the thin whistle

and pea soup

drilling like a huge wasp

over the children’s supernaturalness

and early hurt.

i dreamt you

were tiny on the arm

of a chair, hair

pumped out like smoke

and had a bearing, though

the sun soon burned you out, right

happily like an ant into null

through the glass.

the heaviness is always

illusory- i am nothing and

soon to pass,

the morning

blows back/forth on the line

and love is a black

whole

late 14c., ethimolegia "facts of the origin and development of a word," 
from O.Fr. et(h)imologie (14c., Mod.Fr. étymologie), from L. etymologia, 
from Gk. etymologia, properly "study of the true sense (of a word)," 
from etymon "true sense" (neut. of etymos "true, real, actual," related to eteos "true") + -logia 

"study of, a speaking of" (see -logy). In classical times, of meanings; later, of histories. 
Latinized by Cicero as veriloquium. 
As a branch of linguistic science, from 1640s. 
Related: Etymological; etymologically.

poem found within the phrase ‘a hardcore group of anarchists’

 

Sarcophagus aircraft.

Carcass thoroughfare,
durations
outraised.

Forehands.

Archfiend orators,
fornicators.

Oceanographic radars,
foreordained.

Raincoat frauds.

Croatian
grandfathers.

Cardigan
chiaroscuro-

arthroscopic charts.

Unafraid autographs-
nacreous actors

coauthoring
outraces, sharecrops-
'reproaching
soap'.

Hardhat cornucopia
foragers.

Fuchsia arthropods,
Rastafari arrogance.

Shrouding paranoiacs,
sarcastic pharaoh foregrounds-

roughshod rooftops
& saccharin
archaic updrafts.

Fanatic ardour,
cardiac aprons,
 
orphanages-
gonorrhoea.
 
Prosaic agrarians...

rainproof.

through white-naked birch
the overhead wires carry voices and words
called yes and love and all that.
i have spoken them myself
and not known what they meant,
sent them along by satellite.

they have lost their purpose.
like bodiless shells once 
on a shining strip of guttered sand,
they dust up my pockets to nest
upon cold stiff fingers.

on a vivid yellow bin
i topple, sun on my face blasting into the
eyes you look through. i might even be this
GRIT, i think i am- neon and so on.
for this year and life.

soon i’ll be dead.
i cruise, behind the scenes
stealthy as a sniper.
you shift and roar as you sleep,
great as a crater
and blossoming whole as a storm.

 

1.

clean me

2.

also available in white  

3.

i wish my wife was as dirty as this

to be against things

yet full of yes. your places,
my map of skin and gravel,
the tenacities you build.

i move between them,
upon navigable paths
of arms,

your flyover. always
journeying into you and away,

nimble
as a smiling tide.

there was this tree like a hand- a wooden hand.
some days i would be naked amongst the fingers
like a slice of why. i was a why, a young one-
woodland in my approach, hair tied up in sky.

and i would tip myself out of bed for the
crematorium, dawn winding round me in pink
shouting. it was a stranger with poison sweets,
the coloured bottles i took home for a disco.
 
i dug ‘em up and would have shot them.
sleeping in the orchard and waking
with a mouth dry as tiny apples,
the dirty black worlds in the trees.
   
and i talked to the snapdragons,
the boy who spat on me in his hood of orange fur.
they came across the fields slow with tongues
and square tipped nails, right in my tree
 
like soldiers eaten up by flames. one two three.
kisses making me clever for me
in different dresses. some with hoops but all
with bodices made from bone.
 
and i was shaped and compressed right in the face,
yet still alight. fingers passing through into another place.
hand-print cheeks slightly parting to suck in the sun   
and days like an empty child.

you have never met such a wizard as this wizard.
he is an extreme wizard with the marking of a
blood-dipped finger placed firm across his outer cheek.

he keeps onward threading his lightning bolts
through her fine sheen of shrug: magic everywhere.

she accepts the wild creeping snakes of burning matter
partly in her dreadful mouth. they hiss and pop
in the cold & olden cavern of her;

at some point he is planning to tear her in half
and kill her up-
hurtling right through her like a world.

See here beneath my spacesuit
to the spacesuit underneath
and beyond that the girl
with the skin like a spacesuit?

I wondered about you cutting it off
like a cord so I flew
backwards into the spaces
of your naked beauty.

And if I immortalise you
ever so quick before you disappear
in a kissing-shaped hole in a cornfield,
will you become available

as the brightest ever moon?
Words come and go, empty as selves-
though I would like to have touched you
even by this.

Like all tides I’ve become a girl
on a page. Pick up my squeals
and put them close against your ear.
The rush of air is the sound of longing

even now far away
from the sea.