; and more akin
to the way one often farts in the toilet
just as the piss starts jetting forth; relaxed,
muscles yield a more general release
than had been intended; and’s concomitant…
even syntax gets jumbled in this thought—-
widespread misbehaviour from outside’s
point of view: lines breaking down; going on
when they might have ended; tangling even,
so that “end” means purposes other than starts’
objectives; little jumps of surprises.

High tide is odd. Everything is become jittery.
It is alarming. It tells what could happen,
if only in full imagination.
It is a threat without an actual hit;
if, that is, the definition holds
and is not breached. As flatulent ocean
is no lexicographer, how can we tell
except by science and faith it’ll stop?
Extremely alarming.
Tide carries rain spurts,
or may do, from its bubbling belly.
They are smacking the tent now. And now not;
and the waves are beginning to repeat themselves,
suggesting that the turn has come…
a multiply-intent personality
losing trust in most of its intentions.

Gusts will try the strength of things placed ashore;
and that will go on interminably.
Objects will be overthrown. Not too much;
this mob of movements keeps itself in pack,
the energies it could deploy restrained.

Something has had the squits.
No more than that.
We should be safe. Small disturbance.
It’ll hang around for a good while yet.
Best to stay in bed: let it get better.


Denver Beach

Waves are beginning to repeat themselves.
A flatulent ocean is no lexicographer.
Month after month, the sky in drones,
a mob of movements aspires, tires, flings
and takes it back. Interminably,
this white patch upon the straights,
a smudge of planet, our things adrift.

So the shoreward roar unties, affinities
and armies. The sea of faith is listless,
drear drear the houses gripped in sand,
the bridge is out, the mayor’s afloat,
these are the fruits of our continuous labor,
storms at night to make Ken’s Koi cry.

Something has had the squits, the squirts.
Trust is philosophy learning to withdraw.
Over the surf the certitude, there’s sorrow
on the pass. Boat or goat or Goat City.
The burning inside, the looming outside,
mines in our lungs for the total member.

Tangled nets, dope charges, northern timber,
these are the tarts of the split personality,
jugs all aglow in the Pacific Garbage Whorl.
Whatever’s true, retreating, let us be its breath.
The sleep lies on the brow of the darkling crane.
It will not tent us, the covenants will not grant us
extra bins, the diesel’s up at eight and hungry.

Span is the distemper of the world, ambition,
mega nation state. There’s money in the army,
the eternal hum of sadness going home.
Mornings of ague and jumbled thoughts,
once the simple channel between two bells
was a human interval, now it’s pay per view.

Gusts will try the strength of the visqueen sheets.
Lines break down, we want them to unwind,
the sea forms mortal coils on the mount.
Nostalgia can have its pebbles, a damage clause
and a local cause to take the mumble back. We’ll piss
in the wind of the infirmary, wait for heat.


Promises, puppets and poems

Denver. Denver Colorado, is it?
One of those places where the voters count
for a week or so? Till Tuesday. That the place?
I’m not too sure where Denver is, except,
vaguely, to the west. I’ve got Google Earth
but shan’t switch on to look there; get pissed off
when all the houses fall flat anywhere
at all that’s interesting. If I go west
I may get there. If one goes far enough,
of course, it becomes China. I’ll try that
with the computer. But not just now. Not yet.
I feel rather bad, not wanting either
Sooty or Sweep to rule the world. No, Sir.
A mitt with a smiling face drawn on it
barracking an insincere man with his own
insincerity and the naked jingles
of lies he tells; true to himself all right,
and any hope of honesty crumbling
behind us and in front and to the side
till there’s one left, standing on a pedestal
of something rather unpleasant beneath.
I wonder if some strings would help, loosely
but right close to their necks, for a whisker
of moments, an exteroceptive
sensation of the hatred of all those
who will not voice their minds and have no hope
of judgment after death for any bastard.

The riches of England stand, glimmering and vast.
We can’t see them but we know that they’re here.
Well-guarded by our most trustworthy types.
My street’s calm to-night, except for fireworks;
the sound of combat, with pretty pictures
and relatively few injuries felt,
as a sort of mournful cosmic last resort,
Guy Fawkes forgotten, Hallow e’en abroad.

I have near crossed over to my head land
away from this country into a horn
of plenty hollowed out. It is half true.
And what shall I see? I shall see the sea.

In fuller truth, I am still occupied
by mass preconceptions and a few small fears.
We’re all beginning to repeat our thoughts
and that’s no beginning. Our universe
goes up itself every once in the wiles.
A wild place.
                                    The ocean isn’t romantic,
cracking up to be entirely war grave;
I cannot see light across that channel;
it’s a new slough of despond patched in ice.
Here comes Muffin the Mule, playing the fool.

Periglis, 4 November 2012


*  *  *

solo, for amused choir boy

Ignorant armies clash in margins of error.

Ambition’s violence. Let us get our breath.
Much of the world’s too full of faith, I’d say.

Where did our love of life go? Don’t leave me.
I’ve got this burning, yearning feeling, now,
deep within me; I hurt. I’m surrounded.
The autumn outside, the learning offside.


*  *  *


hallucinating at home
extraordinary messages
intertwining with
alarming interference

victims of therefore

we should never forget—-
and cope with death
in imperative trouble

symptoms of forethought

lest we never forget
about smug criminality
full of journalism
unwinding to interests

*  *  *


information leaking from outside

during the squeezing strongest option


it isn’t information—-

it is

only data—-

it is but data


maxima among monitoring oppression—-

upward pressure

is emitted

struggles in opposing power


correct triumphantly!

something changes


will it!

onslaught replaces disaster


chance with consummate tension

loyalty continues



also making heads weigh




bird brain

dumb sparrow     while I breathe I hope

somewhere along the line the clock
stops tocking

what’s to be noticed     quiescent hour
between membrane’s bonds

the way they work the air
like a possible ether     hush
like a memory of orchestral pleasure

strings     our lungs     many parts and faces
in the crowd to play

a various art and a decided structure
a crowd     dispersed aliens
aligning the vowels to the tines

times     (my love)     and its deceits
the flight feint
of friendship   a weavingway

ablative life on the tongue
and in the brain     a ting     a wearing murmur

*                      *                      *

bird treadle of shuttles

my dumb sparrow works

because I breathe I hope