It is the most natural thing in the world to leave

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Possum, Drowning

It is the most natural thing in the world to leave, so leave and take your sourdough with you. It gives me the shits. I hate being alone more than I hate being with myself, so I’ll suffice. The things we make make us sicker and more miserable than we were before, unless we make a mess of things, then we’ll have each other to hate. I have made a mess of loving myself, I have made a mess of my sleep hygiene. Is it hygienic to sleep inside a ballistic missile? The night crawls on and a dog dies nearby. I feel bad about it but do not cry, cannot cry, am too much of a scumbag to cry. A man stands in the road with a shotgun. He is not my father, so we tell each other we love each other. What I would do for him to be my father, or two moths dancing in the cold sky. The moon will kill the poets eventually. The snow will turn the dead of December over, gifts for the ever-violent Claus. There are more cops in this world than dreams. There are no accidents, only the end of everything; the first time I ever told a man no was when I took his gun from him.


Hibernation Guide

Father, I had a dream, you dug
eight holes, added children
and funeral lamps for Bird
music. A narration lasted

an orchestral score through
an award season. Changes
in nature were determined
by developers of air

conditioning systems: the dead
were trapped in the snow.
We had no choice but to
wait-and-be-great fathers.

I’ve always known the Snow Lazarus’
sanctum as its sadness: light sources
in despair and speed. ‘Do not be afraid
to sleep, it’s necessary if you are to

explode off the scene.’ Dad,
if I have to stay [principles of love;
silver dust] – I will do so
in love with memory rather than-

The owl! A noose! January!
How do we remember what we need [right now]? Back on stage,
and you haven’t offered me a corpse,

just a reminder that human pain
is a mouldy blue even when we miss aching,
and get married. You’ll make sure
it doesn’t work. Reprise, Reprise,

Bird-song: how the tempo works:
I gave your gift to nature: storm [rain /
snow], a convergence of forecast: try
to find me in an avalanche. The first eight

metres sometimes need a candle;
a Birthday Cake in draft form,
a love you swept under my mother’s
carpet. If you don’t smile,

Dad, I’ll be honest now,
I’ll be in the cemetery, I’ll see you
tomorrow. And the haunting
is different in this ground:

life flows, can not stand.
Parenting is a justification
of the dream’s situation,
eight holes / no cake / a dampness.

I propose we start waking by killing
respiratory memory.
That should drown before
we leave the ship. Concentrated

cyanide for breakfast,
and lobotomies twice a day;
there is no harmony in conspiracy
Father. The end of your disease
is a loss of love of art with a loss
of love of exposure to corruption.
I’m a fox here. Let me know

the conditions when the time
is right for re-emergence.


A Guide to Brightness

At the heart of alchemy
is the use of space/astronomy
as the science of distribution.
Do not drink too much
(when the young man had eight places
he sang the olive candles
and the music of the birds;
he slept in the garden until the dispute was over;
he got rid of the bees flying in the sea
because they did not talk of the sun;
heroes were the source of light and sun;
he did not touch anything;
as a lamb he was unaffected by sleep;
as a state of love, he was silver powder;
he lost the simple tremors
and was happy! Now!;
he understood there was no celebration
but knew that was enough;
I don’t think I helped,
but I think everything was very good;
he offered them a complaint;
[P.S. He is still alive;] [P.P.S. Satan made a mistake;] he needed to flee the first week
and send emails directly to our device
except, apparently, what is absolute,
or when we live;
he left my son at night
with the fear of remembering the wall;
he began early in the morning
when Rue’s plan began to weaken;
there was no culture of death
outside the corners of his region;
when I thought I was the new moon,
he had a game for a losing night;
I want to know what this family means,
he begged, and it is not complicated;
thank you, father and fear;
he worked in the field until his death)
protein, it is, for the most part, required in dust.
Education is not enough:
arts education, pain and bone breakdown, etc.
Otherwise, it’s a situation I often wished for.
(“Fox,” he said. – read the funeral.)


seven days

And it will not work: there are two types of people:
great, down to earth. This is not acceptable, I always
wanted to die like a rat; football to the wall. According
to the first unexpected (no rooms) many parents are sad

stories at home. The other criminals are in town; through
when we come to the fatal mistake: your doctor will consider
your medical options and remember, in case it should partake
of her sins, first class standards. I was still limited to the first

thought. Samuel was very sad and sick, to look inside
the prison walls. It is difficult to get out of the house,
and finally, even if it is not a board member, the Fox.



Even if there is a wall,
there are two types of humans
and marine animals
that are also the subject of study
on Earth. What’s the use of the world?

Why are there walls and floors?
Where did I learn to be still
in a small body. Taken in a shell.
There are many days in the fox.
Days of the week until together
we go to the sea to sleep.



On Surrealism and Poetry

I read a review of a poet’s work in which the reviewer claimed that comparing the poetry to surrealism would be doing the poet a disservice, as it would tarnish or diminish the seriousness of the work, as if surrealism was a flight of fancy with no political or social backing. Yet, when Andre Breton spoke of surrealism, he defined it as a revolutionary act, and its links were with the communist and anarchist movements. That, for me, is when surrealism is at its best, when it ridicules the conventions of politics and social rigours with absurdities that bring social progress to the fore. It is easy to write of two random images and connect them together, but to do so in a way that breathes and bleeds with the markers of an uprising or a social solidarity, that’s the trick. That’s what I want to achieve when I write surrealist work, that’s the balancing act.

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