Moana

In looking for happiness right where you are
Or farthest-star following
What if you find that happiness requires
The acquisition of skeletons
What if the last leap turns into a fall?

And you hit the golden rocks by the sea
Or are dragged down into it
By the weight of all these childish things.
What if to be happy, you must
Take someone else’s happiness without hesitation?

What if I am not strong enough to harm
In the end the one whom I love
Who is stopping me from being happy;
No new island without castaways;
Oh I know who I am, I know. And it is not good!

Zodiac

I

Your week this week will go off
like a rotten egg. Such is life.
This fragment of a year will crack
and spill all over you, achieve

new heights of boredom and disgust.
Why? Do you ask why the fungus
grows at the tree’s base and grows
rotten? Come on. Just accept it

like you accept that your eyes
will look where you decide
and not just swing around like
billiard balls in a washing machine.

Next week brings with it new challenges
as exactly the same thing happens
for the hundred and eleventh time.
But this one, this is the one, I can feel it.

II

The stars are spread out in the orrery
like thick yeast extract on toast.
Things are everywhere finding it difficult
to connect. Take Bellatrix

for example. A salty taste on the tongue
just don’t let it touch an open cut.
Inside this emptiness of pain feeling
there is another expanse of tiny stars.

From each new star, we see new constellations
and the red bloom in Orion
is aching to reach them.
Close one eye for a while and things look flat.

There are an endless array of bears in the sky
clouds, atoms, birds, planes, galaxies –
all of these are bears if you look closely.
This week will bring bears.

Continue reading

V.69

Don’t let the bastards grind you down.
Don’t let the bastards grind you down.
Don’t let the bastards grind you down.
Don’t let the bastards grind you down.

Don’t let the bastards grind you down.
Don’t let the bastards grind you down.
Don’t let the bastards grind you down.
Don’t let the bastards grind you down.

Don’t let the bastards grind you down.
Don’t let the bastards grind you down.
Don’t let the bastards grind you down.
Don’t let the bastards grind you down.

Don’t let the bastards grind you down.
Don’t let the bastards grind you down.
Don’t let the bastards grind you down.
Don’t let the bastards grind you down.

Don’t let the bastards grind you down.
Don’t let the bastards grind you down.
Don’t let the bastards grind you down.
Don’t let the bastards grind you down.

Don’t let the bastards grind you down.
Don’t let the bastards grind you down.
Don’t let the bastards grind you down.
Don’t let the bastards grind you down.

V.62

When you are exposed to the beams
and the wind of the universe
blows through you, you may still seem
to walk, but you are dust, and thus

the skeleton you are stands still
in the dark, surrounded by dirt
and the wind blows and the air falls
to rest in lungs and waters. Hurt

and defeated your body melts
and returns to first and last things
as tears that glow blue trail their salt.
The air itself was on fire, sin

of the knowledge of our kind. Hell
was not real, but we made it real
and now it clicks and clicks and all
would do well to fear it. I feel

a kind of horror, this grey light
that is born out of new dangers
which make old metaphors apt; tired,
blind, the will to power failed us

as Pandora lay in a ward
this blue chord burned into her eyes
The small moth that had once meant more
that came last, was burned in the fire.

V.11

If I can relax a few people
can admit the existence of
sex! I will have expectations
that will be beached and left to drown

I wait in the queue for the bank
of clouds, where the blue sky is cut.
and thats a wrap, people. antique,
the vistas of the air become

animal in immense cuteness.
i say be jubilant we fuck
and that we generally want
nothing more than a quiet night

alone with the one we love, to
spoon and stuff but fuck also, now
the world has realised we gain
a world from admitting our roots

in the vast fields beside our friends
and cousins the bonobo, who
create literatures of sex
out of the grass, the leaves, the world.

some people scare at this freedom
to walk across and fall in love.
and of course this is my spectrum
analysis of loneliness

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.

V.10

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