Eliot the Swell

This morning it was revealed that the
wasteland was composed by a wave.

The wave drew in and whispered
to a passing fisher.

April is… And so on, and so on. And each
line was quieter as the wave dispersed.

Immediately the fisher saw no one
would believe such a literary event

could have been made by an undulation
caused mostly by the wind.

And so she made up a persona, called Eliot
and she finished the inaudible last lines.

She relished it later, the chaos it caused,
sending ripples through culture.

Those old bastards needed a shake up
and here it was.

She sat in her hut, first edition in lap,
smiling as she smoked her pipe.

A fisher queen in her own domain.
and thunder came across the sea.


Jesus appeared in the wild fire
when notre dame burned. soon after,
the Buddha appeared in concert
in the soft ash. at the same time

a vast nothingness was noticed
in signals sent from deep inside
the galactic hub, and even
now, gods are appearing each time

a realisation is made. too
vast are the required energies
to control this haptic coupling.
A flower budded and angels

were born again as the bee struck
semaphoric. a wheel ran out
over a rabbit infant and in
the red sin, a devil snuck through

to haunt that stretch of sparse grass patch
on Nought Bank road, for all time
has this dual aspect. the moment
and then the word and in this gap

gods sneak through like small particles
in a compound solution seep
slowly along differentials.
the gap in the real is endless


How the suddenness of sunset
shapes a cultural relation
with light and dark, that is, with all
that light and rock can come to be

which is to say, all metaphors
will seem sharper, more cut and dry
humour may become less widespread.
when dark comes on like a sudden

realisation that you left doors
unlocked throughout your life, the past
is compromised, you may become
less happy with a vague object

such objects may leave you stranded.
with nothing more certain to say
you see the sharp edge of the knife
as more useful. Is this the case?

The heat at the equator makes
mistakes, when the hot air shivers
and the moon sees the sky ripple.
before night pours out through cracks

Then in the morning piles of books
lie scattered like hot forest mulch
on tables in the market. Free
from dust the air seems unhealthy


The only audience you have
to impress is yourself. only
the only audience you have
is yourself. only, yourself is

the audience you havent seen
since the true self disappeared
in smoke, and fire, and limb. like god.
forsaken, crawled up the hill-path

giant in itself but shaming
others through their inadequate gaze,
The old past-time of public shame
which gods performed to each other

and now humans performed to god
who performed supposedly for
or against itself. “only god
only knows what is happening

to us.” said one roman soldier
and the other twirled his skirt up
and around the index finger.
before responding. “have you read

and reread Ovid, Catullus?”
then “no” then… “then I don’t know what
you’re worried for.” then they stand there
like the great sun god apollo


You’ve got to find the people who
are fighting the good fight and then
somehow you have to support them.
You’ve got to hold back on holding

back with the praise, and criticize
only when you think it’s a fire
to the forest that requires it
which it turns out is basically

never when it comes to most art*
because art is not a war, you
know? no matter how many dolts
want to make it so boring it

shatters through density. holding
art is like making a gesture of
greeting like reaching out your hand
on deck. lower anchor the two,

lets stay a while in this lagoon
and watch the sun set together
on our shared future. and I won’t
stop you if you want to go back

to shore, to go shore the ruin’s
esteem, you aren’t ready to join
hands and think of death and greater
things. learn to throw your shade inside

*bearing in mind that the stupid can never be art.


Oh my god we were all such dolts
in high school. I say that, but what
are you going to do about
it? I mean myself. I only

live to apologise for my
past crimes. it gives me something to
hope for. All of a sudden I
see sun I see everything seems

poetic to me again. must
do better. just that time of year
when life seems written by Hiyao
Miyazaki and my high school

wrongs seem a warm subplot with which
to throw shade. context on current
millennial life. we have phones.
I turn up the soundtrack. I turn

to Spirited Away, where ghosts
are turned and made to serve children.
river spirits and lake spirits
are high. here in the city trees

spread blossom around like golden
syrup on my unseasonal
thoughts. I drop my sister at the
café to meet a guy and drive


I forgot what I was writing
and a sign of modernity
is that that can’t stop me! wow
such grace. I will watch TV now

as I write this series of Vs
and as per usual series
never finish, yet another
sign of endless modernity

or at least we hope it is, or
at least hope is endless within
modernity, or at least fine
despair that is based on rumours

is endless within our modern
appliances. Make sure to write
anything that comes to your head
space. But lets not go there, despite

yourself you may have just gone there
Okay. What a gross confidence
trick our world is. what a real gross
product our world is. but mostly

garbage, like this poem, of which
only one survived. and now for
one more amazing denouement
are you ready for it? here it