V.57

I want to to want outmoded
forms, being young. I want to buy
a second hand record, music
I have never heard, and return

to the room with the red curtains,
and play it for you, on the couch,
while I close my tired eyes and dance.
To feel the cold plastic crackle

in my form, and open and close
the gatefold sleeve, like a locket
I have this power over, wide
and thin with the breaking card-spine.

To clothe my fantasies in styles
ripped out of old films, out of lies
that came from old archives, about
how this or that album was made

in a cabin in the snow, blood
formed from the mouth and captured here
in lines around a black disc. As
fantasies are the outfits this

moment wears. At the moment, I
want to paint, and read old fadeds
you can break the spine of, and tear
pages from to burn, if you choose to

V.56

It’s been raining for weeks. The fish
have left the ocean and are fled
to swim among the raindrops in
the air. Airships begin to hunt.

I was walking today downhill
from town when one of those trawlers
passed overhead. It had the sight
of a great shoal over sheepscar.

I heard the sailors calling, then
the terrible noise of ratchets
releasing. The net jettisoned
had destroyed the park. I ran down

and watched as apartments and trees
were ground to pieces, as people
were screaming and pulled skywards, fast
as the fish were caught and the old

neighborhood destroyed. I asked her,
this fisher, what’s the strangest thing
you’ve drawn up from the foggy murk
of the city? Unfeeling eyes.

“I once caught a whole damn marriage
The bride was hanging by her train
Her mouth opening and closing
in a strange way. We threw them back

V.55

Accosted by a dark new mood
after a dream involving fire
towering above the georgian
terraces, and Bon Iver grown

cold and unfeeling, exploiting
my love of their music for cult
ritual aims. A horror dream.
I sit and feel real horror, as

the dull news legitimises
violence with a short sound bite
‘I’m just saying what everyone’s
thinking’ and that’s that. What the fuck.

I can’t defend such a robot
action (in the Czech sense) – playing
clip after clip of glob brained dullards
who believe solely in themselves

like a kind of solipsistic
brick, thrown through the window of my
mind. The clouds darken but the bright
and constant thereness of all things

is there like a bed for my brain.
Insects want platform for their buzz.
Insects can’t abide the changing
language. Insects click and stutter

V.54

The moss between cobblestones. Rain
to break rot weakened branches. Wind
on the puddle on the bridge tears
the world into sections. I step

in the puddle and move on. Step
through the humid air. Step. I fall
through the floor and the map appears
grey and unrendered. The cloudlines

were just painted on the skybox.
I look down and I have no feet.
But the air is humid, I breathe
and smell damp old cars. Will we get

thumb arthritis, when we are old?
I see objects from my youth hang
in the air, ready for the next
cutscene. Then the quick-time event

begins. I have to tap *a* as
I drive the car home from work and
a stupid pigeon accosts me
by flying into the road. I

then miss pressing *up*, and my mind
gets caught on climate, that I can’t
be driving. There is a glitch and
I am flung into the dark sky

V.53

A great book is an arsonist
that sets fire to the field of you.
Flames lick across, and slow or fast
you change. A great book is a crack

in glass, that hit just right will break,
creating a pile of shards that
rest on the pavement and inspire
this thought that something once held here.

A great book is poison, stopping
the normal functioning of the
organism. A great book is
a tear in the fabric of normal

time. Or shampoo in life’s wide eye.
A great book takes the jigsaw’s last
piece and eats it as you watch. Damn.
A great book is like an error

in printing where the whole thing starts
again when you’ve just reached halfway.
A great book can be an error.
A great book is a burst lightbulb

in a dark hall, making you cold
and nervous. A great book is a
bag that splits, scattering your stuff.
A great book is a sprained ankle

V.52

The world that reflections fall to
beneath the petrol station in
the rain – that world where things are good
how can we reach it? The world where

the chemical imbalances
are mostly corrected. In there
where people don’t get stuck. I love
all of my friends, I love you all.

But you need to go to buildings
everyday, in other cities.
Things are made difficult by this.
You need to tap at keys and make

small adjustments, and be harrassed
by parents as their children cry
and try to cope with complex stress.
There is no line. no prime matter

that would lie down beneath things and
smoothly answer questions. Like why
argent, a cross gules, prevails here?
a symbol of stupidity

flutters in the cold wind. As I
attempt to make myself think well,
Reach that world dropping away now
beneath the rivers, beneath seas

V.51

Evenings I stare into light
and wonder why I do not sleep.
I see the wonderful smoothness
of her sat on a windowsill

The cat which is next to her is
not quite with it. She cradles her
phone like I want to be cradled
she sits and smiles the internet

loves a good smile, and a beauty
is brought which justifies all that,
all the machinery of phones.
As if I could step through the stream

and into the darkened room, run
my fingers across her tattoos
Examine her eyes for weakness.
I imagine it would not be

there. The red new leaves of the oak
hatch from a wooden cocoon, where
ancient flooded mines make a home
for birds. We sit on the lithe bench

near rotten memorial blooms
and your shoulders are bright and smooth.
The real woman and imagined
are feathers of the same warm ghost