My appetite wears metallic facepaint

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“The realisations will be ongoing: they will never stop, and I will never stop seeking them, though I understand that they will often be the cause of pain and of considerable anger.”

                                                                                                       – small white monkeys, Sophie Collins


“A large part of the popularity and persuasiveness of psychology comes from its being a sublimated spiritualism: a secular, ostensibly scientific way of affirming the primary of spirit over matter.”

                                                                                                       – ‘Illness as Metaphor’, Susan Sontag


Blown out in the slow fluttering midday
by a pardoning vocabulary.
Already I had concealed in the crease
of my knees observations of the time
of year, its weathers and leopards. We can
theorise on the continuation
of capital ‘L’ life.


Knowing full well

I have never had the capacity
of a goat’s skull to absorb collision –
a capacity sixty times greater
than that of a human’s – I go about
butting my head. The wind brims over. I
wait between recognised places until
the sea. Wading out by myself because I
savvy had made the question of wanting
to the same as the question of being
able to. My skin was sticky, it was
like I was coming for the first and last
time. Things slack within some field at harvest,
my hair clinging baroquely to the white
of a bathtub a capital L life
ago. The chance is never repeated,
it has some operating mechanism
running very tightly.



Working my dream

job on the world’s biggest lawn, wading through
the watering of it. I know my price
and so I fear it more not less. How this
now is full of my luminous teeth with
which I split a vine fruit – tomato, say –
abruptly, squishing off the stem, horse snot,
streaming. I hurry indoors, I must not
be so nothing, I cannot help it that
my continuation likens itself
to the world. When you asked, I was fumbling
or rather mangling all ceremony
out of the air.  My only art was not
for pardoning, was insistent, stagger,
coming back. Rhododendron, tinned fruit, shale
beach: I turn a corner in this little
golf cart that I rush along in. To slow
down, I ease off the pedal, on my way
to the memory factory, the place
in which my role is, officially, Chief
Acquiescence Officer and it pays
less than but close to my price. The golf cart,
powered by single source diesel, passion
project of somebody.


It would be here

I learn that no one can tell me whether
I’m the only one ashamed. O well O
wellspring. I produce a chamber brimming
with traps with my price in the central place.


Off to precipitate some other way
through a parked car window, rolling downwards,
rainwater silken collection. The jump
everlasting of clouds from the ground. I
follow and can bear their touching and oh
with a little quirk of my girly ear
I am the blueprint, a powdery mouth,
or site in a cell where takes place protein
synthesis. Scraping the ambitions off
my heart I went nightly into this swamp
area of the map denoted by
kissy “X”s. There was such furniture
such hard-won future in the muck I sit
down in to dream up the water’s pulse.



appetite, with wristwatch and bitter look,
with as long as I live, with treachery,
with overlay, outwith. Earnt it, never


A lyttle baskette of animals

which mean remembering mucusy grip
crawling toward. The hide side of my heart
is drying after scraping. Almost there.


With me I have these small Matryoshka dolls
or other concentric objects which I
play with, grief dolls or ripples, their creepy
little eyes and tongues. Hear it: there is no
one single part. To think of intention
is to think about blows to my scalp, veiled
by hair. When I turn let a goat with not
one single price upon their sweet free head
differently ramming against.  I would like
to remember lively salt dreams, holy
shapes; to be tranced on a currency. To
enumerate this until a biome
where I am away from this sense.  Deflate
of pheromones and indulging something
in the midsentence. Glittering with it.
On the balcony, orange, classy.




come in episodic very concern
electrifying what sticks. Some airborne
grammar, pain whilst moving. The incision
faint, the consultant saying permanent
nerve damage….biopsies inconclusive,
a smile unreadable. This recycling
is so flavourful, these flight paths tattered,
I bent into the shape of a warning.
Silver, tactical, really lie under
it, tenacious with hollows and faces,
some of these orchid-like as in they are
temperamental. My congratulation
of the price, for it is so right such that
it coaxes away all fear, is frilly
with it too, a queue of rabbits passing
a lantern along, domestication.
Their smiles palatial. Please bear in mind that
a bare ribbon of feeling can be tied
round either the plush neck of a tiger
or the mid-thigh of a man but it will
be starry and brutal. Spacious is this
dream in the memory factory though
it is only afforded a side room
because all things within the memory
factory either are in a side room
or are the side room in which something else
is. I am there too upon the empty
factory floor, working my heart out to
arrive at what it is it is to call any
of this mine. I would answer, what am I
now to the sea, and what is the sea to
earlier versions of organs entranced
of the sea, not least the sea’s bitumen
which differs from that of land, though both are
sappy and extracted.

If I wanted,

I could have a proclivity, you know.
I could just have one. On this bus, children
are singing, late sun needles through windows
and dirt, this sense of possibility
of –.




On Surrealism and Poetry : A POETICS

I want to turn or return the reader’s and my attention to a poem as that which is really and physically happening

within and outwith your body

curl of embarrassment                        tremor of anger           flash of joy

to pleasure in touching the pages       the sound of the words licks your ear

the inextricableness of body from mind                     a sea and its salts                    that what is sublimated returns ricocheting in the body politic and the body approximately discrete




the world as experienced as a layer on the world       fractal and sticky

that to write into         with     through the ricocheting is violently precious as ———-




to know the terror of the porous absorptiveness of your and every body is itself a portal

nude to the seasons

the poem as excretion dreaming         improbable furniture               snot &&&&&& art

nothing to ‘get’

the poem was not a fertile field until you

an experience is a world

I dream being unable to find the right veil for the function I just had these memes these

Turing patterns         these burnt roses going stunningly away from me                      this squander

pulp of urgency

limit of enchantment

animal of laughter

that when and where there is not yet the language for what is                       I will sing the hole

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