at last the lineated look that was me playing in a palace or a cage neither a musical instrument nor an ancient board game so beautiful we forgot the locked door though caricatures rushed through the bamboo gates
explode onto petrifying talk of freedom a mouth that hollows out allegory like apple blossom like the lamentable loss that was who
at least the line took me away to wrestlers in flame less to the threshold which bled my smarting eyes into a bowl extenuating my ear as identity's howl
just a fluffer to stiffen up the hero for the heroine who arrives so long the appetizer burns off across the polished codes or the skein across the keyhole mucal glue that stuck in our eyes
sticks in the grain of the throat the frozen limbs of the rivers after extensive searches through identical slats of bridges below where naked men bathe in the ladies' identikit confessions
pointing with his folded fan to the warm up act lest your liminal luck should run out to the rearing horses and be trampled to a thirst
to the leasehold of me again, O line invisible, I weave my mutest lip from the gloss
16 October 1997
cell deaths in our faintest bin users mismatching
no testicles pseudodecorate
regulates the cross reaction signalling (array)
bite faced drops evolutionarily open
germline Sefton coast phages
nearly face on binary turbulence corrects your frizzled family down
but I don't believe in wasting the mantle is shaking error
Cadaver! I'm not condoning execution
message detection kit off to the shatter of a redundant truth
rodents and Man. Subsoil
pinhole fantasies with wild bioethics
no noise free images resonate downstream
information cascade scaled individuals
your favoured site of Heineken bottles replicate one's body's own photo
hypermutation game in the Name scooting ropes of signature
a just rapid changing temporal informing manipulated left hand lie
26 October 1997
Not you again, you big
girl's blouse! (cleaving twist and twain
Concretely uttered, may my light executive
dusting be considered as a form of life?
There's none in that body, all hooks
and spin, as PC as a veiny dildo
humiliating the inner voice, king of things
Dead systems twinned, halos
monumentalise the air
Speech, pure dictionary in double split
sides, inseminates the shifting
axioms of material in an outcry.
If you want
an interesting interior life get up
off your fat arse and get a
job you aphasic blank. Blink.
Fluid category fleshpots utopia.
Don't speak (to me) with a corpse between
your teeth, bumping into (and off)
yourself in fatal leather snapping
in twos and toes as I seduced you with picket
grace whims cross-dressing as a 39
inch bust in centimetres. Mutter
mutter mutter mutter falls into the social
being chained to the fucking cosmos
sex guides lay back and think of the stars
"John is a man? Fido is a dog, etc."
Sample that bitch, a small
simulcrum of somebody else's else. No
No ode - just the behaviorist's crystal.
Polyphonic ejaculation! Do you
want to handle my swollen gland; in
my language we have the same word
for "man" and "girl", for "love
"=". You can teach pork
to snout the spot
Pleasure as an idea is a
formula. Anarchy as a theme
is a juice derived from shot.
Spirit a bucket.
as force to be reckoned is a
gang rove in tense invidious.
Matter is muttered all about
"you", you hoodlum of the lip.
I don't. She
discerned the hand of a man
decisive, dark, menacing,
on the envelope. I'm trying to
fill a thriller at the moment
with knowledge as human as death
Your tropes bellyache tripe
as trite bathing belles sharked by conscience,
etymology as any sighting?
Discourse on trees,
weed dust explored mistaken
puritan shrug-offness meets bursts of
statutes and ripe rips
and a whole bunch of jingle-lessnessness
category-collusive coughs between movements
Please God, don't erect me when
the doctor grabs my balls, situated,
endowed with meaning and hating it.
Let's get right inside the outside,
the neuro-ideological poem
that spits out its writer,
well no or yes
about four hundred times a year, its
responses corrected through liturgical
You said it. No dialogue
without thinking with the solids.
No job too small, the will not
down the pan. Lift
the lid on the eye: chaos patterns
in the bloodshot rolling,
an ecstasy that shatters the bloom, showers
petals above the literal ground;
on a wet, black chop.
Bliss my chora! Tort my chorus,
Trot, whiz-sin pinkies fan the air
(O harmonicas in your little
plastic coffins, arise!)
Be inside everywhere; outside
the booby boom
that spot that get us hot, you and I.
The "metamorphosis of the materials", you mean?
13 November 1997
Jewel up to trembling
hypotheses hybrids crown their brazen verses
sublime re-affirmations of all that can be said
just by watching men grunt the Earth. For example,
East facing behaviours and blank relics in the bedroom
mutate into a tradition you barely unmute
Earth is a colony of its own future. Sex
in verse: boy-slits strangle your testes, veiny friend
The soldiers fall on their booted-up whores
wrestle with an elaborate rhyme scheme
Earthen birds twitter
the anthem of some migratory Muse
(And her shadow
December 1997 - January 1998