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.

Pall shapes pan

Pall shapes pan
And grimacing, in the dark
Your shadow interrupts them

There's a mischief I would love if it was possible

Thames is careering,
And drained, I feel like lemonade
My head at your shoulders

I'm a little weak and excitable