What is the real? What makes this real?
This telemetric poetry real?
Whatever it is it vanished after
Reading those who click and splatter
Anthropoidally upon the page;
Is it a certain semantic field of earth?
A subject, wombic matter of the birthing of the present?
Bleak bus stops and financial crash
Impacting on a brave new young.
Is it urban hopes; a singsong illocution
And a lack of rigid form?
Must I be complacent in my shambling edicts
Of what the world is, encyclopediac beings?
Vast endemiological stalactites
Falling slate-like from my pen?
Or is it tangled sex-tape thread and other inscriptions
Of modern desire, the breakfast business
and typing stunning empty letters,
Sent to other Londominium adresses?
– – –
What does it mean that you dip-dye your hair blue?
What language of dying do you speak
Here a girl passed, she the second, establishing a rule.
Do you enchant my imagination in dark humid-evening orgies
Do you bathe in chemical baths to preserve your heart
Does it invite the sudden stranger to embrace you?
Are you a fan of runic authorise, of ringing fantasy multiworks?
The labyrinthry of your follicular intentions bemuse me;
I read you like a torn-out page.
Does its length correspond to your chastity?
Is it blue because you want me to notice?
Well I notice, I’m dull as a blunt arcadian pencil
Sepal, shall we write?