V.63

The future doesn’t exist
only the moment exists, and the moment
is the moment of despair that the future does not exist.

There are no hopes
There are only desires and deepest of those
the desire to have hopes.

I ride the bus back from town
having achieved a slight melancholy

and bought things I did not need
when I should have been saving
for the future I do not have.

Love once tore my head open
and everything inside fell on the ground.

Now, I feel no love.
And my head remains empty.
such is time’s slow dripping
and the cloud moves toward the horizon.

Should I be angry? No.
Should I want
Should

Note to this poem: this is not really what I am feeling. In reality the hopes I have are what has led to a situation with an inbuilt lack. But of course, we are fundamentally messed up due to the situation we find ourselves in. Maybe it is that the deepest hopes we have can send us into a jammed cog situation. That our estimations of the world are systematically wrong in a way that functions as an excuse to continue in an equilibrium that leaves us in a bearable situation, even if that situation is dead and jellyfish like. Maybe a moment of decision deferred is like a coagulant.

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, or tear
pages from to burn, if you choose to

V.50

Rain! Rain! On the river! Falling!
Oh my world! Heavying my hair!
Til it drips down my face! Oh rain!
Cupping my jawline exactly!

Rain! Dampening my clothes! Cooling
my shoulders and neck! hanging out
on the windscreen! Little deltas!
Dancing on the mud! just dancing!

Always a pleasure! Falling out
of the sky! or so they tell me!
I believe rain is liquid air!
That gets so bored sometimes it melts!

I believe rain is a sea spore!
Ready to grow a little sea!
Wherever it drops! It could be
anywhere! Like in your ear-hole!

The audiologist would gawp!
At the little ships, their foghorns!
And the sea mist forming cloudlines
which pour down your neck and caress!

I would spend days alone with it!
Which roars on the roof at night! So
passionate and so sensuous!
Each drop its own exclamation!

V.39

I thought I was done writing love
poems. Then I had a moment.
Now the only poem that’s worth
thinking about consists of your

name, repeated as many times
as the structure will allow it.
The river is getting drier
and revealing my face, my hands

supplicant, on the cracking shore
encased in mud and algal growth
A face of pain, or quietness
and ducks scamper about on it,

Clouds of gnats making me avert
my gaze. Can I redo this verse?
It was meant to be a love poem
I’ve lost track of what’s going on

When the new becomes coeval
with the dreamlike, we know true life
in our world has reached a strange point.
I assume the sun once felt like

a hand caressing your shoulder,
I assume. I think of your hand
caressing my shoulder like breath
pours out from within – there we go

V.20

The problem is that things just aren’t
rational. Words become less real
the longer time drags on. The long
day and night cycle is looser

at every moment. Ignoring
the background static the trolls, death
the concept of evil and more,
Love came at me across the nine

heavens. a miracle, fashioned
just for me. A real perfection,
numbers, herald of the motion
of the heavenly spheres, said no

one, ever. The chaste vibrations
of the universe continue
to deny allegations of
insidious intent. mostly

by refusing to comment more
even when pressed up against by
hordes of fallen angels. Never
mind – this sorrow produces verse,

laments, the pulp fiction of our
human poetic sphere. Pain just
whips across the page. Give me more!
It’s what sells, Mikey, it’s what sells!

V.14

How your voice comes to me through doors
that shut too soon and leave me spent
ammunition on the pavement.
I hear each consonant as fire

crackles on a summer beach
beyond the waves a jellyfish
moans and those are vowels of your throat
singing, of your hair which hangs like

for like, eye for an eye, my eye
which is hooked like the subtle fish
wife in barbaric times. i want
to talk to you about Rosa

Luxembourg, about just how right
we are about the large, inapt
empty spaces between the clouds
where no thought interrupts the flat

tones and gradients of the air
in its wider form. free of life.
Barbarism it seems is willed
by the people, and so we cut

onions to pretend we aren’t despair’s
pawns and playthings in an open
gambit. i want to hear your crisp cough
as we laugh too much while drinking

V.12

There’s no such thing as english
culture. Think of the differences
between what we call the deep sea
and what we call the mountainous

and the region of cultural
bleeding around it. I have stood
up many historical things
ideas, concepts, idein,

you know in the way that dancers
in concert are both aching for
attention, and yet there is this:
a joined togetherness, a halt

who goes there before the Other
where both achieve some cathexis
some oxidation. Well in all
history is this element

of love which creates a rhythm.
There is no such thing as human
being, only the levels of
being beneath, being above

being a component, being
Happy and safe in the knowledge
or collapsing over some event
horizon as you rest breathing