Monday, 24 November 2014

Three movements

Old paper shade with round mouth two human slits
is a person says
sod all

Split wood heart creaks
The phone is a body part

Scratching the head as if I could get in

Rain hammers windows

No regard:
to be of each
other hurts

The wheel an urge caked with real decay paste
You came off at the curb

No trumps no loose limbed truths only
the leaf rot that downs you

University clock chimes a xerox chime

Cold as instructive

Will I always be a human snail?
Yes says the bland walls dayglo flowchart mouth you will


  1. A test subject (in the next room in the dark, one rendition) responds:

    "Well, we'll got plenty of snails too, and a lot of slush."

    Poetry on the internet seems to bring out the universality of the thing... though, saying that, I am not sure whether I mean to say that poetry is the thing... or the internet.

    An internet should not mean but be.

    In any case, what it seems was meant, is that the loose limbed truths of poetry, such as those surrounding, in one's addlepated yet ever curious mind, Old Joe and everything connected with him, are what keep us getting up in the morning, dire mistake though that may often prove to be.

  2. Snails proper are showing up less. There's slush at every curb and with my bare-arsed tyres I was bound to go over at least once. I'm all for the thingness of poems and snails and leaf rot leaving thumbprints on the too thin virtual sheets.

    T'internet: it does the not meaning thing very well. And there's no doubt that we've all been had.

    Poor old Archie would be at a loss flicking through the pretend pages of the PoMo journals these days.