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Friday, 31 August 2018

Wednesday, 29 August 2018

forget that (DRAFT/UNFINISHED)






  I ask myself 
            more than I could 
       even want 
        to count down,
           like wrapping rizlas 
‘round pennies
 or your 
garter guts
in the pool 
holes
I could never 
    forget that
        etc. 

Tuesday, 21 August 2018

Animal Color Named after Europe by China 21 × 29.7 cm 32 Pages












what can
     you do
to the dog

***
all that 
    has gone before us
       has to  do with
 table manners

***
increase of competition 
for their job
restarts the heart

***
all pause in 
   the margarine 
mouths as only the 
knocks and tunes

***
 best in the
  unstopping 2,000 hertz, 
    the dream is teflon,
   yet we must extend 
past to gain way
  unblocked in rotation

***
my passport
in the air
 paler than voice

*** 
photo-electric sensors 
are at the height 
of vital organs, 
and you 
are sick 
and this is how
to accept 





















Where's the fucking stipend (1/274)







Repossessed Property For Sale (DRAFT/UNFINISHED)



or gushing (DRAFT/UNFINISHED)









where the glass
    with vines
                keeps the hours, 
      the gilded bells
          raise the 
    hungry and 
       they fall out 
the solid earth
   into a plume, 
     against nerve
     embittered
     my ring fingers 
          in the mud chaste, 
         feed the instrument 
from the voice
in your head 
    mute the
window to 
     the sick ear,
when hour
        is ruined 
      love lace 
    glove mires
   oxygen as
  sweetness 
        is happily hushed 
    to find a 
        new job 
      bless the house,
it is yours 

Tuesday, 14 August 2018

thank you /(DRAFT/UNFINISHED)






      
       a done line
         in the self 
out-trips
     us it must be 
      explained given
    the air 
is  the 
             complete cheapness
of living,
      so any ratios 
        turned their places
            onto the outside 
         due to fear 
                   or uncertainty
         in the survival of 
the first comfort, the 
     photo-electric sensors 
are at the height 
of vital organs,  
      and this is how
to breathe in
       of actually trying
to do that, 
  how do you
      do that 
         to guarantee 
 yourself 
    the overtime
      for cold turkey


Thursday, 9 August 2018

the world itself is the court of justice (DRAFT/UNFINISHED)





           your unit
            preys upon itself
             sun-rested
       perfection is
         so to       
             the heath    
   a little honour
                   housing    bare
                 by      keeping the 
                          extruded retina
                of us   on the surface,
                    the drawn in 
                  coppice means nothing 
                in the face              
                 of bitter     metal,
                 as I am petrified
       to the garden,         
            to air
                      a scarcity ash  
                    of damaged masses
                   outside  the meal 
                   tickets wasted in
            full-time, 
                my  glandular
                is static 
            and bone stands
               to harsh 
            ceilings pitch 
                   everything  in action 
         replay  
              against 
                  overdrive shrinking 
     the oneway 
                open  windows 
              to its false 
                  channel is
                sweetness  
                  escaped  through 
                      itself above 
                        the heel, 
         there is nothing 
                       like justice              
                    and it hangs 
                           someone else 
                         for day to
                            be day 










genre humain 1 (DRAFT/UNFINISHED)

   




  the cornerstone 
           is known animal,
                      our nature as doublet 
         by number
                    to comfort
          in milk thistle 
             the payless
      rule burned out 
      the autolysis, 
 called in salt 
     the downed breathe
              stay up driven
    in the fall body
banking blood
         by clock saline  
            punched  in the snare 
            innervation tranche 
off sleep tachycardia 

Tuesday, 7 August 2018

circle of willis









eyestrain the results 
    to spoil arrays
     there in 
            a pulverised
                 side of things
                  to wonder ‘work’ 
            a needed worry,
        slowly and for a tenth
   what comes 
      out the mixing  
          bowl oddly cropped 
is a scarcity 


Sunday, 5 August 2018

Ends in the flask (DRAFT/UNFINISHED)







'friends' 
thank you
for  helping the 
working leg

Thursday, 2 August 2018

I went up the Shard with Owen Jones and all I got was this... (1/3)

 







    All rehoused 
and accepted bodies 
      just above the cut
      you see that power
is quiet and 
makes perfect 
oxygen, or in
     dream or aged 
 in the rain 
        you eat 
your dinners 
     half naked in 
glass light, 
   it is your blood
rite the
     simplest loop
to love 
   that gets inserted
is the whole
    at  tilt 
        the finished
         broken negative 
   all densely 
        packed up
 radiantly 
       at a loss 
        through the 
 historical
        heart later
      on you 
   see your
          own sick 
frozen into
stalagmites, 
             and all the excluded 
        semen hangs 
      in the endless ceiling 
where sovereignty 
comes out
     big mouth,
        the sleep you 
        encrust in your 
        cuticles
this ideal
   space that 
     you love 
granite,
      that angel 
    looks back 
on 
   the non-work
 catharsis in the
 death economy, or 
       the now-nearby 
      in red
         wet asphalt
ruined 
       as it beautifies
        out all the 
     quiet zones 
   from the faces 
   on the job search 
         for a hope bigger than 
       a boxed in visage
    gilded in 
    the permanent
   panic, but
what can
     you do
to the dog
      machines eating
    your carpet,
         eating the place
       you still live 
             in your cloud bin 
      this hate object 
undenied the wretched 
    birdsong still
          I live in a porous
    welch it produces 
         sounds and people
speak to it on
my behalf, I 
would like my 
stolen money back