THERE ARE NO FISH IN THIS TANK

　

　

　

　

"the fascination of it being what it is" how much talent could there possibly be in the soil

see-thru creatures between flimsy break down label and stone event

goes round all together and inbetween everything blossoms appearing in the orchard

and tomorrow in my place i will leave word filled with ripening creatures

a non-rhyme sonnet that pride extrudes...

all things i was and where i’m going to come to promonotory Time

a dream rebirth the naked transmogrifying monster

falling through a hatch on saturday in the upper world

the upper world nearly found out it was me looking down from my shadow on the ridge the fuselage

sleep after rubric after hubris after down all is pigeon talk in soft evernescence

the vikings come in mist completely irrelevant

they have gone off in the valley of heat as all interlaced things

the cockerel the crow and the guitar strut in complete syncromesh

gibberish gibous she was our moon gertrude had a very fat mind but she was a little monkey

woman who calls her piece/pieces tender buttons deserve attentions

little monkey our moon my duck fly across clever dick now film

a pair of nice shoes for instance

the somnambulists

　

under a thin black woolen blanket

my son, wayne rooney and i

the aliens have held off and

i check the doorway

all is quiet and dark

　

　

to be by

                         all moving                 sea

                                                                       horizon

                                                                                      line

　

In

   Past

   Time

   this

Other

   than

somebody’s name

a point of grammar arises

she looks

preferring correct latin

sunk

head down all that could be

thought of was ‘the plain’

stretching away

on lofty prominence

or nietsche’s mountain in

wound-licking foolishness

sun bathes the east

shadows crinkle the conifers nearby like smiles

and all is well ...

in the machine

a slow movement

re-assess attributes and duties

watch the new teacher’s profile

art is always just around the corner

of the eye

two-dimensional even

everything is so quiet falling apart

they say the writing is on the wall

i will be uplifted sometime soon

and now

the voices of the old

poets

have gone their flickering

images on new york streets

long time ago

their

shirts

their cigarettes

their

        silent conversations with beautiful women

who have children

        asleep in pushchairs

all gone

ah

where was i?

 

 

 

got to flow
yr water
yr gas
eklectricity
cash

the ideas
colliding firing
and you keep on keeping on
but not keeping (too much)
to let it flow

For Marcus Morris i.m

Stella goes in by the gate
a couple of paces from the apple.
The subtle precise fingers of
a Monty Panesar about to bowl
passing yr silver orb in the dark bar.
These blossoms will come again
and again to be considered…