WE DEFINE POETRY THUS

harrowing and pain-ridden with taxes, tescos and the M5 corridor, rendered into 256,000 pixels. what is more appropriate than the detuned radio of ambiguous body forms that litter the airwaves over skies and underground, static on your radio, noise neverlasting - IT IS A CAT and we are merely tending the night-stalker that regularly breaks into the dawn chorus of drunkards serenading the pilchards with sweet sticky spilages flowing freely from between her fractured shards of mind.

the answer
is a question
the message
was translated into gibberish and left us cold. cold and alone like the giants of old 

THE ARTIST IS THE ARCHITECT

of the imagination’s puzzling encounters. lift us above and beyond our monochrome minutes accelerating into a lake. it is not colour merely but and orgy of monastic inhibitions repainted as mosaic. lifer, one hard thrust and

          with a cry

the night lives in triangles and the morning dies in squares. these tessellating figments drive us further to madness, chipping away at pixelated purposes and porpoises, becoming

          SAD WHORES

which leaves no room for checklists or paragraphs but plenty for paraphrasing, ripping quotes wholesale from savages and dirty uncles. this far, but no father.

WE HAVE SEEN THE FUTURE OF ART

a rippling twist of bright defiance and chaos, a smothering and a release from those manacles of decorum that lash our monocles close to close the deal with a wink and coffin toast.

WHY? cries a lone man in a deck chair, swaddled in his apathetic fury. he dipped his nib into the country’s blood and scrawled mushrooms.

all shall be well

or strangers will be eaten by the squalls of desperate seagulls, squawking oblivion. we rest, ferociously, like the masturbating maidens of outland were the wind swallows our mistakes.