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.


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


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. Let us lower anchor,

let us stay now 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
baseline, 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.


No matter how hard we all try
the future will remain unknown
soldier to the past’s graveyard.
A singularity. Is it not

trying hard enough. Is it not
easy to imagine the move
beyond. to imagine grass green,
a massive overproduction

see life changing as we stop, give
out. And the computer’s structure
being where the strong motive force
is in fact the human motion

blur. it is hard to describe what
a piece of work are machine life
goals, intentions and what drives them
mad. we are likely to end up

selling trillions of useless things
so called objects the ‘first A.I’
so called, produced, mistaken that
process was all it needed and

then saw god as a nicely phrased
meme. A ladybird landed here
and the sun, appropriate to
these four kinds of full-sun musings


The way I approach effective
poetry nowadays is to
sketch as it were many soft lines
that end up suggesting something

is wrong. The water beams across
the board, where swans stain the lakeside
wanderers by entering through
strong paths of light. Conversations

with me and the word processor
create problems. Is it not that
processes simply happen. is
there nothing we can do to stop

the press, allow us to think more
gesturally, without failure
to account for form, for the sound
of ducks and children talking. to

be, or not worry about teeth
sunk into the skull where process
becomes actual too quickly
and then (god forbid) words exit

and already falsehoods have held
hands and are skipping around old
people, who seem to be running
from death. like the black headed gull