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deaf barrel around the scenery

near earth to

notice mountains

purchased grease speaks

for the hooves

like ants beyond the rocks

pitted against the blobs

leaks under the horizon

shy water

forgot the sun

something is still moving

feathers cooperate

after the patience

...shrieking in a dot

oh grass tidies itself

for another faster emotion

is a warm night

a fingernail

into a funny sphere of muscles

bites there the apple

prizes stir

as muddy bicycles

lakeside food spread into

the graves

then noise to swing it out

a false commitment

see animals mute

so then

without intention

a breeze trickles in the

sunny dawn


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Hey. Just wrote this, but it feels a bit silly. (Sorry for any mistakes, English is not my native language)



Mother of pearl


I am an oyster.

I float in the tears

of the whale mothers

and of all homesick sailors.

I feast on crumbles

And understand them.

I live off the lashes of the sea

so she and I can weep together.


I am an oyster.

I have thousands of hearts beating on every shore,

my guts are made of sunlight

and green serenity.

I greet fishes

sing with corals

and watch the seals in their winter ballet.

I turn my wounds into jewels,

for I will have to wear them.


I am an oyster and you eat me alive

and now I squirm and twist and yell just to stay aware

before the sea claims me as her child

before I cease to hear the bubbling shores

at least, you say, I have

a pretty shell.

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some drafts
cant we stop having ever met
and work together on the perfect orchard
which would accommodate the meeting
proper to us? exactly triangulated between
peach plum and pear trees all in
equal stages of bloom, of death
or fruiting? or rather that all
three tastes were united at last (didn't you feel too
as though they had been split
from some perfect original flavour,
infinitely divided into sad
echoes, or not?) 
the january rains subsided:
small parties rocked
the weather stations. 
the news of the mountain's growth spread
as slowly as the mountain's growth.
one more wednesday ticked off, and
approximately four sherpas dead. 
james the great superstar
was still in bed - his feet
the right temperature. 
finally. the first prize
in the annual snow & noise
sculpture competition
will not be awarded to anyone 
this year
we declare this year too overall sad
for such an awarding
to take place
a sherpa smiles at a moon
a pebble on a beach rises into the air, 
a couple of inches
as if sadness
could hold back a snow-noise sculpture
prize giving event 
many participants mumble
but soon it is hot again
june, whatever 
and they are all looking in some
completely different direction 
the first poem to be written 
was, in the opinion of many people,
not a poem. the last 
table will be
beautiful beyond description:
in the middle of it,
in the small hole - 
i can't think of anything but:
Karl Marx's big fat bleeding head? 
They''ll solve global warming, see – all the oceans are just

Inching towards you


They just have to put you on the moon for fives minutes

And the world will fix itself


But don’t


Don’t go ever


Stay, like a television

Always the same distance from the wall


Yes, see – you breathe sameness, the others, the peters

They just experience it from a far

They’re the long distance snipers of a daydream I never had

You’re the land, the mud, the people who

Locate the mud, who work

Make it fertile – a long complicated process


Everything was difficult until


Everything was boring

It sort of still is but this light


All I have to do is feed it to nowhere

Go to bus stations and so on and you

Blossom up out of the bread crusts and delays

100% fluency 0% ignorance 2% me


Your eyes divert rivers towards

The dirt inside my poems

which is such a threat


quite beautiful rivers


I just become windows and watch from all angles at once

Orgasming like I never have


The wing span of one your moods – I have seen eagles

Die of shame just when I

Mentioned it via echolocation /

when your knee

pointed at Nepal


Let’s have a hollow boned infant together

Pour language over his happy new skull

Holy water also

Only a little urine

occasionally, funnily, hilariously, wondrously


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some flippant recent stuff:





a gorgeous lion, one wine gum 

on the floor between us.
meanwhile, stars, i think.
david (the baker) got here first,
they said. sad, to listen 
to that kind of talk. the ache of moon
sheds layers of weakness (stronger
and stronger) over the burn
on the hill-edge. as one 
lake subsides into her
(breasts displayed, as in a museum) 
and the beating wing 
stops, i can make out between us
the indication that all of it
was totally unnecessary 
in the end. 
where charlotte left, the emptiness
leaks spiders into the hole. 
not blocking, not filling. i think of james
when i see the letters
in your name, spiralling stupidly, never
plumming the distance. agape, agape. the still
tendons are not floats or balls
for the play area; the sad dog's movements
where tracked to here 
but where is the dog, exactly? awful oranges
skew your dreams like
the movie arrows we both disowned,
through june, through july, through august. 
picture me, wont you, can you, 
with my hat round your ears and my arms
pointing at the place 
we both, truly, came from? 
jane spat the hill
right at him. drooping wingspaces
are plucking the lower spaces
like nobody's business, e.g., 
all across the curve where the absence
points inward. i did love her but
the table was in the way. the crimes
scroll upwards, the boats go
backwards, but the rook slides
one square up. towards, towards. oh friend,
can i see you again, before
the tide feeds your ankles
to its chickens, to its huge, huge mood? 
lake where quiet spills or dies.
a wave, or is it eight? my memories 
of your nose are perfectly organised, 
i said. no, you said, no, no. no. 
bees, in formation; clouds, a bellowing
animal waz here. i, in tenderness,
go one step this way. 
your gesture floats back:
the tunnel of mine was good, deep. 
hedgerows, and sparrows, and 
the rest, we think, is milk,
we think, is milk. come then,
into the air. 
a sort of tidal mischief, maybe?
possibly curb the endings a little,
hoist them like blankets
over the stars. scoop 
the middle of the middle 
out; it screams beginning
like a child not even
in the womb yet. add bookending
dawns where appropriate (you know
what i mean as much
as i do). blunt the angles. i think
one more jesus might 
smooth over the second joint 
especially if you can find a place
for it to slot in 
where the bluetit left of in
"minor faeces". but above all
continue to trust in yourself - in
your ignorance, and the way
things you touch
seem to arrive in my heart
with an aura of comfort
and depth which the hills
have long since given up on. 
night multiplied by wind but
then suddenly divided by 
an entire history, a century
of air - primarily german with
arguably determining russian gestures
in both easterly and westerly directions - 
above all: cold, dying, past 
and within this air you occasionally swim
while sleeping,
a strict regime of stroke variation
with a logical core transparent 
only in its performance

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some new ones


i think they are bit too "clever" in the worst sense of this word and simultaneously too "simple" in the worst sense of this words but ye who knows 


oh actually just one it seems in the end 





so you wake up.
it's day. 
this much you could have anticipated
even the bird song
to some extent
you could have anticipated
but the light
the way the taste of water 
this time and this time only
moves through you
the long years of being 
an ocean
paying off
water knows how to please me 
refrains from saying that final
unnecessary word 
morning insinuates itself 
in the gaps between 
w and e between e and d and d and n
the long years of being
part of time
paying off
then expands and 
like being touched on the ear 
by god
by all the gods
all of them in a line to touch your ear 
and after they finish 
there is a knock on the door
you, who knows the bells
do not work
in this country of mine 

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bells not working just means, the kind of place / feeling where the bell on your door doesn't work, you have to knock, and your friends know they have to knock, but your enemies might ring the bill because they haven't been to your place before, but your girlfriend is your friend because she knocks and it's your country because it's the feeling that people know they can't ring the bell because like they know the rules here which govern your life and somehow it feels like you made the rules sometimes 

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more e.g.



A way of being disguised
as a way of doing. Or a way of,
a little distance from the others,
under mild cloud cover,
doing being. Not in the Japanese sense of
some sort of beautiful post-Buddhist
dance routine which you can’t say
anything about, but rather
a way of being alone which runs – skips, even –
exactly down the line between loneliness
and suicide. Up and down the line,
without fear of repetition, because
the plants on the sides
are growing with such
That, at least, was her plan.
Language has turned itself into a minefield and put itself between us
we drop stones into the water from a rented helicopter
language has turned itself into impassable winter mountain terrain
we practise ski jumps on either side
language has turned itself into a new kind of strangeness
we pretend to be fish
language has turned itself into light
we turn off our torches and stand there
language has turned itself into our torches
we let them fall to the ground
language has turned itself into the thud of the torches hitting the ground
we listen to the sound
repeated eternally
with a certain satisfaction
Certain All-Conquering Powers I Know
Love, in the end, conquers all:
it tramples the bean stalks under foot
it tramples the insects hidden
nothing can stand in its way
people see it from a far and turn back around
to attend the rows of things
in their gardens
people avoid it in the aisles
people look at the paintings in the corridors
for the first time ever
as they turn to let it pass
it travels fast
assimilating its failures into
forward motion
they look at the paintings
they look at the horses in the fields there
to look at horses in a field in a painting
one day
one day

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oh i get it i thought it said you (who knkws bells) do not work etc. i like that a lot better thanks for ghe explanation. i like the next untitled is it about faking subway trains?

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these ones i wrote on my phone so they have that going for them at least for example



write a poem today 

when you get back home


when you've planted the bombs 

in the food

destroyed any children 


write a poem 

if only to confirm that language

still exists


put it in the blown open body

of one of your children

where ill be sure to find it


poking about with my spanner

in the entrails,

checking if language

still exists 



edit, this one

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two political ones



political one one



Yes, they say, we hate capitalism too, but what’s


the alternative? We can’t all just turn into


beetles and Bach in a flash of pink


lightning, so we may as well just


look at the fridge and


get on with it.


I’m the alternative, I say. Look at my hands.


No, look at my face.


No, look at her face.


No. Don’t look at her face.



political one two 



The only viable alternative to capitalism is


girls in raincoats by seasides


The only viable alternative to capitalism is


dancing in the moonlight


The only viable alternative to capitalism is


tainted love


The only viable alternative to capitalism is


shake it off


The only viable alternative to capitalism is


taylor swift's hair today


The only viable alternative to capitalism is




The only viable alternative to capitalism is


secret acts of darkroom philology


The only viable alternative to capitalism is


two trees


the only viable alternative to capitalism is


portable time machines the size of biscuits


the only viable alternative to capitalism is


reenacting your whole life backwards starting from now


the only viable alternative to capitalism is


one hundred million grapefruit falling from the sky


the only viable alternative to capitalism is


suicide by dance


the only viable alternative to capitalism is


mass imitation of lions


the only viable alternative to capitalism is


ending the poem at the right moment.  

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imagine the alternative timelines where the whole world is a full communist dictatorship


and a few moderate rebels want to implement a few capitalist measures to mitigate full communism


and one of them has a dream that gives him an accidental connection to our universe


and he sees this ad




he's never seen christmas or ads.


he rushes to tell his comrades, and becomes a new messiah

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at times, there is the search for numbness:

in the flimsy handle of a case of beer,

after swerving into the gas station

and walking out steady, knowing there is a way

to not be entirely here tonight


there is even the idea

of losing everything;

not: letting go, 

but: smashing to the ground


somewhere, there is the idea of 

reaching for life, untethered,

that the hands would burn if I could

hold so much;

that in the end, I would have 

more than I can comprehend

when I see how it lands,

and how much of the mess wasn’t

mine alone


already, I live in-between:

Forgetting enough each night

to wake up

and reach again

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