drinking you is as an
ocean that returns
mid-morning with all your
vast mounds of clay
and seasonal relations
You! All your shivers are
my real problems;
how shall I say that
I did it?
Will I say
'it is possible
to do such things'
or will I say
'these things have been
known to occur
with me as culprit?'
vicious!
swallowing you is a
boiling river that ingests
the bank and overtakes
a pleasant county
rebuilding you is a
task that takes
a million times a man
but I'll do it
with a shovel and some twine
by Jove,
I'll do it!
now morning comes
and all the snow is blue
the gates are shut- on us
the gates are shut
but they can break
and will we do it?
to subdue the fist of power
and declare our anarchy;
how sure a worthy task!
will we, new morning manatee,
fly fast along the lamps
to say 'we are new, we are new, we are new'?
or will we slump where the blackened tarn
builds a house for all its losers?
who knows?
drink me!
vicious!

O mighty one
enclose me in your arms
will you?

you are a redwood in autumn with an open door
where leaves twirling to touchdown on damp hands
slide in raindrops to the mourning soil-

or you are polluted snow, come end of winter,
cawing in the black ice
and new burning by the orange lamps

whatever you,

good or wrong

O temperate shield
-while the day ends-
will you?

putting on your shoes,
I think for a long time
how you've got me now

walking to the reservoir
I remember
how you said so little

we the people,
moss-eyed accidents
our
mouths
are cemented over

we risen mudfolk
of the pine- strewn swamps
scattered car parts everywhere

grow for me-

you've got me walking to the reservoir
where there are reeds and marsh and ducklings
and phantoms for me

can't you grow for me?

I have
all this pithy hope
pushing on your shoes.

rise up mud-folk
and be good to yourselves

or I will wed incomplete she
and whirlwinds come crashing down
until the end of days

feeling of post-school

cross-table growing

quiet quiet

groupsong
in

browntime

your hair
it is the season for it

sun shouts

me! me!

like a flier

behind the zoetrope
in the treetops

sun! sun!

your teeth
white as a sky coming

I am

getting


to


know


you

avia

"look at the way the light is moving in the tree
over there
It sparkles, it bursts!
it glimmers,

but if your head’s a locked-steel-safe,
you’ll see nothing.

Am I making you uncomfortable?
Move your head that way and kiss me.

For more than three seconds!
You’re not very good at this.

You should go climb a tree. You should do it.

see my body's bop eternal!

blue and green and green and blue and white light,
do you think we are all just some process?

isn't it amazing?"

east manhattan

wet buoyant,
in slithy out cafes we dined
before the fall came fast
and winter rained

your hand shelters between the
towers, things immemorial,
black and red and tall

there was a rain
that was good

bye bye run-away freedom

bye bye houndrel
bye bye musket
bye bye ra-ra
bye bye ragdog

yap yap yap with a
scrawl and yelp
run and hunt
sneer and growl
dive and whine

licking confusion
growling protection
panting the window pane
butting the doorframe

angry for a day
dead in an hour

bye bye
musket
ragdog
freedom

Occultic Linguistic Substitutions

I didn’t know much about filigree when I set out to Zod, but I was sure- by God I was sure- I would know when I got there. This was not the case. When I arrived, a troupe of troubadorian heretics merely stuttered and stammered and tried to distract me with taverns and local statues of a heroic pub landlord from five centuries ago, and not a single resident in that blasted town would speak a word of filigree. I was damned insulted. I left in shame, and, to this day, regret that long, foodless journey from Alkaron to the promised land of Zod. Of course, it is in those filigrean words I remark upon it now- “ig temoria tepdilep, sukomo fun pap pap.” This means, in the Chochokian dialect, “Fuckers fly where vastness lies,” and I suppose it is a little nihilism about my whole journey. I have always flown to vastness and stood waiting for a majestic Prick to burst from the ash or sand, and of course it never would. I suppose that in some way or another all of us are standing in valleys of ash, waiting for pricks.
Another great saying of the Chochok-tribe is “Zelulu andulu kelumina ap prapabat.” Something of a mouthful, it means, “I’m no sinner to things my momma says ub-luvely.” Now this is a little confusing, because ‘ub-luvely’ is an unusual English word. It’s actually an occultic linguistic substitution; a very difficult phenomenon to explain. But I will try my best:
The human heart is composed of sensations. No one is sure how many. It was once thought by the Chochok that Five Primal Senses governed the human spirit, but the modern age has heralded one new sense after another, until the diversification became so intense that an infinite number of sensations can now be assumed to exist. Love, hate, masochism, sex, brother-love, egoism: all are sensations. In language, words are used to denote these sensations. The Chochok scholars believed that most of the time there are always a greater number of words per sensation than there are sensations per words. This meant that a complex sentence or an involved speech might be entirely the subconscious’ controlling of the conscious to express a single sensation. This entirely re-imagines the concept of the adjective in language. Now all of language is a description for something unknown which can never be properly described- the great silent thing at the back of all our minds, trying to get out in stumbling sentences, sprawling paragraphs, and whole lives.
And so the Chochok synthesised a new language. Now there would be words to denote the primal sensations- not adjectives, not nouns, but substitutions for ‘real words’. A replacement of the former, fallible words, with new, deliberately senseless words. Of which primal force ‘ub-luvely’ in particular is supposed to summon into existence I cannot say, because no one knows what the primal forces are. Maybe the primal sensations are not discrete, but intermingled in a constant jelly-like mass. So I cannot tell you the meaning of ‘ub-luvely.’ I understand its meaning innately, but I would find it impossible to convey. The closest comparison to occultic linguistic substitutions predating their development that I can think of is the Tao; if you can imagine a million Taos all fighting for breathing space and lusting for human lives to conquer.
I mention the ub-luvely because it has been, if nothing else, the driving force in the last few decades of my long life. I have seen it pull me drowning into the surf, drag me wailing down a Dolomite peak, and incline my head to hear a voice calling to me from the very bottom of the sink. Ever since I was a child I have been convinced that greater beasts lie concealed under the plughole, singing whalesong into the bathroom for me. Their ub-lovely tones would swirl for me about the shower-curtain and entreat deep into my armpits and testicles. Their voices were cold like a chill wind, and I felt like I was showering on some Scottish moor in on a dead autumn morning, droplets of fluoride-treated water blown from my body by the natural claws of that wind, goosebumps rising from my tactile thighs to my icy nipples; the Dawn Chorus of satan...

sleeping facebook profile,
sleeper,
inhuman pouring
quiet, at least with the nightime ramble
up on these hills
you can glance at the windows
with glinting passing kitchen doings
tireless humans
refuelling
after another hour

I see that black
sea gushing
climbing and climbing
the well is broken
moaning and swaying

oh how long can I watch it, momma?
how long will it stay?

for 24 hours,
24 hours,
24 hours a day!

my wasted vim

to rip apart a bodice
to push aside a beer bottle
these are not things,
to kiss along a muddy track
under the ragged winter tree
these are not things,
to talk with our minds
to meet some place above us
become white conjoined things
one locked and stable idea,
these are not things
which will happen to us.

we will fumble forever
never speaking to one another
and pitying ourselves
and blaming society,
O Fuck, for my wasted vim!

it's okay
you won't run out of pens
and you won't run out of water
and you can always wash your shoes.

after the last classroom door shuts
and the last vine on the building droops
and the last office closes
and the last marriage is called off

after the last refrain of metal-music
after the shower over roma, roma
when the supine Cum clauses
make you flopped, bedside and dumb

there are always opportunities left

you can learn the worth of mud
and how to curdle milk
and cook spaghetti
on saturday evenings

you can pummel Daos in the wood
collect the logs
stay warm with vino Thalliarchus,
and Chuck, the Bud-man.

this, all this
none of it mattered.

you can run out of your pen
and you can look up at the sun
walking out of water,
casting off your shoes.

we are that which lies under the stars
on the knife edge
between mars and venus

mother sun!
our one lover,
lighter to our
weary cigarretes

propellor of turbines
and maker of sight
will you help us see now?

'cause this is the time of our crisis

and we are they who lay beside the road
and drank lemon soda
watching it pass.

a twit

be not a tit, O Twiterarch,
but proflabate! and when you wake,

do something with these hours
you complain of
or make something with these people
you disdain of

if you can smelt and hammer,
smelt with every joy unfurled,
don't be the haute rind
upon the goat's cheese of the world.

I, consumer!

here is like a sea of sewage, where
thickened blasting pangs
eject offal
into a bag


I will not buy your shit anymore
It gets in-between my teeth.