[ SEAN BONNEY ]

POEMS AFTER KATERINA GOGOU

I would like to spin a eulogy / of filth, of poverty, of drugs and suicide . . . drugs, disgust, rage – Pasolini

Benzodiazepine. Give me the prescription

and I will be you. I’ll pretend to be you
and if i cannot, well, I’ll tell you about your walls
the interpretation of the cracks, divination etc
you probably don’t wanna know. give me the paper
its fine I’ll never remember a thing.
you’ll say things tomorrow I’ll have said them last week.
just right. I know explosives. magic I know and dialectics.
just write the prescription ok.
I have conversations with the dead

let’s drink with the unemployed

with all sun and silence
with all dust in the sun and silence
and sun and cognac and dust
and cigarettes and sun
no, lets not go on about our health today
pills and drink and snot
don’ worry
I feel very calm
there are nails there is hair there are years
dirty
the pills are great. the party, you know which one I mean
impossible to tell whose a cop these days
music
the cognacs shit
no, I haven’t heard anything for quite some time
you know I’m thinking I might want to, you know
there’s a room upstairs
I want to see you without your pants
kind of curious about your dick
music, for chrissake
you take a solo
“they took a stick and beat me”
cognac
music
silence
you pullout your switchblade start slashing
The Bonnot Gang were right.

There are four cardinal points.

The first is the sky, it is where they have buried us.
The second, the earth. There they question us. It is very silent.
The other two points were recently taken out of commission.
No explanations were offered

one day I’ll come out from the houses

I did it yesterday
no thought for anything
one small shred of my father
a tiny piece of the sea
no-one can take them from me
the city they fucked like a dead friend
so many dead friends
one day I’ll come out from the houses
straight into powder and flames
I did it yesterday
you fascist bastards
you pig bastards
red banners barricades black banners
a new city a new kind of sun
one day I’ll come out of the houses
and listen I need to tell you
don’t think I’m afraid when I tell you
they got me. don’t do it. they got me.
reinvent time. reinvent violence. then
listen, go at those bastards like the furies.
only then will you disappear
only then will you learn the magic
a tiny shred of childhood and ocean
one day I will come out from the houses
a strangers language of rags and dreams
and the loneliness, the disappearance
oh god the loneliness. I mean
what do you think I am
some kind of fucking cop

Loneliness does not meet for lunch in Selfridges

nor does it stroll abstract and satisfied thru the V&A, for example
it doesn’t understand Beethoven
or even the Beatles, for that matter
never gets nostalgic over memories of its mother
its ribbons its straw hats its oh-so-middle-class morphine
loneliness is not white
loneliness is up for sale. loneliness will clean your toilet with her fucking tongue.
oh god I’m swearing again.
loneliness turns up drowned on the front pages as refugee porn and is three years old
loneliness queues up politely for a boot in the face for black eggs and poisoned ham
loneliness crawls up from the desert her mouth filled with salt and grain
is marked out in inches like cattle and real estate
humiliation pain humiliation pain
is laughing and is very silent
loneliness crawls out from the ocean her mouth filled with sand and glass
loneliness knows your passwords
humiliation pain humiliation pain
destroys private property. knows all your music is prison.
knows all of your language is prison. all of your seconds are prison.
knows western weapons.
knows european oceans and blood-clots and fucking shit.
loneliness is screaming is smashing your windows with boots and chains
loneliness is dancing barefoot on tables in bars where they hate you hate you
is holding in her bruised and ruined hands a very sharp axe
is hanging over your head
is swirling over your head
is lonely is lonely and loneliness is power is sharpened and bloodstained is swirling is
swirling

sometimes the door opens I’m terrified

you are dressed in white your face is white
you force open my hand place coins there
I never move never every morning
you know exactly where to find me
a long time has passed my nails are filthy
they are long and sharp I terrify my friends
I have no imagination
coins in my hand they frighten me
every day I cook potatoes
every day they call my name it terrifies me
I know they want me to betray someone
I keep their voices close to my face
I know they change the words
I’m frightened of the voices because the voices lie
they told me they shot you in the legs
I know they never shoot in the legs
they shoot in the head
they extract the mind
just keep it together, love. keep moving.
 *

Someone has taken our knives. We go down like the sun. Place of birth. Unknown. They
have scratched away our slogans. Colour of eyes. Unknown. We go down like hail and
rain. Year of birth. Fuck it. Next time they shoot us, we’ll refuse to die. Its raining again.
Give me a cigarette.

we’ll cut ourselves down

they hung us yesterday
no escape from the massacre
this whispered ‘no’
liars. informers. murderers
squealing ‘yes’
always ‘yes’
no escape
always ‘yes’
this whispered “no”
this rotten world
this world we loved

Please don’t cry. Time will come.

Bear that in mind. Remember.
Don’t look at me. Don’t cry.
We are gathering the pieces.
There will be no locked doors.
No officials, no murders, no slaves.
Sometimes we’ll speak in colours,
in musical notes. No passwords,
no secret codes. But remember,
serious, keep a pill in your mouth.
Keep it there, these words there:
solitude, profit, humiliation, suicide.
That’s the dictionary of history.
When they shoot it at us, fire back.
I can’t lie. Things will get harder,
but keep at it. Despite our violence
our addictions. All this burning earth.

Fearful we’ll abandon our history or steal it. Fearful we’ll set up borders around that
history. Fearful we’ll drive up the rents on that history and talk and talk about the old days
in meter and rhyme while the pigs close the borders. Fearful we’ll be those borders.
Fearful we’ll confuse those borders with songs and sit inside those songs as if they were
the scars on our veins. Fearful our scars will become a lullaby and that we will turn into
dogs. Fearful we’ll confuse dogs with doves. Fearful of doves and swans, of corpuscles, of
medical robes, of silence and smack. Fearful we’re doing what they want. What silence
wants. We police their borders. They know how it is. Fearful bastards. Fearful of
everything. All of us. Fuck it. Do it tomorrow. No escape from the massacre.

We are being followed. They are hunting us, are mostly silent. Lines of them, they are
hunting us. Their sentences, relatively simple. Our hunters, our educators. It is very
simple. We don’t mention the silence. What we keep inside our whispers. In our signals, in
our silence. As each of their faces change. As each of their cells divide. In great
procession, the faces. Their lessons are endless. Silence, in circles, our hunters. As if we
were dogs. As if we barked at strangers. And now they will murder. There is safety in
murder. Somewhere are angels. Angels have claws. Dogs are everywhere.

music, I don’t talk about it

my eyes. seriously. where are my eyes
every day there’s something to reject
I will not scream when I die
Marx Lenin Trotsky Luxemburg
The Kronstadt Massacre and the dream of Sisyphus
there are flowers there are colours
revolvers and homemade bombs
I’m going crazy, why aren’t you
my dreams my friends dreams
all these dreams are the same dream
repeated breakdowns endless weeping
puking spirits loathing
every morning I have to apologise for something
coke, raki, smack
this is measure
you and me
up and down
and back and down
there is a false symmetry separates us
lets not laugh
if we don’t sign the paper
they won’t be able to act on their decision
night falls
the central committee, rape apologists, maoists
night falls
they want to know if I have a television
night falls
I’m still kind of keeping it together
I won’t sign
Long live the 204th International

and we collect little pieces. of resistance etc.

don’t talk to me about fragmentation. it is
rain. talk about rain. Durruti had it right
transubstantiation. rain. metallic burning rain.
red rain. crowbars. the richter scale is
a calendar. bones piled like rain beneath the earth.

40 degrees in the shade. 40 below.

No-one was ever born here.
Fascists and charitable organisations
have made an agreement. They have bought up the city.
They have poured oil on us.
They talk about rats. And houses. The contractors
And the cops, of course
like voyeurs
Fucking them. They talk about the houses.
They are breaking up the houses
They have tied you to the bed with your legs and face.
Its how they put up the rent. How they get us out.
They change our names. Elect us. Pour oil on us.
The streets names. Our names. They burn our names.
40 in the shade. 40 below. Our mouths are swollen.
No-one was ever born here.
A stone. Beneath it, that liar the sun.

that there are houses

on grand roads, we know that
and we used to know
in the silence and dawn
of bottles, and pass codes
never would we live there
hating the roses, fearing them
we knew the address of each one
we had the blue-prints, everything
we talked
minute to minute
we talked
wire to wire
of what we would say
at the pre-ordained moment
class vengeance, we understood
futuristic and ancient, as
all of history, as
one click, as
some kind of message
left on the table
like a packet of fags
in an overheated kitchen
not even the ones I used to smoke
squealing, yeh, thanks a lot
you destroyed the wrong world
pack up your roses, asshole, get out

On an undisclosed date she was spotted leaving the house setting fire to every cop car she
saw. At a synchronised hour she was known to be transporting weapons to anarchist-
communist groups in the Middle East, to be working with refugees in Calais, at every
border in the world, to be distributing certain classified documents relating to the blood-
stained and medieval predilections of David Cameron, Theresa May and Jeremy Hunt.
Last spotted wearing one red and black military sweater, one pearl necklace, fists
clenched inside the pockets of a somewhat dirty borrowed jacket. This is a note on how to
become numbered among the ranks of the invisible.

I think of my friends as blackbirds

screeching from rooftops
murdered by rising rents. we survive
at random. pissed out of our heads
in songs in squatted bars
with pills and needles. to get some sleep
to stop dreaming
interpreters. commies. thieves.
we wake in the same bed. with bedbugs
with trackmarks I love my friends
we dream and never sleep
cocaine into Marx
plague into Bakunin
murdered by rising rents. we screech
from broken rooftops
I think of my friends as blackbirds
as wires stretched from city to city
nailed to the front of the houses
in borrowed dresses and migraines
in silence. lines of speed. of wires
of STDs and bedbugs and microscopes
we fall in love with killers
we survive at random
no ambulance
broken glass. telephone. silence
I think of my friends as blackbirds
Marx and Bakunin. always on the move
the city has been stolen
always on the move
murdered by rising rents
all of my friends. dressed in black
in silence. antibiotics and broken roofs
speaking in code. always in code
plain speech is only for lying
my friends are blackbirds. are wires
tight around your hands. your necks
you capitalist shits. your necks
my friends are wires. are blackbirds

Don’t let me sleep I’m dreaming. They walk toward me the dreams the phantoms it is
lonely here. They walk toward me the dreams the melodies the harmony is wrong. It is
lonely here. The years are pebbles and they’re blocking my mouth. The years are coins
each one stamped with a separable sun. First sun Kobanî. Second sun Calais. The dreams
are lines they are suns their angles are vicious their voices are thin they are phantoms their
voices shatter glass. They are thin phantoms they speak inside our mouths. They speak
inside our mouths in Haymarket in Kobanî. The dreams are years are pebbles a system of
inaudible suns. Third sun Tottenham. Second sun Calais. The harmony is rage the dreams
are hunting us down. First rage Ferguson. Second rage Gaza. They are thin phantoms they
are bursting suns they are blasted glass. Now they take aim. Now they murder. Dreams are
a means of speaking. Glass is a means of screaming your nightmares down.
[ CHRISTINA CHALMERS ]
[ BRENDAN GILLOTT ]
[ PETER GIZZI ]

A Garden in the Air

You wonder summer’s terabyte,

here on the terra forming,
floating and atomizing,
giving over to shadow,
then a muffler rumbling,
distant engine, a little cozy,
acoustic shadowing,
or when the bells
die out slowly, like light
across the neighborhoods
plumbago skies,
a blanket feeling
in the face of narrative,
a map on somebody’s face
suddenly changing
from the time it takes
to the time it takes,
and you keep thinking,
overhead the ancestral
chirring, this twilight's
creaturely bluing feels
downright numerical,
like polka dots
on the ceiling, still
you’re thinking how
this chirring and
its attendant evening,
erratic nothings, a material
weaving, warping, excess
jetting, ancestral airs,
what you are speaking,
leaves, whirring, living,
listing, in summer green,
how can the tonic sustain
its frequency, moment
of tuning, but
you do all the talking,
you do all the talking
and forget the world,
in this room, the walls,
what you are speaking,
these fires at the edge.
When Orbital Proximity Feels Creepy

Right now there are teenage microwaves

screaming through your body
while you are having text with me.
This is the moment I’ll need you to sing
with me.
I am making my way in some darkroom
looking for other structures to love.
From the left something speaking
I can’t identify.
The floor goes unfixed and moving
and this doesn’t happen only at night
but during the day when I don't want
to think on it.
That I saw a blood-orange ball caught
out my window.
That I’m listening to light and it said time.
I’m listening to time, it says, ha.
You need to be howling at bloody torn space.
Need to be spooked out of your hidey-hole
and its glowing mess.
But I love this ball I’m riding on.
The strange hunk of metal and rock whizzing
around my loves and my loving.
The fact I spin and it spins and everything
is spinning close up.
From far away it’s so cool.
I guess they call this physics or they call it laws.
If they’re so well-made, why do we suffer?
I thought the day was opening
but now I see it’s already gone.
Outside the cruel dove has a broken window.
The day isn’t friendly.
Who are you to me?
A way to understand the floor?
The floor that holds me up and leaves me
standing.
I don’t know where to go.
Me, Tuesday at 5PM.
What does it mean to be in a room,
any room.
The wind banging against the clapboard.
I know enough to see the cracked pane
isn’t going to be fixed anytime soon.
Who has time for such things in the song?
Breaking. Blooming.
The wobble of light on wood-grain late
in the day.
In the loneliness of orange.
In the loveliness of orange.
[ JUDITH GOLDMAN ]







 





 



 



 

[ ROSA VAN HENSBERGEN ]
Set-descriptions Oner Landscape [from Kiss Your Own Head Institute]

the chairs enter and abode turning to monitors

we input all outers longingly tender the means
towards sources grayscale incoatings circuit the
problems suited in neutrality turn to lightculture
remortgage the set-pieces with a joke about worse
choices and technocrats. If we could only sit face-off
argue over pork touch the surface of the question

to close the textbook cut to narratives through each

other stuck to the point of entry pile-up
this is the wrong kind of body, mother
all hollowness no action

raiders enter
the corper operates to regulation
wheels in from the real streets out to the lights

we frustrate the abstraction slick impenetrable

whiter always whiter shira-shira
extinguisher the splinters of glossy legs and nasals lined
pestled ungross selves to perfection we each singular resemble
each other better the best
over-master the globule with increasing greats of mindfulness
this is the wrong call to commune
get your words tight
damn
we flex against retention waterboarding with hospitality resume
as pillars of addition with our own subtraction take less and less
via consumption this is surely the way to build a real house
this is surely the way to build a real white house
no that is not the place where language goes

push all the tablets side fast-line them

unmoving yourselves get to the quick of it
shaving doors off faces at the same time
no minutes needed
if we get to the ideological side we’ll never
achieve anything this is the wrong lie

lets instead mistruth ourselves back to nondistinction

make ethical space work free through physiological undifference
we can do this with just a little mistrust of the close not far order enwombing
allorder
and this may require [with modifier] pathogens and bombs
this may require exceeding trust and longer exposure
unefficiency
trepidation and trespassing on allothers
cue the table is set [for L.R.]

sumptuous with extensions of features with canopies shielding the ceiling cuts
the sky it is there we can sign for it at percentage all blue and fluffy an idealist
you should buy its bit tackle confront all the furniture with so soft
and real an invisibility

make up to the table through contract

caressing light with thermionics up suped
this is not actually for touching this table this table is for pawning
like you could touch with raw filaments we say there are no real fingers on set
we want to say something bigger through electricity
it gets harder being hemmed by this bureau
to get the diaphragm to grow enough
to speak as this body
give it us now already we wan’it we can’t make it

is this a dwarf or a giant 3x6 or 6x6 or some other red portion of the allotted
input with equivalence scores, the star the dew all measures only figures
the occupation prestige rating the lots becoming codes (677) and associated scores
and you build a future on them
but this is lunacy

we all know us subject to the opaque digit

all blocking what small glots get through
could be different know while staling transfixed
our bespoke decay our allergies and pathologies
our wall red picks up blue lifelines in LED veins
tracking the shape of our multitude and refiguring it in total arbitrary

we all walked there today and through the crystalline pushed hammers of muscle and limb
this is what the shape of our body is
its size and all grow with learning

this interior scallops itself as the monochrome shining of that landscap

it is a wrong falsetto puring out
why don’t we see how we grew all one in battery underspace no time to bend and groove inner
the mirror cannot shine this convex that chews off perspective until raw and above all depthless
but we prop cheap bits up anyway like somehow corners low overhead
just enough for feedback and reflection

the models construct time out smokey tread

blow speed and catch up the force of their solitude
we all need plastic alone melts in form making poems
no this is art’s lie
its contagious psychology on loan for the saking of writing
we were born as collaborate and the inter of prefix is a blessure sensing
already undisciplined how we roamed the streets unlone
without curfew
sudden our room glows
hot with the movement of air the office chairs turning
litter the floor with salt
the carpet holds our waste of dailies the miasmic plastics neutralized
the medium always neutral the untouchable transparency of mediation that is the world
building dark from the disgust of carpet
as with all real movement this movement is erased
its invisibility useful to the games of stasis made by facey subject parts
ashes get together as a thing always roaming
this is how we roll
to understand we do unknowledge
fast unpick all the stitches making eyes
and nose and other namey tack
our collapse is constant

in the strip-beam everything looks like

surfaces reveal their undersides perforated the fold registers no difference in tone
this is all
we hit the peroration again and again invert over ridges unnoticing

if you sleep together slip together intravenous to gather yourself towards each other
you overstep the mark between the date the end start all other stages legible
strip together to each other both assess and take on assets collect each lover
trip on gains with others leach the givers takers of all exchange
rob it of change until all asame we contaminate
in collectives rightly flattening

contracted to garner materials

[note the wrong unity of man-made fibers glossing together untouchable impenetrable stiff sweat
unsheathed find without your eyes the correct collectivity]
contact with us

and then it happens

we throw open the dream with jiffy
unpacking ourselves on grasses transparently
the entire palette undifferentiating moves past with too excess a voltage
heat evaporates the sharpness of edging
the world is just so considerate
the world is just so considerate where we are

and when split off parts of we crack and veg out as herbivores
shaving the extension of green
sketching too sharp through the lack
does this not totally mean?

we get so tight with particulars

ripping the skin, damn

its disproportionate
[ LISA JESCHKE ]

[SPEAK BETTER LATER]

ACCOUNTING BRITAIN, PRESENTING

THE VOICES OF A VARIETY
OF MEMBERS OF SOCIETY, FOLLOWING
THE LAWS OF EMPIRICO-STATISTICAL SOCIOLOGY

1. The Heart-Hearth Complex

O glowing human hearth!

O beating feeling heart!

Was it not the young men, the makers, that have achieved all this,
this present world, against the Gods, emancipated? Is
it not they that have, in metre, exploded beyond measure, the fleshly heart?
Dampening unsound machinic beat?

Dissolving its flesh into spirited elevating feeling?

How tall and beautiful they are! The ever-present minds of makers and creators!
The boys, then men – oh man,
the difference between you and me lies not in our genitals,

it is – not biology
it is – economic positionality!
Her metre embarrassing,
embarrassing feet,

all all this as nursery rhyme sings the mother to her infant sun,
a beaming, brightly shining sun, hot, huge in potential, glowing.
Oh you yellow jewel of a sun, you will forget this laboured song
I delivered – I am – working for you, but as I sing I rot, boy, oh

boy, can you not hear me? Can you hear me sing? As I sing, my body
is measure and symbol of its own historical deformation: socially-
physiognomically, not biologically-physiognomically. You will
hate about me, old, weakness, posture, ticks, small-scale thought,

exhaustion, failure! Children! Children! Children!

Children! You’re neither biology nor magic. Under universal
rationing, only one particular one out of ten skies can be the universal
sky. She cut off the little boy’s tongue, no she didn’t. He cannot

speak, or eat. Yes he can. Why would ‛one’ do such – a thing,

and who would dispute – hah? Huh?

2. Free Speech

Free speech exclamation-marks its open house,

precisely sufficiently open to conceal the fact it is shut.
The only function of the continual motion of opening, yawn
effects, is that of concealment. The shape concealment
takes is that of opening. The motion of opening, and the
opening as such, are gesture and mask of concealment.
Full-mouthed, blocking, barring, ruling,
refusing all else, you cannot get a word in, into the

material ways of the law, neither ‛we’ nor ‛I’ nor

‛crystalline’, not ‛shit’ not ‛kingdom’ not ‛mobile’
not ‛rights’ not ‛obligations’, not even to begin considering
difficult words such as ‛seven’ or ‛love’ or ‛telescope’

or ‛germane’ or ‛obsolete’ or ‛shirt’ or ‛surge’ or ‛child’

or ‛recorded’ or ‛air’ or ‛wash’ or ‛extension’ or
‛systematic’ or ‛runways’ or ‛ink’ or ‛bar’ or ‛bars’
or ‛counter’ or ‛sweat’ or ‛brow’ or ‛increase’ or

‛levels’ or ‛of’ or ‛suicide’ or ‛production’ or ‛waste’

or ‛prosaic’ or ‛sacrifice’ or ‛in’ or ‛everyday’ or
‛lives’ or ‛the’ or ‛employed’ or ‛not’ or ‛equally’
or ‛antagonisms’ or ‛where’ or ‛from’ or ‛stems’

or ‛that’ or ‛hatred’. None of these: a word would be

too much, and sentences: misfit!

3. Super-Free Speech, and Extra-Hot

And then I thought, I am really lost, and then I thought, this

must be a brutally shadowed stage in life, and then I thought,
but it is colonialists who traditionally look for a place in the sun,
and then I thought, we must all bear all contradictions which

concern, specifically, us, the contradictions, and then I laughed

at the word bear, the idea of bearing, an animal of a thought,
in full motion, that doggish that fear of mortality, with Asia,
and Africa, no, Europe, no, but potentially on top if you, the map,

twist, around, the clock, you know, no objectivity, norms

of scaling and centralisation can change, we must warrant, the future,
we just wanted a good life, because it is brief, like anyone else we
just wanted a good life, sort of scrap by, not very special, most

people are glad just to get through the day sort of thing, sometimes
the sun is out, sometimes the rain, well, well, everyone is keeping their
own sheep in the dry, well what is there not to understand? Well,
the harsh circumstances – well, the headaches are passed on, with

system. Breath ratios depend on individual value, limited due to

limited supply. Resulting, it seems likely some will kill themselves
this year, but have they the guts, but better the explanation be this:
I neither want to kill you, nor myself, but I do not want any of

our faces to be possible as they are, as we are, as persons, ‘persons’

being the term for bearers of legal property rights according to Roman
and modern bourgeois property law, consensual rape, they whispered,
stretches property lot. In all statistical probability, they secretly
 enjoyed the sight of their friend self-destroy spectacularly slowly, at the time
sudden death seemed surprising, retrospectively, it could have been
expected, which is not to say it was necessary, had circumstances been
different, but retrospectively they couldn’t have been at this point, different,

since everything that has happened has been exactly right

as proof of what it meant to live back then, now. Number 1 hit
ministers effect contorted and curled tummies knees and toes, knees
and toes, over and over again but these elevator background hits and

screams making up the air’s sound are tagged as measured silent nature.
In spite, symptoms include unspeakable pressure faeces, infectious
self-reprobation, the perception of a regularity of harmony
between outside (stress, pressure) and inside (pressure,

stress). The most immediate solution is swallowed once a day,

the cost not survived in the long long run. O but let us package
self and world in cotton wool: they want that so dearly and they
want it to be perfect. Already? Man, the deeper you push, the more

blood. Ornament. Make-Up. Truth. Warranties. Liabilities. Victories!

Finally! What is the heart? A mechanical spring. What are the nerves?
A taught string. What is the kernel of the poodle? The devil.

QUIRINUS KUHLMANN

The XLI. Love Kiss

The Changeability of Human Things

Upon night, mist, battle, frost, wind, sea, heat, South, East, West, North, sun, fire and plagues
Follow day, blaze, blood, snow, still, land, bolt, warmth, heat, lust, cold, light, fire and need.

After harm, pain, humiliation, fear, war, oh, cross, fight, scorn, pang, agony, spite, insult and jeer
Honour joy, embellishment, honour, balm, palm, counsel, use, peace, wage, fun, rest and luck.

The moon, glow, smoke, stag, fish, gold, pearl, tree, flame, stork, frog, lamb, ox and tummy
Love gleam, straw, steam, mountain, flood, ardour, foam, fruit, ash, roof, pond, field, mead and bread.

The shot, Mensch, diligence, effort, art, play, ship, mouth, prince, revenge, care, avarice, loyalty and God
Target aim, sleep, prize, praise, favour, spat, port, kiss, throne, murder, coffin, money, affection, gratitude.

What is called good, strong, heavy, right, long, tall, white, one, yes, air, fire, high, far
Shuns what is bad, weak, light, crouched, wide, small, black, three, no, earth, flood, low, wide.

Also, courage, love, clever, wit, spirit, soul, friend, lust, ornament, fame, peace, joke, praise: must be off
Where fear, hate, deception, wine, flesh, body, enemy, woe, infamy, alarm, clash, pain, taunt: are on their way.

Everything changes, everything loves, everything seems to hate something:

Whoever keeps all this in mind, grasps all of the wisdom.

[1671]
[transl. by Lisa Jeschke]
[ RONA LORIMER ]
[UNTITLED]
to delve under and come out smirking in the primal scene/ his face was forced
darkness and begged me not to please let’s not/ in the morning guilt and shame,
shame and guilt/ pushed for that were my ‘task’ as ‘woman’ and he can only see
the outside maybe

That eternal love – I question it

and in the morning that it came through hypocrisy trickling

stands firm stands off turns up follows round
in the end what was devastated was not your face by the window but your feeling
that you didn’t want it

or did was that

opacity?
you did
you were opaque and all your actions mystery
glittering

precipitating crisis the father competes with the daughter over breakfast unaware
that each footfall is a stamp and each stamp is a halo for which they
all suffer
the women, eating, their necks bent, as in a mess hall. the eels congealing.

I find fathers everywhere.

That is my problem.

Over breakfast it dances in a prism of light like ballerinas

dust falls slowly
it is illusion
the dust falls and repeats
each particle is the static gem that fell, previously

the category is ironized

When a category is overused,
For example tree woman dog man plug
baby grandmother
becoming vague and ironic

Things people give you:

unicorns in glass cages, gravalax fishes measuring two metres, sticks with
memorable quotes
Things men give you:
things unwanted, things wanted
sex toys, black cakes, locked doors, promises, declarations
their feelings
in discrete objects
Your memory left you! Goodbye!
I cried,
diffident, indifferent
had they been alive two or three or two days
who cares she talks
they work we answer
they live we don’t

the man is an astronaut

knocking her teeth out with his backpack
prepared for anything
especially not her indifference.
He goes to work; puts work in her mouth

Your relationship is such a paragon of

violence – no – virtue
I say as you penetrate me

in sin for you

for me only misery.

All over, the father is rejected. We move the newspapers, we raise our gowns,
straighten our fulcrums, kiss our dulaps and elbows. We throw the paper in the fire.
In shards. And this for distance.

Arcadia. In railway cavern, you, differentiate your, screen through a hammer that
makes its cathedrals kaleidoscopes. Like multivarious cathedrals. You (U) are ®
(U)nique, superfluous. You are all of my boyfriends, and none of them. A woman
is screaming on the edge of a tall building I hear your elegy ‘so beautiful’, said
anxiously to make each trashed moment earnest and real. All of these gifs are ‘so
beautiful’. There’s something in how they move toward you, fluttering
uncertainly, a little plankton, a little octopus on the floor, raising its tentacle
tentatively. They are so beautiful, so ephemeral. I love this song, it’s so amazing.

The show doesn’t thrill me. I see some wires but otherwise it doesn’t do what it
promises, even in the most crystalline language. It’s your show, your night,
everything is so amazing, and you are so beautiful the gallery is rammed, a
journalist is coming. Not that print media matters. Either way, but desperately so,
please. We really pulled it off says the thin girl in the bathroom. I stare blankly.
How much? Who cares/ How did you meet? The essayist is someone’s boyfriend
who lived in the house with you and this guy who hit his girlfriend and you stole
his shoes or something? Then there were all these Peckham based racists in the
house

White review, white review, I am bored going out with you. What you never
mention is you are drunk
you have been drunk for four years
Go there collapse on the pavement and wear spandex dresses you are everything
and nothing to me

a screen cipher of his

seething cum fluctuating unconscious
blue blue sea
his imagination he violently
attacked by sending it
through screen doors
where she burst bloody and gashed
corrugating in iron flecks

Don’t play with dreams:

As viewers we feel this
is the most interesting and
erotic part of the film

Apart from when they

melt into kisses their
arms some kind of bracing
He regards her
and she regards herself
fomenting at the thought of him
deranged with ego
having crises
wearing stained clothes in space
jacket in leather conflict
whether to keep her flailing
whether to meet your mother
enshrined in plate glass
the altar of your father
raining in a painting
iron flanks of the window
murdering the apple

When we leave the movie theatre the men say

that was so extraordinary
and tender, he should win an Oscar,
the film was a representation of my relationship
with my mother
back in the States
Another says it is about his father
it means the same thing:
my life is so hard
pregnant with choices

the time to fuck, lacerate,

and mess around
it is efficacious that she should
as a coat hanger does
carry her body around
no matter about how the ingénue writhes
Prisoned, punctured arm

I know, I know,
I understand.
That the film was really about peasants
White Russians,
and the shock of the new
the obsolescence of the container
in the chromium unconscious
Like most films
it covers everything

(OCTOBER)

“one previous night”

or, “the day is almost over”
spiral into tear
ing up head plunge
pillow thrust deep
est memory of a pain
Is all intensity doomed?
to send reveries and flowers
recall the sweet pain
later the laughing
bodies when relieved turn
amicably away
whatsoever closeness met, it
consistently recoiled, and
as for the first, not close at all –
as close as sad things on an impossible day
never seeing the sunshine
for her, the fabrication of a past
hers and not hers
heads knotted in string as
with ships in an armada
explanation and self knowledge
that it was never
how she said pouring like oil slick
out of all that beauty
disdain, not at all
becoming boring, the heads on the table
and all of the ones to come
the relation crystallising
congealing too brittle to love anymore
stendhal says of love - what does he even say?
the nightdress slipping over the infant’s head
as winter in the populace
the old square holing up
reading rejoicing

(NOVEMBER)
Dreams of being famous, yet dreams of insurrection. The bourgeois don’t like
religion: they say “so many wars, religion has killed so many people”. I point my
finger at their chests in the shape of a gun: “Ah, but do you know how many people
it’s going to resurrect, fucker? Everyone”. Insurrection, resurrection. The writer
says “communism” on her running gear, but it’s hard to believe in a t shirt at the
end of civil government. The election: my dreams of a politics not revolving around
the family, house buying and the glory of jobs. We are not here, only passing
through, it is no country for us and our dreams. Who are you, crisis? What are
feelings made of? I ought to do three things; I write a list. A man has his tongue
stuck between his teeth and is hissing. On the other side an austere girl, like a statue.

the sickly boy

the sickly boy is small so it’s easy to think he’s young

much younger than he is which is fourteen he was ill at
birth and so he is young and younger than his age the
adults explain but I just talk to him like he is fourteen
which he is but maybe a bit younger because he begins to
hug me even though we are not related and his mother
reprimands him I understand later that he is sexual and
curious and it’s oozing out of him in short glucosamine
spurts and lines that are too old much older than he is and
seedy for such a young boy

his ears curl over his eyes do not appear to look through
his glasses I respect his seediness on the one hand to be a
rebellion against the way the women nurses look after him
they make sure he is okay stable and maintained and they
give him tablets and he sits in the corner listening plugged
in and plugged up glossing the interface which is glossy
too and the lawyer father sits on an opposite sofa and asks
me questions about life and sows platitudes on the ground
about doing what you love finding a job that you want to
do every day because it’s not easy to really succeed
without passion
the boy’s ears curl over and he picks up on the sexual
energy between the girl and the father with passion the girl
is the right age to be the father’s daughter and the boy’s
sister the boy is jealous of the father’s masculine prowess
although the girl despises everything the father is saying
on an intellectual level and sees him as an idiotic liberal
she also wants to fuck him to mess up his family she
knows this as her flaw because it involves selling her
sexual capital and likewise submitting to what the father
does or doesn’t want to conquer him

it is her visceral reaction though always like cars passing

or the taboo coming up in your head at a moment you can’t
quite compute in all its complications whether the boy
hears particular things like for example about sex because
all the adults around him never see him he lingers at their
coat tails and apron strings but is for them a mute object
later the maid and the father collapse on top of each other
their bodies two planes of flat existence legs flailing as if
badly assembled toys and the boy is still in the corner a
feeling rising in his body from and to all extremities

his ears curl over he is alert attentive peaked and erect she
puts up with it because she makes his ears into his body
and his body into a small shell and wants to protect and
she only can understand that he is small terribly small and
that’s only the half of it

the girl is arrogantly astride the velvet couch remembering

that she is not of the world the couch is of and then the
boy is reaching his translucent fingers like pink algae in a
dark tv studio or ocean where all the fish have light bulbs
hanging before ferocious teeth

light behind them forgives pinkness and his peached ears

are glowing in his hours alone he watches porn father and
son have this in common of course but in the father it
would be attractive to for example other women and in the
boy it is squeamish for example to any women he explains
for example he has a dirty mind that is to make him older
than he is he has closed in on the door to her bedroom and
is crossing the threshold between their ages which are
fourteen and twenty-four respectively

wolfwhistling on grey carpet and snatching hugs without

consent and rummaging the laundry basket for soiled
underwear she for example is conflicted and confused
about the issue of consent in the case where the boy is ill
should she for example humour him in the name of
helping the sick or is that in fact the patronising position
to hold
milky dried milk soured and still wet milk and translucent
pink fingers floating tentatively on a wave in a darkened
television show like for example mastermind you are on
mastermind and you are being sexually assaulted by a
fourteen year old it will be your special subject how for
example strength works and if he is stronger or weaker
than you physically and for example mentally she
concludes he is not stronger than her and leaves the toilet
door open to symbolise this fact

whilst in the toilet she’s wondering whether the estimation

about physical strength she has made is in fact wrong and
whether in concession to his vulnerability she would in
fact flail on the toilet bowl and they would make a pathetic
struggle downward his whole body is now hanging at her
neck whether to let it go out of politeness as one does
when the café owner says hello gorgeous and you just
want to stay in the café and recognise the price is a
projection of pussy outward etcetera plus the price of tea

out of embarrassment and not wishing to explain she lets

it go he is frantically doing push ups on the grey thick pile
carpet outside the bathroom door to simulate sexual
activity like he has seen when flicking through and getting
off of the two girls present she is getting it and the other
girl is ignoring it which makes the whole situation really
much worse having to do something with him they dangle
him in a hammock and try and keep him still but
unfortunately the parental guilt is totally elastic letting
him crawl around her neck and simulate again sexual
activity she pointedly texts a lover and he dictates the text
not realising that actually the phrasing is not the problem

whether to send it or not she still thinks of the father

downstairs there are two here and neither are hers but the
father crept up to her bedroom by night racked by his
sense of his own conformity he is such a stable earner with
a difficult son who’s to judge if every so often his genitals
slip off in a night of passionate and hard love he’s not done
it since the last time and seldom ever uses the internet

in the house the girl has no status above a serving girl

really and when guests come they call her either the
student or the lodger she has no obligations as such which
means she is obliged to do everything at any moment and
doesn’t particularly have a right of refusal cash flows out
of her wallet for unrecognised gifts and groceries for the
purposes of saying thankyou and so on in this case she also
wants to destroy the guest’s holiday to really live her
housemaid status
the father crept to her room at night and she knew it
because of the cleaving light through the crack in the door
he was the better of the lot but his sickly victorian son had
been set on telling her the effect her body had on his
basically there is not a raised tent only the sun rising over
the eaves and the fingers as fronds of a tropical fish grope
through watery gloom and the mastermind studio

girl she is a girl and children children get in aprons and

touch your breasts when you are paid to care for them and
all you really want is to persuade them its not really
breasts only chubby fat so as not to be identified with
authority or alternatively mothers the body is repulsive
and sexual when I sit down on chairs a diamond of
consternation tells me I have been there but I brush it with
a casual sweep the australian man gapes and I tell
americans they love these details and also when you sit
down to pee and let them be with you and neutralise any
feeling or fluids just as with a conversation about dogs or
property the dogs are everywhere they run into my pussy
letting californians know that I am not californian she does
not shower and her pussy or whatever is there does indeed
smell of salt and rust from the residual fingers groping as
in hospital fronds and gowns of silt and so on
[ MAX MAHER ]

Extra Growth

So you carry out the active listening, that

rattles down furrows, parallel rails punched
whilst you were busy with meiosis, they
carved out the passage.
Strewn over a
brand new landscape, that has nothing to do with
lack. Downs recline out sensuously for Wad, who
pirouettes over the lay lines and pulped cartons. Wad
spies me squatting in the bush, and knocks the
Origin into phenotype trait variations.
You need to
harness that transcriptional potential,
– look how the surf barfs that dialectic.
Respect that littoral, and slash its
bidirectionality. Every skimpy meal
has consequences; inscribing a deadlift on
the hyperbeat.
I nod, enthusiastically.
As familiar glow starts to cast over the helix
Wad pulls his hands out of his
hillock, and invents heritable trauma.

In the distance now,

hovers
the next life-stage virtue
filling my lungs
from the Saxe to the fens.
He preynt on me, and they
swarm upon him. This
is the key to the dynamic.

Cartograph crams in the button

lobe reflexed in Kleinian
arrangement of skin. I counted
each follicle that summer,
now the puzzle of the mesoderm is
catabolic, again in the space smaller than
the furled weft of substance.
Larynx twitches on impulse,
with the pure failure metrics
resisting by rote.
A bloody man cut it off all over the heath.
I caught sight of the expanse of geology; it filled me with
traces of Hope, Fidelity and Wisdom through the chalk,
to the rocks’ angular elbow.
But your gloss marked off how this be-
-gins reflection.

Over the twilit

bursts, the gulls
tear the silence.
I myself have all
the other
pose.

feet step in footsteps place mat

trace reach fit round love is the
in the read gene
is electron gaps we freeze in enjoyment
together fantasy
nothing turns into sibling
harm.

In the early hours embrace

by the terror. No images here.
Knowing furnishes the room with a history of daggers. I
pad to bathroom. How many people are
not here.

As slick as pastel
you lie all over
ink lick my desire but
look through the stained pyjamas
you crucified that word through
my urethra bit my lip.
Tooter in the mesolithic pathway declare
full transfer, non-negotioable nutshell
implo-potency and again banging on
about personality theories is belated
under lines and line crystal gagged
dependence.
30 minutes later waiting
down centre entrance
dim, to insufflation
quiet transgress septum.

My dress slips.
I am not special
 or elect
to hear this

For whatever
you try
in the last few seconds
remember who you’re talking to.

Rules of the Road

Through the pale sweat and scent of gray

I need poppy oil to quell this eye-twitch.

I need to reach this receptor blockage.

The grain boundaries make the lie snap

directioned through the Swanscombe clay

to the dull pulsations retching the synapse

in power pylons sopite, infantile,

blasting the city limits through the fens

Hermes flails in middle voiced contort

between the paratax grown bosky wave

and the rust blight text’s enmeshed psyche

and the shock of blae complicity.

If a moment of extracted grace alligns

in semblance of bled entropy

you anticipate the twilight gleam to spoil

diffusing cloyed synthetics strewn nearby.

Beneath the colour of cloud-covered sky

karma ripens through the burnden’d land.

The urge to permanent understanding

blurs with a supposed toxin, mugging

the responsibility of an Opte Project

with globalized controlled-access. Do

the interchanges trace a Utopia shedding

doubt to weave an absolute dwelling.

In the window the route overlays your face

a framed mobile self breaking the agency

self-similar projected from the coast to the fens

clinamen off the horizon, through the facial

canal, this shadowy desert, unfrequented.

Whence came you? reaching from every classroom

Wither travel you? this place is famous for the creatures

of prey that keep upon’t.

The walls of the city arc across the ground

its limits turned resolutely inwards

built on sand and wagered intention.

Yajna

Gather together, still

in the wretched radius of the horopter,
let the lens settle briefly.

The photon is as uncertain,

and the surf rasps in channelled lesions
tumbling in reflexions, refractions
inflections and colours
little euphoric neuromuscular endings
bending desire to frenzied possession
of virtual lustre or temporary dwelling;

a deceptive destination.
The metameric failure when you ask:

“what is it like to be a bat?”

No, at this limit there is nowhere to turn.

The mandatory barriers border each word
tapped justified to a marginal art
glut with manuscript reflux and mythical baar
brooding here till this topia appears.

But, if you care to squint at the silhouette

of old iron pleasures from a railway age,
etched there in the dawn by a Gestalt perception;
bound to the coastline as iris to vision;
failing to join alizarin to crimson;
in fact hailing sterile and immotile limits,
whilst claiming to gesture or lean to eksistence
you will be struck by a luminous ecstasy
binding the senses to singular frequencies
and maybe know anything nearing the horizon,
as all problems of theory or of information
the vitality sapping all kind of extension
 variation and transfer from glucose to binary
form a sacral veneer glossing over the maelstrom.

At the rattled cusp of the ritual ignorance

hit neoplasm grasps its helix channel
from exalted primitive stilts bleeds vermillion
as if meltwater return will con where return
to orioles folly nonpoint source mute swan,
photodegrade to ambergis or persimmon nurdles
on nurdles through slits swells the punitive ocean,
devouring legions of bullshit salvation
offered to the hollow cult, the precluded
demiurge; impotent, shifting the ego
in this last resort, backdropping the vacuum
that now goes amber and bittersweet shimmer
I guess I didn’t know where I should go
now enthalpy rends in coquelicot
and pays no heed to arbitrary locks
I guess I didn’t know where I should stop.
and here you will see
what has been offered
(chance’s glacial smile shocks the soul with outrageous materialism)
and here you will see
what has been lost.

And trace the trembling edges of the wound

to Cavalcanti or to Aristotle
but this blivet ebbs the perspective hypothesis
from the first cave walls
to the vault of the synapse
the tropical vacuum where the gamut
interpolates infinitely
and ever since I can remember
tragedy
outrage
the trip of a lifetime
would fill it.
[ PETER MANSON ]

NINE NINERS

Glove paralysis

Show me a motion now wipe it up

fumes in a costive battering squid
pro Quo anti Motörhead psycho
Later black tar forensic clackers
torn a new heaven and earth by stealth
intake of sharp breath acrid practice
pretence of vomiting dryout house
the skin is as mine if pierced by pins
the cut flatworm forgives the scalpel

Armsünderschmalz

Entirely patently over

the new-build I will never afford
encrusted with human evidence
dense cluster of hard-bodied vermin
stoats turn up their nose at my gooseflesh
and so do I magnified red pulse
did my glass buttocks ever go clear
a foreshortening pelvic quorum
torsion of side-boob leave it alone

Horror vacui

A thousand cataracts in one eye

a bubble to fix the retina
and see two worlds like a four-eyed fish
or an aquanaut pickled in aspic
the male has specialised anal rays
the female’s as yet uncommitted
pond skaters skate in the surface film
a greased pig toilet is hard to grasp
big white telephone’s off at the root
[ LINUS SLUG ]

NINE NINERS
[ PETER MANSON ]

Psychopharmacon

Diet Coke Break on suicide watch

from abrupt silence the ear rebounds
legs fell one by one off my land crab
a short drop in session on Top Gear
gimmel ring or true love hangman’s knot
the vein compressed the artery too
deep to press blood pumps the brain to pulp
flushed away through a mummy’s nostril
or herniates into the brain stem

SCOBY

Crassulacean anthology wars

he shouted Watch my kind of mirror
black body albedo of zero
involuntary periwig out
Maggie in again alas shake it
yellowish whitish fattened swollen
Ancroft Street morning not coming down
they remembered my last thought best thought
ducking for cover in iron lids

Mellified man

My teat pipette is a long story

devoid of interest gone to seed
Haguecheek gleams with entangled photons
so do the cheeks of all alien
Hagues in the multiverse obligate
plot-hole in lath and plaster casters
like a parakeet’s tongue in both cheeks
don’t like a splinter group null result
ranter’s Nutella my hollow log
[ LINUS SLUG ]
[ PETER MANSON ]

Diaphragm soup

Memories autolysed with the brain

feigned insanity in the membrane
a hire-purchased pair of flabby wings
my peacock angel in bright white pants
given alms without drums and trumpets
vermiform pinworm I’m home to stay
a light shining out from the fire-hole
extinguished by mid-flow Sarah Miles
late immolation of razor’d eye

Burroughs end of a sheep, some one

Fluctuate by imperial stones

every day North Sea Gas conversion
heavy metal i-umlaut footpad
iPodal shear stress and burble pie
an IOU where the shaft would be
abuse AOK and not torture
the organs bitten the jpegs sent
can’t begin to move towards speaking
a hip implant scythes into your sky

Emergency local vanguardist

Plough shares back into the company

sword into cuttlebone mould by sprue
in empathy my adhesions woke
up singing like compounded amber
with nowhere to go like frank rupture
who got the spleen at 3:15 but
it’s 4:20 and is not worth shit
nothing is stable if not divine
ill defined ridge blind and in colour
[ LINUS SLUG ]
[ DELL OLSEN ]
[ RICHARD OWENS ]

NOTES TOWARD THE BUILDING OF A BOOK CALLED PRIEST

[ IAN PATTERSON ]

SUNK IN THE NIGHT

The bare limit aim from its inner shape or the form of what is said
has put asunder cold dirt like worms on the thread of light
craving loss in a mist right in the centre as deep as a veil in sleep
the herald of crumbling as far as this new-arrayed way to knot the heart.

Called between two objects left out through its undoing this is still
far from other sweet satisfaction and destroys such a thing
that according to itself is both within the world and yet at rest
or rather time the curtain is scraps of paper stripped off a painting of content.

This is the drive up to the ending, a good cry bitter to be seen

at the ashes and meant to arrive at the disappearing debt as nothing
while the moon that shines blind from the start can delight in death
in a stupid sort of lack of chatter, a bit under this that she was shouting about.

Come into play, write under the look taken back into warped oak veneer
or just splay a pledge like something far too disallowed for one evening;
cock your modest ear, avert your eyes as you do, a failed mouth to cry out
of the earth until there is no such thing, no wrong, no better aim to find.

In peril of nothing else but a person dissolving to an expression of the rest

from itself, this negative nature, this infested portal with its peevish crowds
is the world as flung waves of hatred, wandering ash in such a false larynx
that it smothers the reason of its purest form to fill up at a well of dismay.
[ LUKE ROBERTS ]
[ DAVID RUSHMER ]

FROM NO MATTER
IMPOSSIBLE SKIN

experience of the limit

his identity
from this point on
vulgar error of defense

now writing his own name,

absorbed in the tissue

pelted his imagination.

“to slowly wend its way

an umbilical between worlds”

“with both ends burning”

A physical
telling and retelling
markings and deformities

concludes by reprinting
his target.

The argument
maternal
movements
develop a mind over
the skin

the feeling of closeness

determines the forms taken
NO MATTER II

the skin grows by volume

the formation
a paradigm

the projection
of its development

coats the blood

It

will be drawn – like a shell of possibilities

over the mind

THE FORM

the form it took inside the body

slowing,
this way of thinking

becoming
pure flow,
as an absolute ideal,
matter
of thought.

this subtle fluid

to penetrate all bodies
at a distance,

the substance
of mirrors
intensified by sound,

universally
diffused,

It is a force
of a body

in memory only
[ NAOMI WEBER ]

Where are my hands?

With this daylight body of upsets, what to make

and the weight sinking to the flats
there will be vast expanses within me
one beach and I roam it, this whole fecund strip
of illegal plastics and great ships

Bleached out or rinsed

the fabric not so expensive but
close to our hearts, close to the leaves today right out
on the edges of their branches
waving us on, or rust red rain

What children only dream of

in their bodies,
though just very slightly,
weaving little no-one flowers for our imperfect tents
strung over the tips of the rocks the largest and only sea
goes out there to say nothing of love,
which is not ready

Wreaths of our sadness folding long arms

of our sadness not seen
the source of this, one of many
tears is the chemistry of the salt in our bones
from a while ago,
singing from the tongue, soft feathery bits
in clumps

For all refuse to leave, but notes

quietly taking off shifting in air blown in
from a while ago,
along the main drift, above the long walk
out there hovering
desperate
love for our deep breath struggle to find in our throats
where we are, spinning a long wire hum

And the lands we tempt toward us when swimming

our near naked backs toppling off
all the muscles alert to when that was,
tickling the fringed bit of shore or
small aimless birds, a list of those that could eat me

Never the whole thing

all foamy at the rim, the glass tinkling of pelvis
tap rushing out its water trying to make a new colour

Breached at the top of the cliff

is the air again, all woolly and
held in terror
for a dissolution of the country
can't make right this,
a tiny body, ever smaller parts of different
animals
grasping at scraps of old road
what I dare not know, force of it
I have never left, I care for.
[ JOHN DE WITT ]