rough collection


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A turniquet placed at thé hips, slung in rhymes and dressed to distress made clearly from a form of translucent plastic thicker than clingfilm soldered into a position of maximum mindcraft sunk in draughts six or seven times a multiple of on time appointments lingering a hung up dress of tight roped magician tricks all crowd owned, I never lent against the tide, obviously.

This is magnets rotating in orbit, formed of memory stares, was I the kind of person I now despair of, the possibility is a crank of cellotape into a slot made for fractals, I feel skin float off from my legs, ice fractured a form of elevator music, the style to fold up blankets to, a shift of unknown use, the functionality conjecture, that use as a payment, I need not to theorist attention loss, I see people cold, is the street such a place, do I live and pay towards a heartless cross beat never listen o this o crafted silicon o not a moment can be wasted outside of accumulation.

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I propose as an explanation information saturation to a point of tip overload and rejection spanning all interactions bound by logic or experience, experiment and explanations in the face or against or just in spite of, orthogonal, parallel, adjacent, unconcerned by the opinion of experts or the rule of law, the hatred of any friction to the will of creatures used to a money buys all control of everything they need where power need only multiple and plenty is in need of more, this information saturation serves them as both distraction for more than anyone knows and deflection and decrease of focus for any opposition or pressure against their will, saturation to deny or reject any facts and to muddy all water about all subjects of all

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Unbalanced claims of time for an eye split right across all fronts of improper 
Uncaught feelings flung west struck hind first before we marshalled control 
Unknown beneath layers clothed only as promise of honour owed 
Unsprung in languages dented from all our wayward inhales 
Undefeated for whatever the case is brought is signalled and weighs 
Unmeant a clone of each bench layed end to end and tip to tip 
Unbound but still so fragmented to the east facing handles of each 
Unlearnt every single time like lost and leaking alcohol to the tiles 
Unframed in blue tack patterns I can not reproduce reliably
Ungrateful I find myself strangled and tired with my neck aching cold 
Unfortunately so shivered in paranoia and particle effects 
Unable to be anything other than the everything of monochrome 
Unauthorized to speak on the subject

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In films everyone walks around with a purpose. I saw a Wes Anderson film recently and he has a way in which everyone walks with the uttermost purpose. When I look out at the real world I don’t see anyone walking around with purpose, except perhaps junkies or children, everyone else just has places they need to be, or things they need to be doing. But no purpose.

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Spinning Circles

I’m spinning circles
On the ends of my fingers 
Framing matches 
Coating everything in dust 
Losing limbs for yarn 
Costing the scraps 
Because each time I blink 
A thousand light bulbs 
Orient themselves 
I image cold flesh 
Parallel to their eyes 
A not too distinct pitch 
A humanity dishonest 
I wish I wasnt driven 
A class of clones 
A magnet made bored 
I am framing everything 
As though cause is effect 
A totem beanbag 
Placed square to my knees 
Punching straight spleen 
Hoping each election
Isn’t whatever it was 
Cracked black pepper 
Rubbed into my lips 
Pressed hard against 
Soft glass windows 
That keep the ice 
On whichever side of the pane 
You are not 
Suddenly a fragrance rises  
Not unpleasant 
Meaning not too sweet 
Or reminiscent of 
Exlovers and people 
I never knew except 
In slow motion 
Drunken speech 
Somehow important 
Or else why would this 
Photograph be dissolving 
In self incriminations 
I climb the hill 
Defiantly poised for 
An asthma attack 
I walk on my feet 
Go numb go forth 
Each time it makes less 
Than the nearest point 
Somehow any closer 
But we want an archive 
We could look to 
A record of all the evidence 
A hoarded place 
Lovingly erected 
Orthogonal to paper trails

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There a place, or maybe, a cafe of the kind the homeless could warm a few hours before dawn, the tea a water, a grease and a minimalism in quality and quantity of food, a kind of reliable anonymity, plastic counters and poisoned vinegar, a place of hours spent on spent papers, on prayers of soap opera, on a warmth and approximation of a normal life, perhaps flashes of mornings when working on the bins, then, the grease a fake sugar ballast to a brutality never truly left behind in the school yard, the bacon sandwich grabbed en route, the prayer of their life, she cried wanting yours, a rewind of what, 5 or 10 years for her, I never comprehended at the time, I suppose there’s a shift on perspective all round but my what they would make of pathways and all I ever wanted was to not have to complete the journey, yet I never hid indefinitely, there just seemed too much at stake, a kind of  contractual perception beaten in and still on my flesh like a film coating everything, the road map laid out in front of me it’s a painful proposition to know from school yard fighting that this would never escape me, I still have a vivid flash of being kicked in the head against the lockers and somehow everything my fault always, you can tell yourself this after a while, and an echoing still there tainting each sweating argument, I seriously get moments when I want it all over, by blade of disappearance I just don’t dare leave a disappointing air behind, you know if slow evaporation became an offer if it could be anesthetised flat on the palm I think I could vanish in small stones laid carefully behind me, lying on the beach so uncertain that there could ever be anything else so flat to the chest so dry and unaccountable so water or carefully crafted escape pod.

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