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poetry sucks

i write poems

I MOVE CHICKENS

my stuff has been getting v abstract recently and v long too

 

 

Eventually

(1)

 

Darkness surrounds us.

There are biscuits in your mouth and in my mouth and on the table.

* * *

The dark is gone.

We are left with the table, left to ourselves.

To do with the table as we wish, as we can.

Night is an impression of everywhere performed on a sidestreet for money.

No money is given.

The money, a yellow-gold colour, is somewhere else.

You don’t have the money.

Now the biscuits are gone.

We have both gone to work.

The table is all that remains of our activity, which tacks on the back of the past like a cleaner fish on the uncleanable skin of a shark travelling the dark waters of night.

And night has gone.

(2) 

 

I love your shoulders more than all the words I know for shoulders.

I know one word for shoulders.

The word “shoulders” concerns you, and nothing else.

You have turned your body into the dictionary of my mind and hidden the dictionary inside yourself, the pages crumbled and swallowed and pushed carefully in, in the kind of complicated bird origami I hated until now.

Meaning flocks inside you, and rests.

The birds of meaning travelled across oceans where they could not land.

Your body is the land where meaning alights.

It was used to flying...

Things passing beneath it...

It is joining the things it has found on the surface.

Which is you.

Now it is the things only and the birds we see flying above us are phony imitations, rocks with shitty wings which have to bend laws to fly, to really fly.

Their flying is therefore void.

There is no more flying, only the things.

And you joining them, replacing them, in your caution, in your desire to replace them with your caution which is now the only place I can rest.

 

 

no, this one is short

 

Hello, it's morning

 

In the end, is it all so exact, can it be,

like you wanted? The sun there,

a person you love folding themselves

in your arms, like a gift you don't

need to wrap, because you are giving it

to yourself. As one bird says

it's name inside a cloud of where

it always felt it was.  

 

 

 

some short bits from something

 

When you're eager, things go well, and it's later,

so much later, that you look back at who

you were, the what of you, a foot

etc and you just can't help ringing everyone up

letting them know how okay it all is

and how its gonna get better and better

and be over, eventually

and then she does come back, symbolizing it all

twice in a single breath.

 

 

Isn't it just the odd way things have

or being what they are that's getting you down,

getting you this way

in the goose-strewn night

you live under, weeping and still

while the mist, going east,

thins and thins until its

a glass of water, shining,

on the far side of porch,

by where the wide balcony

seems to invent the sea 

out of the side of it,

with the dandelions and all that shit

we never cleaned when,

tired, but unable to sleep,

we should have gathered our strength

like people can, and done so,

forgetting the ease of sex

in each corner of the house

carefully, like doing the school register

Paul

 

yes

 

Laura

 

yes

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  • 2 months later...

so a v short one and then a longer one in which i think i am clever 

 

short one

 

You want to jerk the sky off

but can you, down here

in this heap of cardboard?

 

Jellyfish in the ocean,

like the glowing ends of torn

nerve fibres, continue

towards loneliness.  

 

i dont really know if those two verses are related but wevs

 

long one 

 

I am the way, the truth, and the life” - somewhere in the bible 

 

Answers to questions: like everything else,

they exist, but are not helpful.

In an alley: noises

on every side of you – yes,

the world is both three-dimensional

and real. How do I make the most of this:

tarmac pigeon-grey, the celebrations wrappers

like the male's decorative collar, the same

drably reflective crumples. These words -

Milky Way, Galaxy, Mars – finding their way

into the street's angles: a tiny conceptual

dictionary mixed with brown leaves.

Others spit on these roads. Poems are the same:

metaphor tugs at the boundary

between self and world. The "oral

form". The poet's tongue laps

in the angles, harvesting what architectural

convenience gathered, spits it up

on the page: Milky Way, Galaxy, Mars. When the wind

puts the words face down, the silver inside

throws the sunlight

back into space:

man's nominal arrogance justified.

 

It was Easter which

was celebrated. Christ, the uninhibited

chocolatier of Jerusalem, can be

memorialised no other way. He too

wanted to restore the word

to the unconsidered side-streets:

“the word”, successfully individuated

and gummed on shoes, spreads.

The poet interprets, rescuing the message

from the entropic minimalism

of urban circumstance: concision

is parabolic. Jesus was the milky way

says the supremacist, stooping

hermeneutically at the centre

of interwoven piss lines. And somewhere,

the Frisbee lid of the red box, rolling

on and off, to mark the stone, shifted

from the tomb entrance. What was once

inconceivably heavy now riding

the whim of the English breeze.  

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this is definitely not a poem but im thinkin of reading it out at the critique place i go to even though its definitely not even a prose poem either but its hardly fiction and its not really drama so fuck it all 

 

The end came, who cares, it was coming, and it came, who cares, who knows, I don't, you do, someone must, it's clear, the end, nothing so clear as the end, when it comes, after not coming, so much not coming, years on years, years I've seen, years before I could, years of grasses, and so on, the things, the manifold things will end, now, if not now, soon, soon enough, whenever, I don't care, why should I, you don't, you say you don't anyway, you say so much and you say you don't, on and off, among different things, one thing then another, one idea then another, one idea then a thing, then a what, a thing, then an idea again, oscillate, go out there and oscillate, it's fun, this then that, joy of that, the formula, this then that, tattoo on face, tattoo on her face, matching tattoos, this then that then this then that, unmatching tatttoos, tattoos which read together, one after the other, but the order matters, this time, not non-reversible, not this time, clear need for order, at least, what you wanted, has come, the order, don't change, I stand here, you stand there, without alternation, without that particular alternation, any other fine, if you want it, do you want it, no you don't, doesn't matter, not that particular one though, quite definitely, and thank you. Get old, peel tattoo off, inevitable, they told you, you and her, together in the parlour, who goes first, it doesn't matter, the order doesn't matter, not this time, not now in the parlour, it stopped mattering and it still doesn't matter, both tattoos off, this then that wasn't how it was, it forgot nothing, this then nothing, nothing then that, nothing then nothing, not on tattoo, nothing about nothing, not on the tattoo, too succinct, in the end, draw us in, me first then I drew you in, then he drew the words, on me first, then on you, now we're getting them off, gone from the skin, needle under the skin, removing what is said, no tattoos, no statements, no things to state, no beliefs to become things to state, no use, no use to say no use because no use in saying anything, even, not even saying no use in no use in saying anything, because, look, because of that, see how it goes, it makes itself clear, it's in the words, it's in the way the words are in each other, the words in the words, each less than the other, and more so when there's more of them, of the words, so don't put them on your skin, not again, not you, not me either, lesson learned, tattoo parlour, sun outside, both of us old, that could be the future, I think it will be, when I think, when I think what it will be like I think that, like that, the future, that thing will be that, the future, tattoo parlour, you and me, I hope, not just me, no, not just you, no, I hope you hope that, too, togetherness, words gone from skin, never back, gone gone, over, end. 

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  • 1 month later...

dead thread but i wrote this v long am posting  hi

 

i always imagine you 
behind the shower rail: god instructs
the shower curtain to move left and then right so quickly
that your nudity is permanently half visible.
to make a documentary of that is impossibe: 
the shutter speed on the documentary camera does not
capture the speed of the movement of the shower rail.
thus the project is stillborn.
and then you get in front of the shower rail and move left and right
and tell me it has nothing to do with god: only because 
you get off on my disbelief, its extent and reach. you
can only be proud of your body when i cannot believe 
your body. forget shower rails,
shower curtains, but remember the you of the shower
of her love in the rain of the both of you
in there and half undo forever your shy
and infinite making, like using autumn for origami 
and floating the winter out on the boat of it
where the estuary of summer leaks on towards
the shore of another beginning which has no name
but which is called spring by the vagrants in these parts
who have a name for everything except any of themselves.
it wasnt either of us who mattered, or made it happen in the end
despite how much it happening mattered to us. it didnt 
become you to become me, you said, and that
was when the weariness of one million days which come
in order really bit home across me, but without opening me to anything,
but still, there was some shining to speak of 
for the needy, of which i claimed myself one.
i thought if i go back over the years and take 
out one day, pluck it and it remove it like a feather 
and put it down in some elses life
then id be glad for exactly that amount of time
the 24 hours they were having to remember 
living as me, as a job, 
i would feel glad, like a thief among butterflies, unkempt
but of extraordinary value to anyone at all. it wasnt
how the weekends past, that way, but the weekends
werent ever even an issue. they didnt come into question, despite
everything you would have predicated. the odds at william hill
were one weekend to one weekend and you 
bet your love on both and danced out of the shop
like the 1930s summarised too briefly 
the weimar leg ups and nothing else 
except implication and its never being enough. 
when you did get home, emerging like a towel
being dropped before someone totally different
runs backwards into the lake in front of me, everyone could see
you were blank naked up to your head and your neck 
down underneath your head where the towel
had given way to what was blue water
no one in the house had known was possible there
if not anywhere. then the weekend could be said 
to be over, officially, but just between us,
and only so long as we huddled together
saying it was true together and as long
as the mist persisted whereever we were 
and that wasn't a lake to say anything about 
and one not even to try about which is 
another story, coming neither before this
or after, when its over and another one comes,
so immaculately different but wanting
to have the same reason for being there
without it actually happening. then the massive poem
is water at last and the damn of the page
has been fallen off as in a james bond film
where its filmed and its not james bond falling
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aw fuckin fuck

 

all my stuff is only decent in portuguese

 

and i've never tried anything in english but i might

 

but this is exam season now :(

 

maybe. if it comes. i ordered an e. e. cummigs anthology thats about to arrive, so that just might put me in the right mood.

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dead thread but i wrote this v long am posting  hi

 

i always imagine you 
behind the shower rail: god instructs
the shower curtain to move left and then right so quickly
that your nudity is permanently half visible.
to make a documentary of that is impossibe: 
the shutter speed on the documentary camera does not
capture the speed of the movement of the shower rail.
thus the project is stillborn.
and then you get in front of the shower rail and move left and right
and tell me it has nothing to do with god: only because 
you get off on my disbelief, its extent and reach. you
can only be proud of your body when i cannot believe 
your body. forget shower rails,
shower curtains, but remember the you of the shower
of her love in the rain of the both of you
in there and half undo forever your shy
and infinite making, like using autumn for origami 
and floating the winter out on the boat of it
where the estuary of summer leaks on towards
the shore of another beginning which has no name
but which is called spring by the vagrants in these parts
who have a name for everything except any of themselves.
it wasnt either of us who mattered, or made it happen in the end
despite how much it happening mattered to us. it didnt 
become you to become me, you said, and that
was when the weariness of one million days which come
in order really bit home across me, but without opening me to anything,
but still, there was some shining to speak of 
for the needy, of which i claimed myself one.
i thought if i go back over the years and take 
out one day, pluck it and it remove it like a feather 
and put it down in some elses life
then id be glad for exactly that amount of time
the 24 hours they were having to remember 
living as me, as a job, 
i would feel glad, like a thief among butterflies, unkempt
but of extraordinary value to anyone at all. it wasnt
how the weekends past, that way, but the weekends
werent ever even an issue. they didnt come into question, despite
everything you would have predicated. the odds at william hill
were one weekend to one weekend and you 
bet your love on both and danced out of the shop
like the 1930s summarised too briefly 
the weimar leg ups and nothing else 
except implication and its never being enough. 
when you did get home, emerging like a towel
being dropped before someone totally different
runs backwards into the lake in front of me, everyone could see
you were blank naked up to your head and your neck 
down underneath your head where the towel
had given way to what was blue water
no one in the house had known was possible there
if not anywhere. then the weekend could be said 
to be over, officially, but just between us,
and only so long as we huddled together
saying it was true together and as long
as the mist persisted whereever we were 
and that wasn't a lake to say anything about 
and one not even to try about which is 
another story, coming neither before this
or after, when its over and another one comes,
so immaculately different but wanting
to have the same reason for being there
without it actually happening. then the massive poem
is water at last and the damn of the page
has been fallen off as in a james bond film
where its filmed and its not james bond falling

 

this is v good and confusing and thick and hearty, (minestrone soup poem) i'm happy about it

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here are some poems i already posted elsewhere

 

QUESTION

what’s it called when you feel bad for deriving pleasure from being with people?
what’s it called when i tell myself you just forgot?
what’s it like when you don’t notice sunburnt legs til you try on jeans?
what’s it like to be pieces of too many aesthetics stuffed in a jar?
what’s the deal with every day ending in night?
what’s the deal with every night ending with day?
what’s it going to be like when something new grows?
what’s it going to be like when everyone is made of sequins?
what’s it called when you forget how to make mistakes on your own?
what’s it called when you make mistakes as soon as others come back?
what’s it like to feel okay for having the ability to go on?
what’s it called when i realize you just remembered?


tumblr_n5mng9WFRp1trd312o1_500.png


 

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aw fuckin fuck

 

all my stuff is only decent in portuguese

 

and i've never tried anything in english but i might

 

but this is exam season now :(

 

maybe. if it comes. i ordered an e. e. cummigs anthology thats about to arrive, so that just might put me in the right mood.

 

u shd translate your portugeese stuff or do google translate cos im curious 

 

 

 

have a big long but these are the good sentences i think

 

i think a poem is just a place to hide good sentences 

 

like when you send someone something like glass in the mail, you have the glass + all the white protective polystyrene things. 98% of yr poem is polystyrene, just like how 98% of your best jumper is polyester, but you need the polystyrene to protect the one good sentence of pure glass in the long and impossible transit across the impossible rockiness of the implicit gap of distance made by the person reading being different from u in 1 billion plus ridiculously fundamental ways

 

so here is my glass without packaging 

 

which means there is no distance to cross

 

which is a lie

 

 

"what it is
in the Halloween outfit of what it was; purest
yellow, a tug of war between 1996 and 1896 in which
the line needed to be crossed is, unfairly,
2015, where, in fact, most of the population
now is."
 
"Tolstoy dressed as rain, a flood turned inside out like a jumper which says "wash with care" and is therefore ironic. Well, shit. You came this far up the spiral staircase her body wasn't, and now, really, you're turning back, or probably just looking over your shoulder to check what you see, where the tennis ball passed through the window the soul makes without nary a crack, meaning; go down to the disco, the lights, and you, like me, dance best when flood season teams up with autumn to tell the dog where to stick it."
 
"Wednesday is a wolf in the sheep's clothing you said was Thursday; time points straight to his anus like a white airplane runway arrow, but at this airport it's not yet past Tuesday evening yet and there are no signs at all. The there are no signs here sign was the only sign here until the the there are no there are no signs here sign was airlifed down out of the open part of Friday to block it, hide it from everyone, coming down like a horse down a drawbridge over the little water in the moat. She'd had to store her piss somewhere, just like she'd needed somewhere to keep the castle."
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  • 2 months later...

miss this site

 

w/e

 

two fuckin things

 

 

1.

 

A Married Couple, a Shed, and the Late February Air

 

A crow, hurt,

rolling over itself

like a motor.

 

Cut -

 

Her. Pausing and walking,

commaing the snow.

Curls in a C

by the crow.

She undoes

her shirt and gathers it.

Her nipples nearly

oreo-wide where

his eyes fix.

 

They received the news

that he was infertile

yesterday, in the late afternoon,

by phone.

 

She imagines a white

inside her:

 

the contorted cord

(as one circles nervously,

binding table and chair)

 

the two separable halves

(twins)

 

lifting the top,

hearing the tone.

 

C for cock done foetal,

gone tomorrow with light.

 

Even

grasses embarrass his look.

 

Dark flopping in

medium shed: drunk

pinball of

the mind -

 

crow.

 

And different birds

in what is immeasurable,

immeasurably, of

what is above

their hair and ideas.

 

Loneliness of dick

faintly under moon.

Balls of loneliness:

pendulal strangeness

aired near television.

 

Her hand on him: a gull,

paused on concrete

during migration.

 

A gull which sleeps in flight.

 

A gull.

 

Transfiguration

is divorce.

 

next one is supposed to be really funny

 

 

In the fuck-off rain

of hills saying

the word

stones

stones

 

In the hillfuck moonlight

cuntgrass swaying shitfine

in the cocklight I am

what the shite thrush song

filtered of vagina love air

suck in the change

of flowers in mad

anal daylight growing

better with the

minutes and days of

them, and days.

The penis of air

gone backwards

stranger into

night-fuck of

sky in sun in

gone over days,

he said I he said

am he said was

he finished speaking

and cum was the word

in the night's ear

still curled

a cat

not a cat

in the quiet size

of mistakes

all unrememberable save

the face

part of her.

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miss this site

 

w/e

 

two fuckin things

 

 

1.

 

A Married Couple, a Shed, and the Late February Air

 

A crow, hurt,

rolling over itself

like a motor.

 

Cut -

 

Her. Pausing and walking,

commaing the snow.

Curls in a C

by the crow.

She undoes

her shirt and gathers it.

Her nipples nearly

oreo-wide where

his eyes fix.

 

They received the news

that he was infertile

yesterday, in the late afternoon,

by phone.

 

She imagines a white

inside her:

 

the contorted cord

(as one circles nervously,

binding table and chair)

 

the two separable halves

(twins)

 

lifting the top,

hearing the tone.

 

C for cock done foetal,

gone tomorrow with light.

 

Even

grasses embarrass his look.

 

Dark flopping in

medium shed: drunk

pinball of

the mind -

 

crow.

 

And different birds

in what is immeasurable,

immeasurably, of

what is above

their hair and ideas.

 

Loneliness of dick

faintly under moon.

Balls of loneliness:

pendulal strangeness

aired near television.

 

Her hand on him: a gull,

paused on concrete

during migration.

 

A gull which sleeps in flight.

 

A gull.

 

Transfiguration

is divorce.

 

next one is supposed to be really funny

 

 

In the fuck-off rain

of hills saying

the word

stones

stones

 

In the hillfuck moonlight

cuntgrass swaying shitfine

in the cocklight I am

what the shite thrush song

filtered of vagina love air

suck in the change

of flowers in mad

anal daylight growing

better with the

minutes and days of

them, and days.

The penis of air

gone backwards

stranger into

night-fuck of

sky in sun in

gone over days,

he said I he said

am he said was

he finished speaking

and cum was the word

in the night's ear

still curled

a cat

not a cat

in the quiet size

of mistakes

all unrememberable save

the face

part of her.

 

very fun to read

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1.

 

A Married Couple, a Shed, and the Late February Air

 

A crow, hurt,

rolling over itself

like a motor.

 

Cut -

 

Her. Pausing and walking,

commaing the snow.

Curls in a C

by the crow.

She undoes

her shirt and gathers it.

Her nipples nearly

oreo-wide where

his eyes fix.

 

They received the news

that he was infertile

yesterday, in the late afternoon,

by phone.

 

She imagines a white

inside her:

 

the contorted cord

(as one circles nervously,

binding table and chair)

 

the two separable halves

(twins)

 

lifting the top,

hearing the tone.

 

C for cock done foetal,

gone tomorrow with light.

 

Even

grasses embarrass his look.

 

Dark flopping in

medium shed: drunk

pinball of

the mind -

 

crow.

 

And different birds

in what is immeasurable,

immeasurably, of

what is above

their hair and ideas.

 

Loneliness of dick

faintly under moon.

Balls of loneliness:

pendulal strangeness

aired near television.

 

Her hand on him: a gull,

paused on concrete

during migration.

 

A gull which sleeps in flight.

 

A gull.

 

Transfiguration

is divorce.

 

great animal poem

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