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No Skin

the girl wrenches the beak off, swiftly it's
baked in a pie chart, its aroma curls
seductively towards thousands of girls
(and some lads!) who are starting new shifts wynn
occupying a stylish diagram

of baghdad. such skirmishes encourage
the public who fight the war of their own
opinion, so's one can't reach for one's own
keys these days without mustering courage
and heroically making a sly plan

for encountering pockets of stiffer
resistance than was expected. jew jaw,
from m.e. giuegaue. how do {sorcerers}
get their magic right? we beg to differ
in a win/[wynn] way: “they do a spell check!

knot an infallible procedure, check's
in the post-war divide this orgy in
teams. he was then supposed to lagu pin
the carcass on the hook. around both legs
of the carcass, as well as round its neck.

he was supposed to place a rubber band.
he was obliged to do this with his hands.





Hjunottsmanathr

“what? blushed slowly and struck her head around
fiercely “what? “go on, son! yogh “peg it!
“breezy and domestic, said horse and hound,
“a postmodern love letter. more called it
“sort of a thinking man's j h prynne. ate

junk, dogs, xi horses, criminals, children.
mariah pealed out in the thorn chapel^TM
some regulations concerning mildew.
unflappable jeer leaders sipped Snapple TM
& pretty soon, time to recapitulate:

Dirty and broken metaphors on the rim of classy coherence.

the church was up state but tom had been to
check it out, very grand and what she, well,
thought of as english, and he had seen to
those sneering chicks too, all docile as hell
drinking ice tea, though it was alcohol

that kept the tepee content and warm, then,
churning around on the white hunk, she thought,
the season was all wrong, fall wasn't when
they happened traditionally, she ought
to have worried or kept it all indoors

but it was maybe best: and what a weird
time to think of it, pivoting around
their smart red point, how her flower had seared,
how nice it was now, traditional sounds
floating in Os from twixt her yogh red lips,

tender girls once tied on her like tin cans &
she winced, cringed at her fuddy duddy, and
zoomed him up the heady corridor, pierced
the nuptial chariot, then her and the prince
laughed at the bitches, all four hands on hips,

such a vast sheet, she, still, her figurine at
the highest level, dancing, splendid, by
the cherry stain of her innocence, splat,
O, marquis, not tepee. she drowsed, beside
him, tridents glide past into cummerbund,





The Echoing Green

offal rinses 'cross bouncy castle, zilch
unonomatopoeiac, skulk thus past
glowing sausage coats, snowing eth filches
them up, imbibed by a pin-prick as fast
as I can count, 1-“cool-2- feel mum's hand,

Demonstrating my point at the

moment of its expression. “O, true wit . . .
what oft was . . . express't, a tv edit,
O, ne pas papa! je suis pas ton pere,
tu doit marcher le terrain de bataille
toute seule, pan pan pan! pan pan pan! tu as peur!

tu est ma petite amy, pan pan! say,
lou, turns out this kim's a bloke!
do you reckon the baby'll be all right!
her feh down-fluttering hairs choke delta
the key as it enters the eye, she bites

the other, clean bright metal where she bit.
we hammered down marmosets to thorn kites
in the lab, reeled one bleeding beast a bit
away from Him, into a cardboard box,
and saw whether she couldn't harrow it.

The division

of academic labour. O, we got
a reader of average competence, and
challenged his posterior pituitary gland
to leap like in the cube out of a knot
of diamond wire: poetomachia,

a jolt in cooking school for vaticide,
but O so much fun! the eth palace dips,
the garden is silent, maurice has chips
he don't dare chew then “heart attack he's died
god he's get a fins lift lawn ikea
to one side of the hole. cool: “go inside.





Intorlopirs

Enunciation as bloody allegory.

“O there's methods of ranking different ranks.
surgical strikes are performed, either way.
sorry for the incident with nasser
hussein. bleep sounded right. we blasted her.
him. shit. ok let's do the take again.
“there are methods of ranking different ranks.

on civilian lives, lost {wynn}ll of magnets
while fighting, timely slot. {wynn}from spindle.
pyre dot grimes yipe rifle {wynn}slaw won't kindle
sifr known pile choler {wynn}d a dragnet.
comm shy lime common live {wynn}vely-named tanks

isle dog stifle sorry {wynn}argeting.
pine kind thing follow hire? {wynn}rridor flange
-- dyke hite sky child rinse file. {wynn}w swan. orange
-- kid mottle type cough off {wynn} argot sings.
shot moth slime women whilst? {wynn} and “give thanks

-- trow fried give in cried chime {wynn}sy cutter.
grotty tine imam phrog {wynn} for warsaw
sire grind show gile sir hod {wynn}f a goresaw.
plot missile hi shine ride. {wynn}ling stutter.
ops yacht not knife shite mine {wynn} with us in

bod hive pot pride rhyme sick {wynn} out a plate.
firefight grow sine climb tight. {wynn}full of bombs
-- cross logic high right spine? {wynn} slivers runs
-- shiite fond chit crotch wog. {wynn} grain, too late.
-- china bible tie croc? {wynn}4 I think

-- site dirt bright shoplift spin {wynn}ceuticals
FIDO jihad rot kite {wynn}ry action
mile otter scone gile I spy {wynn}cket captain
brine division glottal{wynn}fice cubicles

chopper

night pipe job {wynn}rmen feel fine

-- rind scot front line lorry. {wynn}flows like wine.
7 . . . 6 . . . 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . O.






Wind Section

Urging a realistic view of language in matters of international agency.

still gruntled thoroughly by that concerting
horses' hooves' episode we stoutly praised
the countess, and her most diverting day's
entertainment, yet of course all reflecting,
it was inevitable, the only

way it could have been, with such a hostess,
cyclones rolling in tarpits, fossilised.
centuries later, appurtenantly-sized
hands raise out one wound bone sheet and caress
it for its melodies: giant, and lonely.

the rules of war, at which I once had a look,
say that that is how you report a war --
skimming past quickly because the rules for
mornington crescent are in the same book –
I think that's how you're supposed to report,

looking yourself up on ogle.com
in the other window, and quite aware,
bombs are smarter even as the war wears
on, refining its scope: O, it's islam,
my tinfoil papal puppets, now you fought






Horrible Thin Scaly Endogeneic Ankle Drag Egg-&-Chain

vietnam, now a regime, an abstract
noun, a man, a haircut, now a man's hacked-
off feelings, about his haircut, now smack
only the evil nerves on the child's back-
side, well, why not -- a sharp gadget ranges

imparting explosions tenderer than
thought to ruin vast interfluent flesh:
cruelty, anger, fear -- O -- nastiness -- wynn
something we can all agree on --
is the countess' sumptuous taste in changes

in topic of conversation -- a cat --
agitated -- vomits purposively.
I vowed to start a personality.
a stele infiltrates domino ranks.
fling ankles to the winds like a wishbone,

still wet. salt vibrates the ocean open.
tide stirs the moon: so a suspension bridge.
starfish and soldiers know both cadence is
a marine term. lips into her unsloping
face. etc. er. ash. send in the clones.





SARS

The signal-noise opposition.

O, the last paedophile positions were
taken in the night by tribal fighters,
but army generals says there's still far
to go. “it's a matter of digging the blighters
out, from these tunnels and caves, general graves

what if
what if

forsythe explained, “of inching our way up those
canyons ourselves, and sorting out each cave
and bunker. the ringleader's whereabouts
were uncertain, forsythe said. “is it true
he's in pakistan? our lads have wynn doubts

about what the americans choose to
let slip. personally, I think he's still here.
yeah I can write songs masturbating
the only hard bit's not coming. the beer
garden, and the sunset is balancing,

like a pool ball, lava-faced men hunch in
together, in caves, in the beer garden,
in peevish mirth, can some discern lambda
the sun's motion, roams their faces a catarrh
fiery, and in their womens', the doors

to the beer garden are shut, meteoric
hosts flurry, their heads are hot, they get whores,
the barber, the cocktail stick, the poor sick
chippie chap who can't drink, and the tag pushed
back, in off the tattoo into the crack,

the match stick trick, the vodka cup, the blushed
portents, the swiss lad, the mole on the rack,
under the king's head, the anchors, and bells,
& the pig, the cucumber, and whistle, newt,
& under the water, a carve-up, pell-mell,

transplant to bug, tiny lungs cut from fruit,
it's time charlie had her baths by herself.
there is the blind prophet, standing like stone
& telling of wings, of the Angel-of-Death,
my slave-girl fetches a stool, I'll get on,






Courage

I'll finger-fuck myself on his hooked hands, &
plans are to bring you to up-to-standard:
“told to build a global giant in steel,
this chinese official misunderstood.
now all colours of soldier hack at its heels,

Your stammer slips right into the prosodic quilt.

an overwhelming task, of universal good.
initialled baby skulls stiffen to wood.
you'd wrap dying mice in mint if you should.
“O1, I need a dutch seismologist for
this, uh, thing I have to do. “O2 right, love,

enough – and then: “d'ye think so, ya big whore?
and: “naebdi hits a lassie on ma bus!
-- ay, yet no born oot by the evidence:
a bird on the floor, fat, greetin & incensed,
bits get mixed up in heaven, an thorn arm

of starfish slides through a lizard portal,
rather prim yogh american girl laughed
at for calling 'half time' the 'interval':
“what? what? “come on – go on – bloody pass it!
how romantic. here's claude by a panther.
O.


[1] twice you've planned queer farts / bleeped out my cumming.
[2] mice have hands / their heartbeats sound like humming.





Lame Oar

The word surge.on v[urges] on the truth.

six in.verse mermen came through eth on my
ninth birthday party and [mer]de/red my d[add],
we had w/illed it to hap.pen (cos t)he s[add]
drunk s.hit s[pill](t m)/eat over the bar\bie f/ire.
ta[ke air] not to sound like you cry for help.

most of your kisses should tar.get the neck.
if you think you are going to come, DO
NOT ash imagine maggie thatcher nude.
there is NO.TH[IN]G that we can do to check
this, but you are only c/heating yourself.

li<8>htning illuminates a vast white sky.
two contact lenses in a Nescafé cup.
their bodies ring like a reversing truck.
after a minute the c.oils ride up high,
she can't f.eel the unicorn horn gathered

in a cloud over his g[lance]. so d[esp]ite
th(e sp)e[shell] condom, it's still [all] ut[tore]ly
yogh f[aime][I]<1>[air] as sad n/arrow g/utters,
w[air] drunks keep f/alling to s[leap] (for t)he night
& d[esp]ite its so-c[a[11]]ed m[etre], we'd rather it

ow . . . uh . . . . oh . . . oh . . . oh . . . oh . . . . oh!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .O.h . . .






Medico-Legal

were simply called the porno that it is
obliged to lift the full weight of the cow
while doing this. he was uncertain how
many times he had to do this on his
first day at lagu work when I saw what

was surely the most exciting iron chef
battle ever: it was bobby flay
who was the challenger, and bobby played
it great, all fun and assertive, and if
I'd seen the last four or feh so minutes

he would of won plaits on a dish of bone,
a fruit basket, eye-holes cut in gooey
nappies, omicron lesser-known huey
& louis decimal systems each propose
systems of intellectual rho labour

that are rather startling. he was employed
at garwyn as a meat processor. on
the third through sixth, his lagu job changed. one
of his duties was to enlarge the void
made by those troops can suck my fat member

and if they're starving, they had better wynn
remember to swallow. draw a space ship,
you're a good drawrer. her little lids flip
open to much mother of pearl, wetter,
shall cry till my spine breaks um could you
not make jokes





The Wasteland

devise a direction not towards God,
but toward the centre of a woman.
it goes on wet with tears. cobwebs grow in
the smithy where my fingerprints are shod.
the forest waste land shakes full of fruit pips.

In an emergency, literary-critical modules may>

slot into these bays, smelt yOur kin from them.
fetuses strung on slender cilia
will hymn to it in glossolalia,
circuit complete by sperm's interventiOn,
all is well with your heart, the bucket sips.

Quoting quotations.

O! O, O, O, O, O, O, O! tah-dah! shit!





Sunflaky

“my foonting turlingdromes long for thy grooping!
ah freddled gruntbuggly, just as plurdled
gabblebotchits on a bee so lurgid,
so thy mitcuations to me, my froodling.

Medieval trash. Mnemonics. Love letters. Chants.

your love shoots from your heart like a sturdy
turd that bruises, so that though cleared, you sit
there waiting, thinking there must be plenty
more, sit down there, empty and expectant,
humming along to the breeze. there's some

fantastic bits in this: one of my best
bits is when greg tries to 'get' grunge music.
well, needless to say, old dogs and new tricks,
it ain't smooth sailing! in the end I guess
you could say that crumb jr. gets the hang

of it, and eventually averts wynn
the death of kurd cocaine!
the electricity died in the rain.
revolted and aggravated and hurt.
I'd scowled at her at breakfast and performed

acts of domestic violence behind
my cupped hand where she couldn't see.
overpassed the milk by an inch at least.
disagreed passionately about sounds
knocking on the roof, then felt silly & gormless





Bungle Bungle Map Song

drawing four water buckets with her down
in the cellar, lugging them up the steps into the loos.
preparing. yogh. we've borne worse. had a snooze
or tried to but she damn woke me, so frowns
we had instead, and chops and peas. if braw

and slender / katie would surrender . . . lass
let some light in on that tongue. else it will
wither. my son, the man told me, was killed
doing the job he loved by men who, as
far as they had then ascertained, were also

doing the jobs which they loved.” although
steel babes leave loads on her chest, such gizmos
sendeth me cherries withouten stones. so
does she a dove withouten bones. yet O,
the grandiose googleplex bombast,

“ka la kay li lo, wud wos wye wiz woe,
had hae hag haj ho, vug vox vig vis voe.
ka la kay li lo, wud wos wye wiz woe,
kit tee kiss lie low, vug vox vig vis voe
in this vein, like a bubble, till at last:

“joey's poetics make me all queasy,
he promised for once he wouldn't babble,
that just once he'd be sensible, easy
to understand, of use

						“. . . kitty?
					. . . scrabble?

Toolkit

“. . . O . . .

Text-as-surface.

O futile qualifications warn warning
warning {boycott e$$o!}orning my psych.
undergrads have, with conspiracies like
pretty girls {FUCK YOU!} not, or yawning
or not, slowly {FUCK OFF! FUCK YOU!}d

in a special spot in t{vous aime mais deteste ce CONNARD}
wi{fuck you!}eft leg “O poor chap all mine
quibble over whether a pun designed
such a discussion in advance. we call
this akimbo. thus, ejaculate and

crisp autumn boughs sigh and you suddenly
turn on the sky “you are a thiar and
a leaf! you spoonerise or lisp. that's grand,
but, hush, hush, seek relief, the autumn leaf
replies. autumn mulch makes your souls sticky.

I'd turn off the sky just as quickly. still
innards await cancer like cobwebs strung
on a blunderbuss barrel. pips that sung
in scanner in use in apples. travel
pillow NO, fencing mask YES. pretty picky.





Soap Bubble Gemstone

dear rose. once for your birthday, I gave you
soap bubbles, and promised to give away
something of yours. I said I'd give your name
to a person in something? so, it's true:
except she seems to be you, rose logan.

I think I said – if I didn't, I thought
secretly – it would go to someone pure,
someone absurdly perfect. though I'm sure
giving you your name back is how I ought
best to achieve that, there's a small problem.

something about perfection that bugs me.
maybe it's a virus that I've caught from
this poet I have been reading, called john
wilkinson (you think he just plays rugby).
maybe it's just fleeting, maybe I'll sneeze

it out when his lawyers make me give back
all the images I've stolen from him
(a huge heap of starfish and suspension
bridges). I fucking hope so -- I feel that
I've got a cold that hides the smell of each

faultless flower from me. or worse: I can't
wholly trust the beauty I come across.
things seem perfect only when something's lost,
romancing the bloom & forgetting the plant,
& the roots, their muck, all that stuff. it's better

to expand soap into delicate spheres
that float like the ghost of a bee-swarm, and
wash random points on the breeze's command,
than to scrub forcefully behind the ears
in a tub. so, baths have pros – they're wetter,

you get rubber ducks, candles, etc.,
but if I clean up whatever I've found
too much, it'll be raw, wrinkled or drowned.
not its 'true self.' not 'perfect.' better to
leave it a bit dirty. at least, that's my

excuse. it's my way of saying sorry
for this ramble too. muddy thoughts. due
to much mud nearby. take care. I love you,
jow. (there's one small glint set in a quarry,
when a hand and a ring would be just fine.





Vertical Tracking

MManticore (11:23
PM): AUUUUUUUUUUUGH / chucky
(11:24 PM): <HUGS!> / M
manticore (11:30 PM):

this is so unbearable. / chucky (out
of the straightjacket potato, the chap
butters up the judges. all people clap.
he goes. “reallv verv sorrv he shouts.
every one [ooze] and [aarghss] and forgets he

did an about-face right in her lipstick
target in the alley like in his dream.
thus, once more, screaming shreds and patches seem
a spruce royal cloak of knowledge, moshpit
trapdoors fling, immaculate tum-tums wheel

by latched to underdogs and the cortege
obscures the gracious generaless, bombs
an unique category on a top
trumps card then commends her on the blancmange,
she stubs her blush out on the chapel, wham!,

bloody lass, not exactly peely-wally,
btw, what does yr neck mean *lol! nick.
then ask: is it an ETHICAL picnic?
we nod the baddies through the floor, no really,
you have a mind like a steel trapdoor ma'am,

to the damn waterfall but I haven't,
so why do I find myself nodding, as
I think, I went on the maid of the mist,
it made yogh a profound impact on me &
tell you what's more, okay, what's called a bowl





Despite Endangered Status, Pandas Say They Prefer To Cuddle

game is one of the championship top
college teams play, the biggest game is called
the sugar often, or the rose, it all
depends on the year, fuck I put a lot
of store in the notorious cunt-kicking

sketch and if you wish to play poet dear
please please play sylvia 'cookie dish' plath.
your voice was a candlelit ocean. froth,
jetsam and I moved yogh in its swell near
to a small ship with its mast broken picking

through the liquid with its crew all dead but
for six famished africans because of
affirmative action, feeding on stuff
like phosphorous plankton, and there there's utter
silence. her voice tilts to a new angle,

so now I see they've survived only by
a bureaucratic bungle. make sure you
rape the queen on christmas day. yeah it's true
{'tis} a big [honour] to be picked for {thy}
bowl game! can't be right. I can't keep handling

the complaints line this way, it can't be right.
the blacks are powdered at 10p a day
for instant spoof. so you meant so you say
to add new wings in your house, and that night
accidentally added new wings in





Nurse's Song

your mouse and it zooms across the room and
gnaws my eye out!! aargh!! the blood!!!! whilst worse
occurs in africa, mistake a hearse
for a taxi every single time. tanned
women were once thought ugly. women

from the states tend to prefer the british
accent, it's somehow softer, more intimate.
and I remember once, when we'd been sat
chatting for hours, I thought they'd finish
me off, yogh those spinning shark fins, and

the africans waved and grinned as I pulled
over about a hundred metres from
a village and ask you to shut up: some
sobbing to my side, but my vision filled
with the mouth of light ahead. the car ran

like a duct. and so I've been so scared.
I know I've been talking garbage but you
are so tired and you won't stop driving, you
just sit and don't say anything. I stared
at the mouth of light, I was only trying

to keep you awake, there has been a small
bureaucratic accident on the curve
coming up to the town, all trucks have swerved
to a single point, and their cargo falls,
assorted corpses spill everywhere, lying

among them are ruined cars intended
for transport to a castle's crumbling car
park as a way of saying sorry, ha
ha, god, yes. you drive to the other end
of the village, there's a b&b. but . . .

could those ghosts – for your own good – Christ. hope not.





The Larynx Blames the Brain

Name-dropping. A little lee-way.

draw straws and see who is brave enough to ask if
dehisced spatter tangoes on the dream wind.
narrow green pubises in grip all fling
atangle, as though with ivory half-
kids, O Christ how I love this “my lemmon

sse ssal boe, my lemmon sse ssal boe . . . ðhe
fayrest of euery kinne it almost has it . . .
words so mouldy as approach the fruit basket
in the casket of hacked-up skulls, the green
fresh of it . . . O Christ . . . he's now eleven,

Demanding a non-essentialist view of language in matters of international agency.

a nuke-the-whales-for-Jesus-politic
wiggles through the capital veins, they come
to burn their placards for warmth, to picket,
and to climb trees to see. O later on,
yeah, mad homeless men asked eachother for

change. strange homeless men ask one another
for change. a murder of mini crows stirs
from my brother's wrist when I slap it. first
I hit his wrist, then suddenly it's covered
by a cloud of birds, insect-sized, before

my very eyes they lift off. no I tap
his wrist. declarations smurfed by Iraq
pursuant to this home-made pomade park
anywhere they like. bit sleepy, but cap
your evil irrational thoughts if absurd.
O ok. he was nine when it happened.





Rural Festival where Girls Paint your Faeces

marble fire escape. dressing gowns in Hall.
a bright band dares dipping in the window,
leafy boughs, saline-rich blue backshine, snow
scented coolness in a day otherwise all
about stock performances. one ought to

insert Digital Veneral Disease.
insert hearing AIDS. insert a small tape
in the video tape, like a green kiln baked
in the igloo of the heart it once baked. trees
is dirt. aren't it. prime condition. like new.

hail, great Marmalade! it is for you we
commit these actuaries to the flames!
the fool who mutters “preserve us!, the games
commence with him as prey! before you, see,
oh holy Pince-Nez, Milkshake of Spittle,

their rotated suits curl and blacken! or
if they are already black, simply curl,
like the delightful lissom gold that swirls
generously on the shy welsh shepherd's
scalp, as he tends flock, upon his little

hill. hail! we play hangman for real in these
parts. high-spirited jailors struck his face
too hard, you can see the welts thaw apace
below the head-sack. he's slapped to his knees
in the cart and the villagers all throw

rotten vegetables, except for some of
the very small children. most of it arcs
over to the other side of the cart
to be honest, but the villagers love
a good food-fight. then a hush. henry goes

he retches. stale oceans poke from his palms.
day dawns. questions with bright-bit lips: “A _ L _ M _ . . . A _ L _ M _ . . .





A Cup of Adam's Apple Juice

that day Satin confessed the rich were
rash to die well-dressed. “silk swells like milk, in
Hell. lace lacerates, coral-acid sins.
and a flame replaces each strand of fur.
actuaries run and blur in the fumes

up the stairs unsteadily. I wonder
if next time we should try confetti. he
swallows, with difficulty. his henry's
hard-on – that's our name for the thing
under your chin if you're henry (a kind

of homophobic joke) -- slips through the noose
of a bruise, half-choked. the suits raise a smoke
past his fists. then he says thickly, “E. folk
start screaming and jeering, and it's no use,
nobody knows if 'E''s right. but yes I

see bruce nipping off with his lad, they'll get
the mainstay. by the time they've brought it back
everyone's quieted down. so they plant
it, and some other folk help to hold it.
they'll be hoping he croaks some more misses --

not from malice, but it'll be safer
with a couple structural supports – so --
hush. “. . . A? chalk it up. polite applause. show
goes on until dawn. the crowd grows wafer
thin. I've brought a blanket and a biscuit

tin. henry makes it: the word is 'APLOMB'.
on the next stage they'd sever his head . . .
slaps on the back -- could have been stabs instead --
wife simply can't stop crying. he's just numb.
learnt his lesson. don't pun. and DO NOT MOCK
the Great Marmalade. the backpain's like rock.





Erupt

we are not stuck like this for our pleasure.
all this claptrap, scooping the soup away
from oneself and so on, was in its day
a smart sort of security measure.
should one, then treat check and cheque as one word?

dubious lab assistant found fisting
corpse again when should've been assisting.
claims we officially wished him to fist it
to test if corpses are fisting resistant.
pale males have the efficiencies of tribes.

he goes to my room and did shit with me.
pegasi graze in billowing snow, goodies
mount them, clean pretty christian girls in hoodies.
volcanic thorn monkeys flung chee chee chee
and amen, 1. shake like the aspen 2. die,

Try again, by topographical cut-and-paste every discourse may be made into an honest woman (whoa man ho nest etc.).

“it is enough, we are told, “tremble right.
could have knocked me up with a feather. yogh
calmed by a combing. & lights surpass weather.
& the tribal competence of dykes is tight
too. midgets too. and yet for the {incas},

labour is not alienated, there
are better terms than “please and “thank you, their
spirits weave to their brows like thorn crowns, air
is clean and cheap, and the exchange trope, sharing
a blue felt blanket. O the pilot has





Paratracksuits

switched off, small chest items may have shifted
the masked crew member will indicate when
you may remove uniform oxygen
place metal arrow normally lift up
wing it calmly loss of cabin has

buckle like this will not inflatable
in-flight purchase over a child's nose and
mouth in the unlikely event of an
automatically enjoyable
cushion may be used as a floatation

device in the unlikely event of
an unlikely event feel free to take
it with you with our compliments the sake
of small children choose which to help above
you will find full safety information

on the fasten seat belts sign. O bloody
arabs. though I'd be surprised if jews aren't
behind this too, and now, to play my part,
after all this water shed, this muddy
thing in my head, the fork in the road on

the tip of my tongue, clean up the world, need
soap, that's the final solution, and some poured
liquid, if it could be discovered, world
needs science to discover such liquid,
not as thick as blood, and then you rubbed them

the right way I'm sorry the wrong way it
would all make a muddle I mean puddle,
don't worry, or guess, don't weep, or shudder,
I've almost, gentlemen, resembled it.
wrap in glad leis the chessman who incites,





Ad Break

divining rod
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cf. pp. 11-33
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ohm . . . ohm . . .
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no mm-hmm
tra la la
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à-tête
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re: hi
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pip pip pip
uh-oh oh
no mm-hmm
http://
www
oo-ee
coochee coochee coo
mpg
gurgle gurgle
no more ad break
tee-hee





Petrichor

later, pull it tight if he's not of use.
I hammer my garden together flat
under the black heaven. drops, tell me what
is so wrong in that soot that you'd refuge
even in my roses' thorn roots? the lights

came on again, I turned them off again.





Wet Dream Scrotal Tug Pipe Dream

gringos trod on the papier mache charms.
yes, all heard henry say it. “apple! um . . .
(no no B -- I've guessed E -- but . . . he's our chum . . .
the grace that spreads saline-light in my arms,
translucent as a babe's flesh as they lift

to maggie thatcher nude. golf club golf club.
neon “z -- it's plucked from me like arrows
marketing painkiller action. marrow
knots become cool rock when my pure back shrugs
them off into oxygen. how you sift.

how I shift and sit. it's fascinating,
I trace a finger in it and shiver,
relaxed. spiral slid out like a sliver.
I use it as a cd rack – they bring
a shape to the blood, the blood vessels. they

Situated knowledges, take one.

are far from waterworld-slide-style gorges –
you know, it's so good, the distraction ruse,
not only have I not cum, I'm confused
as to whether I'm the butterfly or
lao tzu. God breathed man rose from the ash tray . . .
you . . . you think that that was sperm?! dna?!?!





Truth Table-Cloth

is just pesticide if you define kurd
right. when the desert's worth its sultan, dead
girls will look like roses are embedded
in their wynn foreheads. a prehensile turd
snakes out before I make love to him, sways

like a tail, then wraps my penis and groans
like a cello bow. O, admit your fate,
shave moans onto your legs before your date,
rinse your thinking in dunes of hash in folded
skins, prompt the half-open crystal heatwaves.

stand on a hill till the air thins away.
or unicorn horn the 'flavoured' water.
“myrrh, a wise guy huh, why I oughta.
you've got a screw loose, the carpenter says
& despite the expert community,

ponds, hermitages and gazebos fill
the countess' well-situated lands,
as though deft dial-a-dialectics planned
that this floating eye corpse tastes terrible!
you feel a strange mental acuity.

a meteorite tape played in reverse,
the armpit grows gallantly through the glade,
moths shoplift, chopper shoplifts, novel thirsts
poke these slimy female kites to the blades,
where they burst. the stones of tora bora

contest to be camouflaged gray rabbits.
rinse merchandise, two types of hydra fight,
wee bugger with a dogged grip alright:
the myth gets science, the midget, tid-bits.
draw a conclusion. you're a good drawrer.
O so so.





You Got my Cold

so then too much of the blink is barcoded.
the moth and helicopter love to chop.
tv turns itself off. nope, Yhwh will
still not issue recall on his tree. spill
arabesques on our hands, so we can drop

off thicker impressions. rotors cut fog
into dolls, glued to their lids as caution?
call them scareflies, scaremoths. then the autumn
peat crawled along your slain arthritic logs.
mines in my arms can't tell if they're exploded.

gaia, the coyote, restructures this
forest for hansel. an eye lets out piss.





Ball-&-Daisy-Chain

they play tinnitus tapes in the lobby.
do-x goes bip beep bip beep at its pith.
pick 5 at back of lame wolf. sensing with
love the skull underneath is my hobby.
side ponytails. ash. and grandmaster flash.

snap bracelets and michael jackson. you must
recall. iran contra stuff. the cold war”
it was all just desert, wynn, strife and spoor,
we simply speed bump our heads, he laughs, trust
us on this, now, tell me of this nethack”

the first direction that is not at God,
but toward the centre of a woman.
tearfully it goes on. cobwebs grow in
the smithy where my fingerprints are shod.
your heart monitor quakes full of fruit pips.





On a Marche sur la Lune Leap-Frogs Facile Honey Find

they have surgically removed my backpain.
it's stone. like dna. or a fire escape.

it's boring when you cry. I have the thought
that the thing's my fault. “if you're bored it's only
from lack of imagination, it's lonely,
though, saying what I obviously ought
to say, an incantation without

any faith in it at all, just a muddling
fidgeting in me keeping myself good
and calm and busy. years by years: you could
have sunk a pit with your tears by now, huddled
on my shoulder, piping water down

the well that should at the bottom have BLOOD.
I can't think it from your side. you can't stop
the chattering ghosts in you. when to drop
the l-bomb indeed. I think I'm in love.
what an embarrassing text message to

send to the wrong person. I wish I could
pick up your voice with 'tweezers' but you and
your ghosts and me and mine, we step back and
forth on my ickle mind-tile. so I would
travel on it, honestly I would, go





Come to Russia to see Paul McCartney, live, and be part of the show

Paper doll blood brothers.

a good yogh shag, a pack of condemns just
in case. inadvertent sunshine voodoo,
when I squashed her cornflake head -- all this lust --
then, from that magazine I've read right through,
she calls out crap, cooped up with the weather.

iff dildos build their nests
a saltwater heart to my head will just
look for an excuse, no, like a thrombus
suite, there'll be always for thee in my breast
a special place, where stunned crows, feathered

white as bone is in a dream, stew above
drodro – about 80 km
from wynn bunia -- where local fighters
are suspected of using weapons O'
mass destruction like bread knives the tongue rakes

against the fog to scrub itself in jest
you talk bull, you O's came climbing into
our camp because you were horny and so
thompson maak julle onder hut arrest
met net die bible vir jou om te kyk.

flicked from your finger it doesn't vanish,
get this straight. feh, in such fine light I'm sure
the frauline won't mistake tumbleweed for
sherbert despite your artful telecast.
your mission, should you choose to interact

at all, is to distract the paper dolls,
to stage the holding of torn tain to the world,
as they gasp, print politics on quireboys.
coral improves on a doyley. jaws loll
with sassy excrement. yogh. come. get packed.





Brief Case

forwards. onwards. whites of eyes. not of face.
whoops. moth with eye-patch. a terrible shame.
a nice touch moves the colour of the blame
a shade toward the west. frog in neck brace.
cervix dilated like that well-known door.

just the duellists and their gals. six spines
shiver. who'll polish our bootlegs when that
happens. misunderstood. evening of lapp
dancing. think of it as white choler crime.
what it is you're hearing now is the roaring

weapons of mass destruction overhead,
torn by weapons of smartness, we have borne
the great mcmuffin macguffin showdown
with stiffer upper lips than expected,
hey, chicks dig looters. 30 at the back

of a lone wolf. dada. ship horses home
to see if they rock after all. don't beam.
don't waste petrol filling up in a dream.
if you have your reasons can you impose
a setting where you can sp[eek!] them flatly?

Redeem the poet's compulsive pathological verba by a redolent and resplendent res.

scene is a stretch of ocean near a sea.
piebald bardic ankles step on, onward.
littlest girl hid in the airing cupboard
and the tabby cat went right up a tree.
O come, countess, surely you yourself see,





The Idiot Boy

the time for orders, save fragos, is past,
if you cannot sneeze but you want to sneeze.
look down, shut your eyes, then when your face sees
the sun with your neck and lids snapped back fast,
my friend, then you'll sneeze, with black snotty ease.

“I think we shall call her this – / I think we
shall call her that – now, don't you think that soot
ikin / is a nice name for a cat? put
up a fuss, prefer the word 'schtroumpf', we see
it's just 'cause you're french. but one man is choked

Queasy with decorous skills, sick with eloquence, vomiting at the sieving gleaming fencing mask.

it's Ok it's only with laughter at
one of the prize-winning pets that prowl here,
well? ch. XII, the fat sheep? strophe, the queer
fish? magog the rat? sootikin the cat?
O come now sir, puss puss, here pussy, stoked

yet, now sir, are you stoked yet? there is no
place for the wish there were a time and place
for everything. repair to the wood, face
up to it all, once you've actually sewn
yourself to something horrible, p'raps dunked

a wealth of weight in a deer's womb,
there's satire for you, O a schroeder's pack
falls with bombs or biscuits . . . biscuits! and sacks
of paper plates! whew, you know when it flew
over at first . . . look at this there are chunks

of cheese, some of these must be crackers. jeeze,
good thing we just ate scott last night! gee whiz,
I'm sorry marge, that was insensitive,
dragons gush from 'onvolopes' as they please.
the straight rose to boy or gay rose to girl,

fake lips break open to swallow and seal
no matter where you drop her in the lake
or how you feel about it. but you fake
a french kiss, employing a baby eel,
and she'll heal less well than ash water will.





Crazy About You         

(for Joe K, Jo-Jo, Tall Jo, Firmo, Jo Cole and Crazy Joe's Bird)

hey! yeah! it's crazy steve! and mad man matt!
conflating mild social transgressiveness
& awkward impulses with mental illness?
no, I don't see any problem with that!
yeah! check it! it's pathological lou!

with his new bird stace, her cortex is rotting!
what's up, pathological lou? you seen
sam the incomprehensibly insane?
yeah! it's clinically depressed sue! it's not
a party till clinically depressed sue's

here with her silence and badly-scarred wrists!
awesome! totally whacko searle! he'll tell
us to go from 'is' to 'ought'! what a laugh! well
go on! “that thing on your arm IS a fist!
there IS a giraffe's anus in the zoo!

what is {all} – this is {all} – what has come out
of the {all} is also {all} -- when the {all}
comes out of the {all} -- the all remains {all} --
book is open -- like crisp packet spread out
on a pub table -- cut by a nail. love

remains love when this love is removed -- om
poornamadah poornamidam poornaad --
comes out of the god, the god remains god
-- poornamudachyate -- the bucket comes
up -- it is a sheath of water -- full of

lady see I love you in the same clean/
contaminated way that little signs
with history on them stuck up around my
small scottish castle do help me to dream --
what it was like once upon a time, with

a hearth and with a heart. gaia will laugh.
photosynthesis smog is oxygen.
it's clear, clearer than nothing. you step from
an antique aircraft hanger look up at
the sky your eyes have more than enough mist.





Buzz

copter screams, insect bleeds, but yeah, they breed.
you want all these memes standardized as braille?
glory-holes as the bare good granite grail?
(psst! scarecrow, check behind you! drop to knees!
put fodder-hands through corn . . . feast . . .) sure, okay.

I can handle that. the winnowing air
dropped diorama comets in my mouth.
I'm practically allergic to talc
even as a subjective object. care
was taken to remove things full of PAIN

for baby, full of baby's BLOOD & BRUISES,
full of DREAD & SUFFOCATION for baby,
but. . . oops! they got mixed up where baby snoozes!
nursery / torture chamber! I think maybe
this formative experience shaped the way

that I still think about the world. (the recall,
I await it like an actor's belly, call
back the wrong atoms smartly Yhwh, all
the bad nerves on baby's bottom, call all
up through -- angel flesh in an escher plane

-- their bodies will sieve, despise or forgive,
myname'snoahyou'vebeenagreataudi
encethankyougoodnightAMEN!) the bawdy
has a didactic subtext. you should give
the lass a wash before first use, and at night

when you've done make sure you don't rest her on
her rim. follow these simple instructions,
to YOUR OWN HOME, and watch their corruptions,
of your own daughter, wounds inflicted on
ear, nose, and throat specialist. the yogh lights

came on again, I turned them off again.
you're crazy. I want to watch your face by
those flames. want to cuddle you like you're mine,
hold onto you until they burn away
or you get bored. I won't get bored but can

I put on my jammies? could all this be
yogh standard, squashing her cornflake behind
my hand is quite normal, I always find
curves of her skin are touched more sensibly,
this day has been located at the grand





Rio

top of love's curving bell, the bit that scarcely
tilts as the thing swings, alive, swings peals to
a green world for miles around. in rio,
it is illegal to give a dog whiskey,
wynn thorn yogh eth ash lagu feh xi rho

omicron lambda psi well hell cloud nine
who knows, at least by conditioning these
folks we keep the insane {piss} off of the streets,
I give superhero lessons to mine.





Realist

if omnipotent Christ would bloody care
if he walked on economic structures,
a good idea for a song or a prayer,
a tribe's adaptive advantage, ruptured
and mashed thorn into paludal thick pit.

the dental dam – flamingo – gaslight – hap --
graze on Pepsi, quietly on the street --
wait on nothing -- gaze on me -- grave defeat,
oh, if only I had not given that
whiskey to that dog! look at me now! shit!





Quicksilver Earrings

inhabit a teene-ager stage. birds haul
the sequined rabid sky over belgrade
s.e. bulgarians dread the patchy shade.
do you remember the eighties?!?!” I call
out, trying vainly to swallow the last

exclamation mark when I see the man's
fierce stare. he answers in harsh arabic,
on the sand pounding his rifle to kick
up little hypnotic clouds. now I am
for it, but there's nothing for it: I rasp

on: “madonna? . . . aids? he-man? scooby doo?
. . . top gun? the smurfs? la, la, la la la la,
sing a happy song . . .? la, la, la la la
la . . . larry feldman, who is supposed to
have been our translator but has been next

to useless, says quietly, wynn “he's saying
something about the tigris river. that
basket of blurred shoes. it must one day crash,
a satellite full of muscle, and braying
savannah beasts will spatter blood types & fetch

out feasts from the gristle, recompense for
skipping nurslings on their perimeter
roams for many years. at the mirage bar
we thorn ply with bloody marys, and pour
after pour see her lie nude as she rests

up on the cross. in the chimerical
dusk knights knock turrets off tanks & we pretend
to be lesbians on chat & nasdaq bends
its far-flung lamp the satellite miracle
hite. it soars above the deserts the west

does best. colostomy sack in purple
silk, point to my meaning with bullets. trust
them to keep their heads down; the glamorous
general embeds newsmen in her pills,
they fuss and fret the route to the juice lake

the power's out. I don't know what to do.
I think even the war is about you.





Go March

but YES are dumbstruck by picked-clean sperm skulls
in their MILLIONS, tapping the sides of their
disintegrating XANAX craft. the fair
one breastfed. the hackneyed whalebone scythe culls
the wits well. rise to the top, for this s[ache],

she falls to her {shins, I protest, or squats
in prayer}. “men, when to drop the l-bomb, no
no to the first date, if she's got the hots
for you it'll be a big turn off “oh rot
what if I love some girl on the “I know!

I know! I just thought it was funny. fuck. hit
head on a llama caused by stonecutters.
sluts caused by intervention. rebuttals
state causality caused by the event,
just thought it was money, I know, I know

when wynn the crawly beasty's scales all lift
magic carpets self-whip out from under
bag ladies in old bagdaddy, thunder
on your heads, bellies full of wee and spit,
don't be coy about what it's like inside:

macgyver a care bear stare out of duct
tape and something called a cd player,
that's what I call a smart weapon, & with luck
take out what the countess' soothsayer

notes and no more, she can swallow her pride,
& our joy. back like a nest, and something's died.

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