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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Offer nobody harm (9th January 2016 unedited)

I genuinely offer nobody harm
Sitting here
Late, she asleep, stoned
Half listening to the melodious hum
Of the pipes, or the heating
Like my ears are ringing
After 100,000 loud guitars of fire —
Croaked water pipes and
The specialised echos created
By a building of identical floors
Another bathroom mirror
repeated 8(10?) feet higher
As though somehow
I haven’t been scrawling sigils
In a half light, dying ink pens
Meaning nobody harm
Lying here
2.45am, she sleeps beside me,
Both stoned from green tea with green
We had 3 or so hours ago
Where I had made the “green tea with green” pun initially,
I can hear her breathing and a bit of rain from outside encased in a duvet covered in pop art pictures of cassettes, kitsch yet not.
And earlier I recorded the end of a short storm and I really was drawing sigils, because the magick means nobody any harm
Even if I’m not meditating when I finally die, I will still be in the woods in 2012 performing pure joy with all the people I love even those that weren’t there
Because we can edit the story / I am literally the same wooden tree but this time in 2015 where I meditated at 7am before I became an Archbishop, listened to reincarnated and re-imagined Alan Watts — him wearing us like a glove the whole holy sweet night in ritual celebration and magic joy of the twins — them somehow teaching  me to recognise when sigils and under the breath auto dictation to my fingers to my device is meant to somehow level the playing field for a moment in the future when eventually recited, by me or otherwise
I’m getting ahead of myself
I really mean nobody any harm
I just desired a momentary dance with all existence across what is really a desolate planet and I am seem to be doing that right now this very moment and I look instead at the creases of the shoelaces on my dancing shoes and wonder if maybe strawberry laces weren’t practically as good as the regular issue cotton (usually part cotton mixed with a synthetic product) laces that everyone else used. .
And I ruined the moment yet again
By talking or honesty or morality or my love for all
And because I mean nobody harm
I’m just wired in bed besides my wife , my brain buzzing semi-hallucinations running riddles round relics / green tea and hash, ,
I ruin the moment, stoned self analysing, want to be calm /. Could do with sleep
So much poem
Like a dank or slick
My nihilist friend
My hip-hop years
All of everyone
And I don’t say this lightly
The royal maths
The beauty wrapping around my eyes and yet I know how much a product / a brain function / as ultimately real as dream bread / colloquium attended
Beautiful dream of
Perilous attendees close to
Harmless beauty magick
I gift you forever in
The literal sense
Infinite / harmless

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under thé sun

walking out
, under the sun
stepping feet
concrete : a cold wind
w/ which white
as creased paper can
, , these interludes lace
a leaf likely to explode
expanding beyond each boundary
bouncing light and golden
_ marvellous mage in robes
rich in
.. reeking alcohol ,
dry skin and false hopes
I pray to never come
a , falling face to face \
your kidney failure reality
such a misunderstanding
~ my
empty crown
close / / encountering
*** a sonic edge of fierce
sunlight bleach(ing) banknotes
, each other exploding in crazed
‘ burning blue bound to nowhere
staggering cold wind now evening
or deep dusk
& feet burning a dark clotted blood
of sensation
grating charred
remnants of books on my lungs
_in a field of melancholic
about where lines on the floor
decide who gets which portion
screw your vanity code
such a cold misunderstanding
I climb  this hill I share with everything
, wincing my own  short breath
glowing golden   over the sun
shining happy and elsewhere
,  always and none

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So far I haven’t even breathed

So far I haven’t even breathed

The tiny oblong boxes taking up space, declaring themselves here as though somehow announcements calcify bone to bone in a fractional way incrementally more so so unpronounceable and cold to the touch, the delicate hair follicles of any other human removed, sharded down faults specified in tech speak for all the unwanted errors we encapsulate in red tape

So far it’s always been this

A cold sensation spreading down planes of glass, grown into shapes so spectral as to sync with a mystic sense of glee I do not sure how or

So far I have only written down fragments

A blade singing deep through the air

So far I haven’t even,

If I place my hands on the table and the table can support my weight then there opens up a chance that one day these wooden structures eroded into my skull fringe bound cyclical mould of tin floor torn polyester sleeping doorways crusted shut from scuffle lens splinters under fingernails rotting inside blood blisters blooming for all the else

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