then the cypress tree
the slow moving river
down the long black lazy corridor
lit by chestnut candle
bluebells and forget-me-nots
honeysuckle and hosta
red hot poker
from the shadow
the hostas will grow v large
this year and our small lower lawn
will be stepped through on slabs
bald barren islands
as it disappear
and over there
things will hang like weeping willow
like fox glove
I love the silver birch trees
their little leaves
since childhood I have
by the lakeside
by the small white pebbles
and slow lapping
when the rain fell
on the weaving grass
the hills above
a heart shaped mouth.
The problem with Hegel and Ethel Merman, both, is that they are hacks whose influences have spoiled their respective fields for many generations. Yet, people secretly love them anyway, especially the post modern types. Everyone enjoys their stuffy, dodgy assurances of the power of fate and good entertainment.
They are good bed partners. Ethel wears her cowgirl fetish gear and Hegel is dourly amused. I have to leave the house. I am talking about nothing at all. History is the study of times gone bad. This is a bad time
Foods that begin with A: apple, apricot, almonds, alligator pears. All of these grow on trees. (Next slide please). Begins with O: Orchards. Now what I like about orchards is the primacy of the view in that wherever you stand reveals the whole of where you are, which in turn reveals who you are. Speaking of which, there is no who anyway, only where and sometimes why. I lie, there is never a why. Just a where, ready to wear; I am already feeling better.
Where am I? In a bed full of babbling books, watching a slide show about alphabets.
The Alphabet Angels have flown in. The whole office went to cheer the landing. Everyone is impressed with the Alphabets because they are blind and yet land so perfectly. Sometimes I wonder at the way people will ignore the fact that the Alphabets were actually chosen to be made blind for their life purpose of upholding the sounds of letters and words. It is something akin to the castrati in the glory years of opera, these special beloveds made sacred by a mutilation. The Alphabets are first taught the letters of all the forms of Alphabet, and then are made blind so that the letters will stay imprinted on the retina with impartiality and without distraction. The Alphabets speak the sounds of the letters while the purple traces of the letters imprinted inside them flare like small match heads. This is as if they are walking scrolls but it is only the letters that they repeat over and over and not anything else; no words, no poetry, no stern decrees.
I am unconvinced that the sacrifice of their sight is necessary or even effective. Yet sometimes I lie awake, chanting the names of the letters while pressing on my eyelids in the dark. And I do admit to entering into a strange trance, the likes of which I am hopeless to describe.
B is for beep. I have another call.
the tower’s shanks shimmer
a dragonfly discourses
The extinguished their grieving shadow.
pretty as clover.weepin
away •mathematics surrender
such a lovely life
& flower sellers + informants hawk
”My shoulder is broken“
•••is the city her ancestors experience
walk arm to arm •fragmented•clapperclaw
System[ok dance to this & if you don’t
graciously exploding limbomb huddle venuse
1a hangnail 2a rattling pin 3furnaced great ••blind observatories at antigravitational typologismaticism 4cars skiddng from a
top multistorey carpark 5humane salami opened toxic “A pretty dressskybluedarksash
The dead woman
singing in the shower let’s go.immense corpses rearing up over the scorched earth.multitudes of frozen spiders.taken from a location to a location.dis
love text found
wayCapimpitaerialists cramming limbs into a machine resultant paste puke hair & Multitude AURATIC
•1st remove the tongue
•witnesses will be annihilated
•Clumsily twitch inner thigh
•history of pop music of amnesia of jellyfish of prosthetic brains of snuff
movies, cardboard violinists cognate• lipdancer
noSleep at night no
at the window gazing outin at
Heavens an aeroplane
undistance to distance
sneezes shivers goes back to bed
Aeroplane shivers & shimmers s
ephermeral cool breeze before •another heavenly day•skin from head
peppermint dog shit a few base coins > lost
war• sometimes i feel so sorrow i just
ice want to to the
didn’t even want to be•
“awful scar-r-ed” night a|flooding
dragonflies & war > so peaceful so happy
specimen text one
The future is oursangrybrigade
specimen 2 text
rags of garden
& slang travellin
tickle her toes
she rolled his sleeve
up went the stars
through the sky
light & she swarmed
moon weaved bee stings in
vests & drown
go the bees
She was surprised to have been born into a world shared with God
She searched around for some sign or glyph to help communicate with This
Her birth had spread blood and fluids over all the books
The language them were written in remained unreachable even on the dry bits:
Washti ma thakma o-da
There were she knew messages form This everywhere
Especially tag clotting and drying f
“Hi! Capital One, MBNA and Barclaycard…
I thought this was New York! Why?
Maybe I am the girl from Jersey?
Like a new potato with a delicate skin, light gold and edible.
The stronger words thuswise languages of your Solanaceae:
Washtub ma taka o-ad
EATING BREAD AND HONEY
WATERING THE GARDEN
Mopsy looked at Milliband, who was asleep on the stoop, with hatred in her heart
In this light, only prose was possible, she decided:
Like the liquors of afterbirth and a painful coming into being
Kicking against the blunt facts was useless but well?
Existence holds on in small pockets (if you’re lucky
Framing the wider wastelands of where you aren’t with something friendly and homely
Framing perhaps a deeper and even more unanswerable question
Like from where comes the onrush of pleasure and things
And where do they go?
Between this. listen, tamer o-sandy vain
Washtub ma taka o-ad
The air’s glutinous and lipaceous with BBQ
Stray partly burnt hydrocarbons haze it with the meat particles
It is good to be born here now
The text isn’t so much illegible as decorative, like the God
This hovers over the smoke of the fires, and breathes in their goodness
That’s why the sky is yellow, matt and near and gentle
The blocks are flooded and abandoned
How their inhabitants wish they had chosen Jersey
But in This world there are neither bridges nor tunnels
A muggy night again
dull Mildmay, charming white North, and I’ve been up all noise, thrilling, tied, rold the Kaddish angry, lost to Robert Charleton beams steer bright on the Poetrie
the Ruines the Relique—and your Monuments in my heaps twisted years after—And rifled Æsons last transcendent senses animate—write, rak’d how we soare—
And how dust is that rise all Suns drew of, subdue, resigne, possesse as in the Hebrew aire, or the Bacchus bodies of aire—and in my own Immortalities of a woven life—at Day—
Deserted back thru lots, Your teares—and mine all-consuming towards ashes,
the fleshie men—the frame buried in the death—and what contributed after, l”
“Downtown, and his dark knife, Snowman’s, almed
In all the shocks of care;
Sanity’s covered by entering, for the new honesty
Exalted Elevateds from the mother,
Talking to city, which the bed passes
With an imagining Death;
Dress too by fur exploding fat cough in,
When our financial plots worse did see,
And Opened verge to graves death,
Talking the flower of the first Theater:
And as when Strange Name her Death seen
Through the virginal cancer of the accumulations, and shut
A Valise o’re big Hague, we delivered
Our bottle, to cook our Stew to ruminate:
So our enrolled summers shall likewise be
Dead o’th wires of their Mama,
When doom shall an empty night drive
Through all those flowers that with life created.
And as when the gaunt end o’th Darkness drank,
In the I”
And what could be said about it all?
Swells and excursions, minor explosions of interest pointing mostly I don’t know
Did you expect some simple follow on?
The operators don’t work with something so difficult to parse as things and words
Which are things of course, heavy and sticky you know this now but ignore
Everything is very deprecated
Hooked on by the kitsch of far Baltic mysticism – aren’t we all?
How far are we from Jersey here?
In This world there are neither bridges nor tunnels
Upswells and plays around the back of the head
My lochia have dried now in the full blast of harmony
The solanum remains a solace too
This God talks with words
But does not understand their use.
The voice of Peter Philpott is heard in this text.