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 

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 

Ends in the flask (DRAFT/UNFINISHED)

'friends' 

thank you

for  helping the 

working leg

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 a 

     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 

to bright spot (DRAFT/UNFINISHED)

Each pivot is 

          too fat 

                 the      stones 

in the scanner 

                            that      it 
       is so

            and  withdrawn      

       and why      
             presence 

      pits surface to
              its points and

           with so much removed 

the moral 
       error making 

        in displaced 

               tracking      of poles, 

         ascend eyes 

   weather spoils 

            all the prices
     at home 

        not our   
    own blessed
 in the 

      blood bowl
          it gets

       held on tight 

         and spit on me 

into what

         by the field light
        or what may 
be worse

           it sickens

   ditches and mud 

water, the sky 

always grows
out the 
   same pot,

too far 

by eye 

or cloud
            the day, 
one ninth of the
 population has 
     had one 

Eaz e Litter