the way the error message keeps a straight face that actions have consequences parents their children, bombs and the folks behind them just a thought and their generations before that time inching up ‘And it doesn’t stop. None of it stops, ever,’ the weak sun above dry air doesn’t make it any lighter a truck peeps, beat and pipe each day a fresh entry to the world, Indian summer the occasion to lie again kicking out
Mercy Have none. A kind Of convalescence Stripped bare Of cure or consequence. Loneliness A kind of illness Yet in this city, Someone moving Whose presence in it… Do you imagine Looking in Or out Of windows
on the look out, and a couple of days’ escape Venice, Pound caged – ‘mouth removed’ lines barred with blue-ruled lines in this city red leaf hopping like a green bird –
dark by 4 all my miss
takes a catalogue read off the masks marks out of the core
of me occupied by other text matter arising floats along the motorway it’s raining in New Cross Gate at 18.24, 54º
cloudy, and in New York City 13.24 a clear 64º – and ‘pure/form has its value’ my i Phone says so
The leaves of the Japanese Maple red As the other trees are bare. It has been the worst autumn I can remember (Save one) Walking New York, performing those old shared rituals In pantomime. From the 9th floor looking east: Harlem, the lights of a bridge, Queens, Long Island, New Cross? The scars of latitude, lungs, i- Solation.
‘meanwhile, at 24 Reservoir Road, SE4 . . .’
Roman legionnaires tramp past my front door clutching copies of Allen Fisher’s PLACE (Reality Street, 2005) ‘even better than the real thing’ what is represented the theory boys at it again text stuffed inmouthandears pitch- black through the mid-Kent countryside we are coming over the edge into light. The light flaw built in the dis ruption built in the destruction man-made car park and no men i so late standing still and walking trees bare spotted the kestrel from the carriage window but I don’t think hard enough for theory
Seasick and can’t swim Thus we believe what we believe Until we cease to believe it.
This conversation isn’t over yet.
I read a self help book
On living without regret.
That’s four hours I’ll never get back.
Only letting go.
One always steps up
From a sinking ship.