If you listen when the sun rise
continues over the woods, you
can hear them. In amongst the trees
whisper the ghosts of the dark elm
and around them flutter pulp texts
of appraisal and if you then
listen when the cashier rattles
the till drawer, taking payment
for a selection of old books
you can hear them. In amongst the
shelves the ghosts of poems about
elms slip and slide from page to page
and as the sun light cuts through leaves
and bluebottles mate, rattling along
thin old bits of rope, and old stones
once used to rip up grain for flour,
let reading not have been a strange
historical cul-de-sac, let
people lower their eyes, only
let the silence ramify out
so we can hear ghosts when they spin
suspended in the air like leaves
hung on invisible threads, leave
ghosts that hang on the page in braille
Occasionally walk down a path such that you wouldn’t mind to die at the end of it. Having seen the beech seed pods’ dark red and the leaves’ brown, damp on the verges, having felt the cold breeze chill your hand on the umbrella, having said ‘cold I welcome you for a moment’ til it echoes in your fingers and having heard the pop of the rain on plastic like rice crispies in a bowl on a quiet morning. And the greens oh the greens of the trees in towering walls and your lone figure at the base. And the end comes with a sigh of a ‘we have to die sometime. And now is a particularly good moment for that, having walked down that path.’ Across the way, the hill of trees sits in the misty rain, magentas and grey greens. Colours shore us
But there remains this; that an act of self abnegation is a kind of assertion of authority over the world. For the following reasons. Either you believe you should stop, in which case you believe you are powerful and too powerful to change yourself, a contradiction. Or you believe your assessment of things is the most true, which is arrogant, considering the world. Or your abnegation is in itself a challenge to the world, since you believe you can still win by not wanting anything. Or something else. If you would just submit to things, you would have a better time, but that’s what I was saying, wasn’t it? No, I was saying something else. I forget.
Outside it has rained on and off all night. The sodden tea bag is cold in the bottom of the cup. I pop a small fruit gum in my mouth and chew it.
I would save the world if I could.
I would absolve each and every
facet of the human, take up
arms against a sea of irate
objects that natter on and on
about accidents and essence
with a silence. And I often
forget that light switches are just
incredible gifts as the land
grows fatter and the landlords. Be
ready to assume the mantle
of lord protector, and reform.
Take a selection of books out
and just see how many people
are ready to buy into you
and your taste. It is difficult
to accept we are each so oddly
spaced that our rhythms barely sync.
In a basic sense, but then all
smiles are the same and bring the same
joy. I watch your face luminesce
as you look down and flick pages
incessantly with your thumb. Then
collapse into myself and you
When heraclitus said all that
about rivers, he just showed that
he didn’t know rivers. I sit
by the same bridge and wier fall
downstream from the flat glass aspect
and watch bubbles pour in the kinds,
genres, types and variations
that this same river holds within.
But of course heraclitus made
a deeper point, that nothing is,
in the sense that words falsify,
and concepts are just one type of
object we wave around like a
loaded gun, violently and
it makes us feel somewhat safer,
the way that leaping off the edge
is better than falling when you
know you have to go either way.
I bought a wrap today, the same
wrap I buy as the sun decays,
and yet it is always different.
The same and the other exist
in an old war – sometimes bombs are
dropped and everything always changes
What poems are are opinions
dressed up ready to go out. Yet
I fall in love with the woman
that speaks. But not to me. A muse
who has a muse already. yet
a poem shouldn’t get it’s joy
from its content, only from form!
And when the content makes no sense
this is true. I open youtube
to watch the faber poets speak.
One with a brown jumper, a rough
brown jumper with relief lining.
I imagine speaking with her.
She brushes me off, rightfully.
As surface bounces off surface.
It’s surfaces all the way down.
I should give up the word, lay down
and let her voice walk over me,
perhaps the weight would stop my breath.
But if I give up, aren’t I wrong?
If I give up I assume that
my continuance would cause things.
I submit to continue, then
one day, silence falls out of me
If every generation spoke
before my time, Is it not my
right to also speak? The usual
channels are gummed up and rusted.
Unfortunate it is that rights
are a fragile construct. Performed
badly, they disappear as steel
wire in a shower of hotness
and so many people have thought
steamed from their mind these days I fear
everything. Why am I writing?
I’m afraid of reading the news
and what else am I supposed to
do? not ask the late world to split,
distinguish itself from itself?
let it be, and in respect to
it allow its continuance?
I hear my friend’s solumn prayer –
Gods not dead. He’s alive, and plays
for Barcelona. I just can’t
express my self any longer.
There’s so much going on in me,
but it turns out none of it helps.
as the whole world shivers and bends
To generalise is to hope
badly. while netting entangles
particles that were never meant
to be born and die together.
Just try to smush the world into
a little ball. All that said, those
who wage war are forfeit. Those who
choose to send various metals
in trajectories that later
intersect with human flesh are
forfeit. who treat people as meat
are forfeit. Who make the world grind
out sad goals that beggar belief
are forfeit. Those who laugh at it –
this jiggling of the human real
as it is smoothed violently
out are forfeit. They are fair game.
They are morlocks. We are eloi.
We must not allow ourselves rest.
They will eat us. We are surveilled
by red endocrinal systems
in our heads, necks, hearts and stomachs.
Like our wallets and our shoes were
peeled from the carcasses of cows