william watkin's blog (since 2003)

Fourth 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 kricch scarap ameliomore 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 ordn...

on worthiness 1. in this case it is true I am not worthy and the post-development backwoods don’t require my happiness they suggest rest beckon with what they have to beckon with on the pinespice HOW TO BE SO AND WHO TO ASK TO JUDGE temptation demands a resistance—a stream drags on the ill-placed limb sucks on it implores of it, shuddering with wanting steep banks adorned with trolley and trish-trash last year’s duct-grate deteriorating, its thematic half-life… along come wild-life and well-wishers you need to get to the other side of this precarious substance of middles and the consonance of struggling (as sign) who wants that who needs this shit I (width voluptuous) agree with you, what more is there? and would love to see you tell it to him straight to his face man would that be sweet a swift shift of feet and we are all bustled on by 2. why resort to emblems when actuality is so im- mediate and attractive? SUITED&BOOTED (with) paradoxes any fool can solve and be king of this sh...

Every stream had its cañon, and in each cañon was a waterfall so high that no trout could leap up. Although they used to try it every day, not one ever succeeded. So it went on. Third paid in full you must quit this place it was only rented to us the way all of life’s moments seem to moulder in glass cases in ad-hoc pet-shops with the snapped stick insect getting older slowly and with nobody noticing to be suddenly redeemed by an imposing woman wrapped all in black her gold jewellery strikes and rings the glass. is any of this any help? darling trains are leaving be on all of them drinking beer as europe is cerealised besides you putting my mouth to your palm and finding lumps of sugar there. in the quad ivy impersonates love off the wall a fifth side is a trellis for the coy infinite. semen blood shit: tears apparently are poison if you drink enough of them is that why they say “that’s right let it all out”? semen blood shit this narrative in that order. this will be as loose as losin...

exit the dragon literature moods and dreams and enter the dragon gone silly rolled in the gorging of votive candles such incense curls out from in the heart is loosed from where you had it pegged up joins the clottings’ progress and bullying them bowls over from a wide sparse boulevard black cabs cruising and bent in- to a shape of smudging off of veering through the borrowing undercroft ellipse… the heartrend of waiting burns at the tiptwist of now comes the ought of the message but what was offered up was also ushered on and out and emptied up

Second and believe me I would get-up-and-go-out now spilt on streets as if tar came from a cauldron rainbow throated like petrol on a puddle is and I am still living still solvent. let me buy you the flower of an other affair. one more night its petals are sombre and serrated so to grasp each head in the begging of a fist (say it my fist!) which weep of yesterday’s dawn and tear. the way they have when they separate they are we give even as they are taken and they are flowers and we are nothing not women not hearts not nothing nothing of the smut of euphemism about them only the heady clarity of the scent lets be nice lets in fact would be overstating it learn a trait from them just the one. caught-yards cut with ink and mellow drama dogs lifting strings of legs there here under the red rugs which were your favourites which sway in the heat like fainting which are thread bare and fine oh so fine which are from byzantium and romania which might take us from ourselves and make us better ...

me and my homunculus some launching bird packs up its paper wings / sounds of the wrapping ripped from giving over in the corner these herbs have no frozen moniker and thusly we see them not but boy can we smell ‘em y’know like kinda the invisible acts performed behind the scenes of the charitable fun run (once more round the plantation vicar? for which no credit that is due is given my mind is functioning well and I am happy with it thanks its gift, in case anyone asks, is flight whose receipt, still valid, is some how mis- laid no here it is! super! The Power of Love remains the most popular name for a pop song it is any wonder you take me higher / relight my fire / my only desire / ancestral quire I think therefore you are a lone magpie in wch case we all salute you along with those who are about to rock river wide expanse fragrant canyon paper scissors nature the restricted nature the tedious behind the scenes does not pertain to a staged totality such as the Yellowstone caldera ra...

despatches from sad farm the blowsy spectacle of a moon snagged in a branch of the oak attracted few spectators idlers and chancers rubberneckers at the frazzled edge of lyricism’s limit they would go away and not write sagas which no one would bother to read shuffling rippled through the sense of a glen re-hashed memories of life lived on the sad farm livestock insulted by their lot I must surmise a real relationship with the certain world called nature has been denied me time after day after time after day later we found secretions from the disaster such as it was which was not much speckled were our coats some scarves seemed dipped in silver dust one glove had stiffened feathers poking through the gates of wool you said this crop was raised up many moons before so now it is right just even to knock it back rake up what was shed and then preserve it in the very gaze which had harmed us