Friday, August 10, 2007

From "Moths", Part 2 Dip


I get the feeling that nothing gets made here any more my darling not since the buy out and up bye your leaf-like stare I pitch my temporal mausoleum helicopter pigeons turn up wards is this an autumn?
unmodulated space.
the iron smelt of your dead fresh perfumes in colours to which are appended no descriptive names only crude but expressive interjections
merrmarr morr hurr.
no body but us and the transfixed boeing wing whose jet engines bulge like black bags of blue pollen so as to become theme for you and emptiless motif for me from the boeing it is snoring in the hangar you become my bosom stranger.
some body stop me I
would not hurt my self
awful as that simile might be.
the sluice is a bourgeois red and naked
beer burbles from the slag into fake leatherette.
industrial inertia has forcibly quitted the city of its indwellers to be outdwellers forever mobile in on in on you bantering with yourself whilst the cabbage and because of the zucchini in ordnance of iv if you do don’t you to be I
to you your
selfself none
of which is any of it possible (certainly not credible).
in the end you must cheat yourself I am gone wing jammed under each arm my one good arm.

about five days into the separation your stomach gets flushed by fear of my god what did you do and for a moment think can you undo it?

epithets flourish here in this climate empty churning hollow quaking without gravity sickened but emboldened brokebacked into being cocky—by turns aggressivesubmissive.
when you were a child in the municipal park running from a wind which scared you this rain which kissed you well before you were of an age for that.
only children and mancunians know of the hurtling terror of the almostorm we broke up you broke
over me in their
dreams sucking on
my erection in a way which was truly lovely.
I liked it.

from every entrance to the burrow chefs emerge from fjords inevitable small reindeer pour the litter of nature chokes the chicken city.

things are getting very difficult here on the peninsular I mean I have to do all of this (sweeping arm movement which seems to encompass everything and simultaneously nothing note how frayed the cuff is) just to stay still!

for a rhino
crumpled lino for
an emptied lido
my dreams of
your dildo.

I take innocence for protein from now on you are old darling and I like you like that cautious about your wait and avoiding white salt so daintily like a tightrope walker who is relaxing strolling maybe.

say it my tears are falling water my heart this evacuated heteropolis.

the bird buggered
heliotropes left it all unsaid
because the moth’ll weep.
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