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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.
is a question
was translated into gibberish and left us cold. cold and alone like the giants of old
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
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.
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.
The table is round, the sky is bright, the spider is tiny, the glass is transparent, eyes come in ten different colours, Louis Aragon has the military cross, Tzara hasn’t got syphilis, elephants are silent, the rain falls, a car travels more easily than a star, I am thirsty, draughts are pointless, poets are pin cushions - or pigs, writing paper is convenient, the stove is drawing well, daggers kill well, revolvers kill better, the air is still too deep.
We swallow all of this and if we digest it we most certainly don’t give a shit.