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some new littluns

 

Perhapsnesses

 

Fourteen goats one day,

but how many the next, and the next, to say nothing

of every other tragic species which wanders

to and fro across the surface of things, 

yelping and bleeding into the dirt?

They don't give you the answers,

they don't even give you the answer sheet,

and your boredom revolves gently around

its invisible centre. You can't even sense

the lurch. So you hang on,

optionless and heavy with dream,

towards some fateful angle, 

from which you see your distant, unabsolved body

finally removed from the arena

of what you thought, all this time,

you might have been doing.

 

some other thing 

 

As though the love of women

had turned into a simple, empty cupboard,

the inside of which was suddenly

the permanent setting of your whole dream-life

you fell forwards into the dirt.

The suburbs of the universe

are cold, Oliver, and if we have any time left,

then I'm not the one who knows it.

Infinitely later, the evening

hinges with night,

where tired and alone

you slept backwards

in hours of love

until the gold

all wore off.  

 

 

stupid one

 

On the wrong side of the spoon

the enormous building fell.

A year of time passed

before anyone broke the lake:

the equipment, frankly, was lacking.

And the weather doesn't help,

it just wets the cats.  

 

 

stupid second one

 

John “There's Nothing Worse Than Music” Hogarth

was having a bath in the emptiness

of his own making. His wife –

the sound of a volvo estate travelling east 

apparently wasn't in.  

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some new littluns

 

Perhapsnesses

 

Fourteen goats one day,

but how many the next, and the next, to say nothing

of every other tragic species which wanders

to and fro across the surface of things,

yelping and bleeding into the dirt?

They don't give you the answers,

they don't even give you the answer sheet,

and your boredom revolves gently around

its invisible centre. You can't even sense

the lurch. So you hang on,

optionless and heavy with dream,

towards some fateful angle,

from which you see your distant, unabsolved body

finally removed from the arena

of what you thought, all this time,

you might have been doing.

 

some other thing

 

As though the love of women

had turned into a simple, empty cupboard,

the inside of which was suddenly

the permanent setting of your whole dream-life

you fell forwards into the dirt.

The suburbs of the universe

are cold, Oliver, and if we have any time left,

then I'm not the one who knows it.

Infinitely later, the evening

hinges with night,

where tired and alone

you slept backwards

in hours of love

until the gold

all wore off.

 

 

stupid one

 

On the wrong side of the spoon

the enormous building fell.

A year of time passed

before anyone broke the lake:

the equipment, frankly, was lacking.

And the weather doesn't help,

it just wets the cats.

 

 

stupid second one

 

John “There's Nothing Worse Than Music” Hogarth

was having a bath in the emptiness

of his own making. His wife –

the sound of a volvo estate travelling east –

apparently wasn't in.

Dang Hugh I really like all of those

 

Perhapsnesses might be my fav but part of that is probably the title but probably also the poem and the lines and how the poem and the title enhance each other yeah I can't talk about poetry

 

Both stupid ones are really cool though I mean "wets the cats" is a great line but it wouldn't work without the other great semi-nonsequitur lines before the penultimate line. Not gonna explain why I love the second stupid one I think it's self-sufficient

 

Now that I've talked about the other three I want to reiterate that I also love some other thing it kind of steadily builds to something that makes me indeterminately emotional for a reason I can't explain

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Dang Hugh I really like all of those

 

Perhapsnesses might be my fav but part of that is probably the title but probably also the poem and the lines and how the poem and the title enhance each other yeah I can't talk about poetry

 

Both stupid ones are really cool though I mean "wets the cats" is a great line but it wouldn't work without the other great semi-nonsequitur lines before the penultimate line. Not gonna explain why I love the second stupid one I think it's self-sufficient

 

Now that I've talked about the other three I want to reiterate that I also love some other thing it kind of steadily builds to something that makes me indeterminately emotional for a reason I can't explain

 

: ) : ) : )

 

thank you very much. 

 

y'all makin me happy and shit 

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for some reason im back writing super abstracted stuff

 

 

 

Poem

 

All water eventually rises,

and the filling of what was empty

is the emptying now of what, truly, then

could never have been touched or filled,

or loved like this, with the painful exactitude

which distance smears across us

with perfect timing. 

 

 

Poem

 

The hellos circle the goodbyes like

a dove. The blindfold factory

closes at five. Then,

such a big burger! Divide that

shit by four, motherfucker, and

gently chew on the background,

as the thoughts heighten.

Which isn’t to say that these

intricacies aren’t shy

remembrances of - are you sure? - that

turning point of an evening,

tilting ever eastward, her

bum a January of

dead peaches. The unlikely

coalitions persist, though, as

rainbows bridge the lowly

Augusts of our and tomorrows

tenderly arriving word

for the world exactly as it is.

She ate it for a dare.

 

Poem

 

Snakes and weasals. Nothing is more typical

or less hey, are you really

going to do something about it all? The sun does that

“like orange peel falling

from god's wayward hand”

circus trick to make it's raison d'etre

seem flippant again, just as the soltice

veers away. So today “belonging to moons”

is not on any menu. Croissants grow old

in the government boothes.

The aftermath is a cup of snow.

A rabbit had lived exactly there, but now,

no no no, nothing, zilch rabbit in deine cup

said the snow, thinking, obviously,

of itself, or something new and modern,

it could finally sit down on.

But days and days of everything and still

the variegated coagulations of time's

breathy sadness don't collapse,

disobeying all kinds of law,

scientific and moral, just to

ravage some tiny lost roadside

heart, in the dumb shadow of

every shy juniper you didn't

have a glance for, and no, “wild youth”

is not an excuse this time.

It fades, right? Or stays? Or what?

Your mouth is just one big or today, baby.

Just give it a break. Go back to

the cloud origami class you came from

and take your “mama so fat” mother-in-law

back down the tube with you. You're

totally old hat now, elephantinely

dreamless in the pool of nude

and disassembled light. Hey – if only.

But the bears have folded.

The night is eloping.

The grass is dying in its millions,

and the narrow pass is blocked

by the juniper tree. Go.

There is still enough there there still

if you move fast enough. 

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just wrote this like 16 mins ago think its the longest poem i ever wrote dont know if its dumb or not yet alrightt 

 

 

 

You're my favourite person in this

section of the room.

It's because of your hair.

No one else in this section of the room

has hair.

They have a whole security gate between this section of the room and the other sections to stop people with hair getting to this side.

I'm surprised they even let you through the first door with eyes like that.

 

You do everything as though it was 1959,

as though there were no moon

 

There you go again, negating climate change

with the swiftest of elbows:

 

are you a deer?

 

You were you in a past life but now

you are a deer, I think

 

1960 was a door you refused to open

you liked the sofa too much

you described the selection of books next to the sofa as mighty fine

 

your hair is invisible to all security staff

your hair is as visible to me as it is invisible to them

 

it produces a small breeze which goes a couple of metres to the right and then returns on the path it cut

blowing around your eyes

Are you a fan? Are you wind power? Is renewable energy your super power?

 

What kind of mad sacrifice is this, coming forward in time, leaving the sofa and the books piled alphabetically and beautifully on the sofa just to release the small amount of wind energy which might make the difference? Are you Jesus of the ice-caps? Will you be my girlfriend? There is a film showing right now in the cinema in my mind there is one extra seat do you want to sit on it?

 

The film won't be about you, I'll make sure of that, it will be interesting

 

My ears are hot with all this

 

only messages on post-it notes can describe you

only when they are placed on your back without your knowing do they describe you

only when your back is utterly naked and you still do not feel them being placed

do they describe you

only when there is nothing written on them

only when there is the eternal promise that nothing of any kind will be written on them

and they are on your back

and I have my hands round your front

and your bra is on the floor

and I am not tripping over it

it hasn't tied my ankles together

but one day you will tie my ankles together with a bra

 

only in this world

can you be described

and only in this way

and it is better if even this too is avoided

no describing, not of even of this limited kind

 

 

if the ice caps melt, you say, it will only happen when they move slowly

across my lower thighs and then rest there with you watching then

 

Then I will permit

a short period of melting, you say

 

I am the whole of 2015 when you look at me

I shed Junes like a snake sheds itself

but I do not miss them when they are gone

I use them up utterly, they are no more than junk after I have passed through them

 

you play hide and seek at the far side of the months

to motivate me to

wake up and breathe

all while still generating enough breeze

to keep the planet balanced

 

but you manage to avoid seeming unapproachable despite all this

in fact you make all other people seem unapproachable in comparison

everything you do is an invitation delivered to my heart

which has the exact time it was written

written on it and that time always corresponds

to the time it arrives

 

and it takes up no space

it does not get crowded in my heart

 

it is an invitation

 

postmarked by my ears and nose

before finally arriving in the heart

as I said

 

weighing nothing but being

 

all the superfluities removed

just the concept of invitation

 

carried by the breeze

your hair makes

 

all the way from your mouth and nose

past my mouth and my nose

down into the nowhere

of the human heart

 

you are arriving now

1950 is behind you

I am the mattress you fall out of the sky of time onto

I break your fall and comfort you

I perform 1950 in its global entirety

in such a way that makes you nostaglic

but in a good, bodily way:

I am so much more than 1950

though I contain it with myself

look at these arms

for example

these legs

these

 

I introduce the things you have missed slowly

through intuitive acts of mime

I encorporate elements of your mother and father and grandparents' gestural quirks

into my mime

the years turning into the years turning into the years the way

your father spread the marmalade

before the butter

as his father before him as his father before him and even as his father

before marmalade

had, in some dream,

certainly imagined doing

 

you say you feel right at home

you say you miss the sofa but the fact you confess to this

only evidences your capacity to get over it

with my help, in my arms

I go back and get the sofa

I multiply it by eight

I multiply you by eight

you sit on them

 

I multiply 1950 by myself by you by the sofa

I sit on you sit on time your father

invents marmalade again

I spread the marmalade on you exactly how he invented it

I invent it on you again in each of the 8 by 8 by 8 sofaworlds

you sigh weakly

there is a smile somewhere on you

the mouth, I think

it is hard to see exactly at this stage of development

the icecaps smile with you

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poem

 

I have discovered a gap in my day

it occurs between the end of work and the beginning of sleep

 

it frightens me

it does not have your elbows

it astonishingly lacks your elbows

 

magic lady do you

emerge from lakes

whenever I look at the internet?

 

things seem more like each other, more akin to each other

when you are in the kitchen with me

 

I am the kitchen when you are in the kitchen

I shiver as knives

when you drop them in the drawer

(I clean, you dry)

wow

 

I fear moving the plate

you would die if I moved the plate because

you have become everything

 

where did you study all this?

It all seems so extra-curricular

 

Jesus would know what to do

Jesus would turn your menstrual blood into water

to cool your shoulders

 

he would have already heated up

the winter

the cooling would be just in time

 

god is the difference between

plates and bowls

bowls and tables

tables and bodies

but you are the explanation!

 

when god spies on us we fuck brilliantly

when we spy on him we become totally impotent

 

sometimes after sex we both think at the same moment

that was Hegelian

we laugh but deep down wish it had been less Hegelian

harder to describe,

obliquer to analogy.

 

don't say what it is or isn't but do say something

involve us somehow

obliquer and obliquer until

obliquest where

elbowshouldershoulder

and elbow

and brain and brain.

 

poem

 

“Your poetry is quite boring, but this sunlight is certainly nice.”

Waking from a nightmare of pure plywood and no longer a snail, the tiny man inched in the only remaining direction. The goats bleated and moved in protest, but it was not a day for the butterflies of praise and interpretation to hold sway, out where the meadow becomes sea, and sea becomes more interesting by the minute. “What brought us here?” he whispered, shivering in yellow and quite near the rock. “The tailors abandoned this sea port long ago.”  

 

dunno if i posted these before really

 

poem

 

it is here that the pleasant evenings pass

not there

or in his or her body or garden or historical painting

not in rooms but in movements towards rooms

 

love is more a science of rooms than of people

people are a science of people

i came here to say hello

 

if i come here again it will be for the same purpose

it is only like this with you

it is only with you that i did not betray the afternoon

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i wrote these all in a row in about 10 mins maybe bad sign w/e 

 

 

Teenager

 

I can’t fly spaceships

spaceships don’t exist

 

Your body is not a spaceship:

it does exist

I can fly it

 

You Are In This Room / I Am In This Room

 

you are in this room

I am in this room

 

you are the plus and the equals sign in the equation which links me

certain quite appealing trees

and a momentary feeling

of general satisfaction

 

you mime rabbit better than all my other friends/ acquaintances combined

 

I am not biased in this matter

I know my subject material extremely well

as well you know how to mime rabbit

 

The 1950s

 

the hour of the date with you

came down like a spaceship

 

i went inside

your body was there

they had been doing experiments on your body

e.g. asking it how are you

 

i barged in

i said i had made the arrangements earlier you have no right

the crop circles widened

looking suspiciously like a line drawing of your body

 

God as Abacus

 

this relationship:

a celebration

more of saturdays and bodies

than of us

except to the extent

that we are bodies

that we are saturdays

 

and certainly I have elbows and

there are many saturdays in a year (52)

and 52 of your elbows

would be a lot

 

heaven is perhaps 100 million elbows

all of them are yours

 

I am in the elbow sorting office

but the work is easy

 

lenka's lenka's lenka's 

 

and god whispering approval somewhere

you’re a natural, keep at it

 

and filtering the saturdays

plucking them out

from the river of the water of time

 

Looking At Someone While Thinking About That Person

 

your face is 80% of an hour

your eyes are the door into the hour there is no exit i tried your mouth you said there is no exit

i tried your nose you breathed and i could hear your mouth below

there is no exit

 

hair and all these things

more unified under my gaze than under his!

what does he know

of the unity of the visual field?!

 

Why The World Exists

 

things were born

for memories

of how you sat

 

this way with the legs that way

 

the sky above you

the sky below you

and me

the impossible ladder

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good ones above
 
-
 
while my companions are enjoying the light from the sun and also cheese,
the light becomes hard and bumps into me,
i keep myself afoot,
a monastery expecting me to fall slides under with open doors,
relieved that i don't enter despite its invitation,
it stays there and is touched by sunlight,
it buzzes like a bee,
and when it is cold,
the custodian walks out and sets a fire to my shadow,
and it spreads to the tombs,
burning and unaffected,
and we gather around it with relief again
 
-
 
the pavement has been turned and shuffled,
and its water granted way of speech,
to the roadworkers it cites from texts,
about the various water phenomena,
all of which warm and self-defeating
 
-
 
the city has a system that i partake in,
of teachers showing to children thorns taken from the convergence of tree juice and sewer water,
and about the bugs which find it pleasurable to slide down the thorns,
and also the bugs which will walk out of the room,
(i worry that those could go to harm my dearest people),
but centuries later,
when most matter has dissolved,
there will be a continuous rattling sound,
of thorns rattling,
and another rattling sound,
of the bugs rattling

 

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Your poem is wonderful foppe. It sounds really unique and different.

 

 

Those river poems are like condensed children's book of your poems. My sister once got me a bjork 'lullaby' cd that was just vague tunes of hers done like music box children's lullabies. It was very nice of her to think of me.  

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good ones above
 
-
 
while my companions are enjoying the light from the sun and also cheese,
the light becomes hard and bumps into me,
i keep myself afoot,
a monastery expecting me to fall slides under with open doors,
relieved that i don't enter despite its invitation,
it stays there and is touched by sunlight,
it buzzes like a bee,
and when it is cold,
the custodian walks out and sets a fire to my shadow,
and it spreads to the tombs,
burning and unaffected,
and we gather around it with relief again
 
-
 
the pavement has been turned and shuffled,
and its water granted way of speech,
to the roadworkers it cites from texts,
about the various water phenomena,
all of which warm and self-defeating
 
-
 
the city has a system that i partake in,
of teachers showing to children thorns taken from the convergence of tree juice and sewer water,
and about the bugs which find it pleasurable to slide down the thorns,
and also the bugs which will walk out of the room,
(i worry that those could go to harm my dearest people),
but centuries later,
when most matter has dissolved,
there will be a continuous rattling sound,
of thorns rattling,
and another rattling sound,
of the bugs rattling

 

 

excellent poems 

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