Sunday, March 27, 2005

4th Sunday

A baragnotic sky: from here should I have
followed its trammelled droppings,
mud unparalleled. But windings

are not clear. There is the Abbey which repels
or magnetises according to the direction
approached. This uncomplicated,

yet eschatological, near
vertical, a

merely pinioned, quasi-simple – led.
A hysteresis threaded flat
within all travels shies
us where-

ever we dare not yet think
we can. We end(ed) up where
we end, driven somehow, pushed by signs. I spy

Romney sheep, glutinous hyphens
expostulating upon half-dead baize.
Rooks splay a disjectorous cuneiform.

Plainsong was not that but a lazy circuitous
and hard. The typo read:
and is the music upon
which the prayer of Benedictine monks is based.
It includes some of the oldest melodies eve created.

The cherry is in two cycles at once.
Late autumn witherings, inebriated bats, cling:
intermittering dithering blossoms
as if no branch

As such, hedges too look confused, dirty

and irritable. A returning crow morses across hastily pastelled haar,
aching to scape from throat some heart. We flee

to the hearth, not from it. I may have said
many things from afar. But the straight
is always anspoggic.

Like you, I have shed my corrections.
Unheroic. Written.

Most paths are.

Sunday, March 13, 2005

this is an audio post - click to play

Saturday, March 12, 2005


flatulence skewers a landscape
rappees where no skank freedom sniffs between bankrises; this
marsh of year before branches pop
river banks nonce leftover moth
mouthfuls and
the timing
is out

name clouds something televisiony: autocratic
n' horrible
or archaically fabricated such as
noblesse o'erseiged; snatch their response

like old men's trousers
a scarped dead-heaviness that head bothers before crotch-smell

then howcome their scotoma sucking-capable
that they may suckle place settings

each macro view a remembered present
without recall to what's massed about us:

Bronze Age bedrock white chalk horses, ritually juridical. Utilitarian
pleachers, hazel whipped, set with droor hygrometrical diamontéd e-h

the season-of-gathering-in is a vanquished vanishing
point; clocks
squat preternaturally menopausal

yet most sunsets still appear repeat repeat foetus
as if past unsure becomes parabolared reborn thus

torn tic n' spawngut from parasitic winter
that we may uninstall the doxology of waiting

a steamy slop, sarcous
rime cancelled

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?