what have we been talking about all this time
coming to in a tape flicker landing in dry light
planning a robbery maybe because I was
staring up from the bottom of the lake where
my guns are weightless porta cenere say
a pressed tin ashtray passed over the zinc
the patron leans back as the glass bursts
upwards oh diamonds round the throat and
again a little blood comes out at the mention
of the job but we must have imagined the bar
now we’re on different chairs in the kitchen
from where the plan has been redacted by
the dark square of the knife drawer leaving
some blocky shame around the tongue and
a half smile shit I’m more Clive Dunn than
Clyde Barrow and I’m not even sure right now
if I close my eyes am I indoors or outside
it does seem perfect though we just walk in
cause total fear make people cry and shit
at least you’d see them right? I’m making tea
with some kind of flower I’m running around
other cities scared at what I might accidentally
say but not mean or at least not mean to say
you do look a little like Duke Ellington in that
hat you can come too it seems we’re off on a
crime spree if we ever get out of this kitchen

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train train sixteen separate instances of
awful trouble I mean really the worst
also a little snow just the odd scribbling
star point none lying on the bumpy sill
and if the heart is a bird at all it’s small
a dead teal or roadkill’d crow or whatever
as I try and cue the next record but oh
the decks are set up weird like battle
style my arching hand all awkward and
I have to kind of shift my weight but the
left shoulder pressing the phone to my
ear what’s that you seem to say about
the dead unpeeling from the tarmac
and shaking their blood around it is
as if a kick drum at the cue point says
look snow does lie in a corner of the
window this side of which in the room
we’re dancing again we say fly bloody
heart dead bird of the heart trouble
train jump the track only for another
hour or so I’m gonna play Angel Of
The Morning twice yes and not care

our best idea ever
very quiet walking home

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keep out where I get the opposite feeling
sunshine which falls straight down on me
heart closed as a french town at lunchtime
I say in my dreams I can drive but I can’t
small wonder the size of a can of zero gravity
space drink or sleep all day in the wardrobe
in my Eddy Barclay shirt either will do right?
everything literally turns to gold in this the
summer of sport bright gold dust like pollen
glitter eyeshadow eidetic golden light show
a whole gang of winners and among them a king
whose bad case of wanker’s cramp makes
waving hard I hope the motorcade roars by fast
If we were to roar by fast and blur the billboards
in slow shutter streaking magazine indicator
light strobing the ulna

put yr other hand in mine
as skins and mods chase us into the underpass
look at me once we get round this corner jump
and hover as dust above the dog park

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Ringmark Sestina

If, as it seems to, the fairground goes dim
And duration comes alive in weak pulses,
So our hands are cold and their outline
Doubles in the distant late afternoon;
Do not think of heaven at all, of suns
Unshaken, bright rings in the civic bar.

The dancers lose their place at the bar
Slip on greasy cobbles, only a very dim
Sense of how it began today, the low sun’s
Promise, loose design, our graceful impulses
Shivering out the cold drunken afternoon.
She could still do it, star blue her outline.

Now it’s tomorrow and still blue her outline.
We break step and head for the bar.
In this arrangement there are two afternoons;
One bright and long past, one here, all dim.
She’s in the first one where the crowd pulses,
In this one the light is the weak pale sun’s

Breathlessness though is the moon’s, not the sun’s.
The dark silver surfaces’ fibrosed outline
Greasy with fear of the durational pulsing
That leaves tide rings, look, all over the bar
Where we lean together she and I only dimly
Aware of the breathing in the other afternoon.

If you thought you were dying for a whole afternoon
Staring down at glass ringmarks, at ecliptic suns
You’d feel weird in the evening, recalling dimly
How you had spoken to your son in outline
Only and how the cancelling sound of the bar
Set the day at a distance and the lung pulsing.

So in split screen: one room breathlessly pulses,
One’s a dark blue-lit dancehall in the afternoon.
Shuttered windows, a phone pivoting on the bar
Indicates, is an almanac of, cancelled suns.
I’m relentlessly insisting, I know, on the outline
Doubling. I’m like two of Giotto, shit and dimly.

It can’t stay dim forever eh? The fairground fairly pulses
At it’s rococo cherry outline, carolling the long afternoon.
Let’s check our pockets for suns and quit this fucking bar.

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sonnet 3

look at sunshine fizzing up in the glass
and declining pearline and lenticular
try the trick of lightness on me raise
the sun to my mouth when this drops

they will snap all this about who’s
gonna destroy whom and with what hang
from the neck or by it so killingly aslant
as in detroit leaning no lane discipline

baby the things you say are crazy so
compelled are we here in rented light
that the lawn whereon you sliced yr hand
with a splinter of bright glass is dead now

isn’t it love keeps us moving no or
yes more like summer to say yes it is

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sonnet 2

I go to my bench all crying
called from and to the step
so what pools are oil sounds
warning sounds tearfully afloat
I push my eyeball back ouch
all blurry in the back row
your tearstained ballgown
crackles radio magnificently
what’s your sad place like
you said who owns it any
way what really even is it
police in our happy place in
place holding the zero out
on the bench to bleach the eye

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the dogs don’t know it’s a film

when at the touch of a limb as
proximal heat trains the tidal
light on the inner arm right by
the elbow then is my lip bitten
still at the rim of the morning
vacantly falling away these
things in the hotel room levitate
they quiver as prep for the re-hang
your hair spins / you spin / crash

a new pastime sweeps the land:
etching names on door glass of
great thieves and racing drivers
out of time or constellations up
till when the children start
to riot and their gauche slogans
go viral oh christmas of sirens
go postal whatever that means go
sashay toward the klieg light honey

from streetlamp to veering street
lamp clang to tap at the gauss
meter; in an old fashioned hat
you’re a milky blue colour from
fright. Surely there should be
dancing in the streets if a great
clown shows an old VHS tape
with about 20 minutes of hot
I guess you’d call it uh action

it looks like she’s headed for
that mausoleum, to create her
own tiny underwater world.
It looks like all the water of the
world is carbonated or her
words escape the museum
half casino half aquarium / why
are there always fountains
in the foyer of the dream house?

at risk at flash stop look say
reel back slant and limelit
bristle with demotic hexes go
quickly forward to the lip of
smiling yes all that retro stuff
how did you get your uh name
press the lens out and listen
up for the click it will go dark
no wait I mean light no dark

this opalescent trailer roof’s our
proxy sky and only clock, so
do we say it’s cocktail hour?
cocaine floral and nacreous?
do not come knocking when,
rammed to the dagger’s hilt
in the white scabbard of my dread
intention, all’s a-hover oh do not
come knocking at the jump

cut blurred and where it seems
to leak out the NW quadrant
of my face tears heat the eye
over easy just to think of heaven
a head shot a warm front rose
as if I kissed you on the shoulder
would you come or listen to me as I
play the fucking lute and purse my
ridiculous lips to whisper the weather

I’d say rain or at the least provoking
mist later soapflake snow as we’ll be
huddled by the generator wondering
each alone if I kissed you on the off
chance in the riot’s light so broken up
on location say it is it’s rain it turns
to steam as it hits the light’s heat
goes slamming out to black and makes
the dogs go crazy and me go crazy

run fast in the streets young film star
particularly Lisle St lined with grey
emergency vehicles as the hotel
ashtray hits the mirror the fishtank
splits the carpet’s red with flashing
isobars and so the dogs do muscle
up their fisted skulls to swivel, gawp
and see the vastly torpid retching of
the starry sky they don’t know it’s a film

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