Useless Ease

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Telly Makes Us

 

The gridded tower on Winter Hill

caps a corncob of narrative command.

The seemingly benign tones tinkle

out the acceptance and the sacrifice

of what it is to want to want this way.

To get to the facts, the truth, the

reasons-behind is only a means of

making us the square root of quantity.

Those that have arrived here to bite

our ears with dulcet skittishness

are only here to temporalise hell.

They are patented to arrive at this knoll

of mock development and arrayed in

a set series of serried limbos they

fund a repugnant dumb smugness.

 

 

Nest Ore

 

The flames rise up in the smelting zone

of pursued perfection. Vows made the

hearth a blacksmith’s forge and what’s

made now is the waiting for it to settle

to not be hot enough to burn at touch.

Little birds depend on worms and those

worms ride through burnt and brunted

apples that are brought to their mouths

with the begrudging looks of a forecast.

 

 

Pro Tear Us

 

We are wet pro-tears of torn-up and

the ducts live in the chest and sometimes

fall lower to the pit of the bowel of the

moulten stairs and no-one, yes, no-one

hears them bubbling in a mix of hate

and vow-crumpled grass kiss collapse.

To only give vent to the cash reservoir

that says we are prostitutes of landed

victory; we, the affectively untouchable,

rule with an objective sceptre and

are unsusceptible to the squeak of jambs.

 

 

 

Call Lips So

 

the egg

a pulsing globule

a fillet of

formless

non forlornness

the egg

only breathes

its shape

a bubble of perfumed saliva

the egg

revolving ovoid

to be seen from each eye

travelling the lip lines

to part a mouth

to tongue the

hardened albumen

the egg

calls lips out so

the lips

so far from the hand

 

 

 

Lobster Foetus

 

that which hints you

that’s drossed you out

that paid activity

that abjective pleasure

that is what I mean I want;

that is the forbidden

the sumptuous stomach clamp that

twins intestines with the binding

folds of hidden elegant garments

 

I want what I imagine that

apportioning-out of time gave you:

the horror of an action minus mind from which all past has been ripped

and all thought of effected persons ejected

 

A diachronic tunnelscape

 

A gelding of guilt

 

 

 

 

Hay D’s

 

As we move and settle into a morning of craved loneliness so it is that an oneiric before maintains its presence and grows a little looking into the quiet white of impossibility just a billed moment before and the sounds of weeping and a bus full of impressed slaves passes and a voice intones on the edge of comfort:

 

Hay D’s!

Hay D’ease!

Happy Days!

Warping Daze!

Carping Phase!”

 

To be gone along with as a dismembered hand as you learn to flirt and it’s very assized in its flameless goal getting; it’s just expansionary chance after a biannual rejection; just the comfiture of being pitied.

 

What is it with hands entwining?

The tentacles of sun reaching in!

 

 

 

A.O. Loss

 

Trussed in trust she glosses over the loss and it walks of its own volition don’t need no stirrups to stare up and see his image in the damp felted clouds at the moment of rejection that’s not a real sadness but a heeded premonition of a staircase (again) a well (again) a bridge (again) over a rigid frigid ex-steamer valise full of earthy photographs of trees and naked farmers by the wall watching the mistress flirt with a hand, a disembodied toolmakers hand, a mast-in-the-making, a lie-induced fractiousness that dispels sadness as it mulches the paper of the binding gluey certificate that’s been scrawled on with a ton of ore ink by a gory fink who gave up the ghost-cause as casually as it dispelled his hostaged yearning for a biological community that knew no church but of sexual circulation and expansive protozoas in zoos of green velvet shoes that ooze dead-end news from where the matriculated accumulate in corners to bemoan their sacked-up lip lack of relationality (that’s us, by the way)

 

 

 

 

Let’s Try Joining’em

 

A group gripped by bad breast sadism

defends its imagined unity with a wicked attack

on a monitor perceived as sent by Bossmen

moored offshore in candid dreadnaught

holds full of tanked dollars to buy the full time of

hostage-converts to mark each note that flows

unabashed and unasked with a print smudged kiss

and send them on their way to gum pockets and

grim purses to pursue their real existential function

of shutting down the group that seeks a good

berating rather than (with non-dosh) the anti-privacy

of a bad tempered pirate island named ‘Ur-psyche’

 

 

 

 

Skillier and Charred Fillies

 

Between leaving and staying

Between once before and never again

Between eye-to-eye and blinding light

Between voraciousness and fetid cramps

Between a wedding vow and a libertine contract

Between being enraptured and being become

Between surety and debt

Between four walls and liquid glass

Between commencing and protracting

Between dominance and passivity

Between the role and the persona

Between hurting and probing

Between furtive shame and shared phantasy

 

Between between

 

Gone into the gap

 

There is only a little between that’s been

 

 

 

 

Wantoning Locks

 

the grip of the three poled tongue

 

a tendentious lust

in bar corner

in snug paramour procession

bathed in mauve seance light

freed from elastic clasp

from groan to unanimal moan

to lip suctioned orgoid friction

 

cosmos blinking in a blood-pumped pot

 

 

 

Sighents

 

The distance to the vanishing point is the ripe life that has lapsed

It’s a tunnelling stare seeking to answer the question

The pre-love punctum question

that fences off the path to mouth moisture

 

The knock-on effects can not yet be gleaned

What fills the fore of the belly

what remains unuttered

is an ever existent band of lonliness

a tactility cramp

tithes raised against intimacy

against unearned yearning

 

It’s an impasse to answer the question

The fair-minded doubting tenderised question

that catches on a clenched midriff

fed by a fortnight of re-imagined beauty

 

Turn then on the impasse

Watch eye pool

Watch eye mist

Set to no sound

 

Wordless lateral rain of air

 

Turn then on the impasse

Defer into tomorrow and the days after

Watch as a change in light re-aspects a face

that becomes the only face, a moon

 

Kiss the hand of the moon, hold the moon to sound in its own light

 

To be this close to the question is to stumble over grail

 

 

 

PsycheLapse

 

The sensory minutiae of love’s disquiet makes a GhettoSade of unborn age. On misery’s rack there is the ‘mapah’, the ingenious argot, of frisson in unison. So too, exceeding the genus are a primordial secret, a bolted road-rug, a suicide chat-room. These too plea against genius on their way to the erotic complicity of Occitania, where, with no red roses, with no scholastic funnels, with no desktop murderers there is, off curse, the contagious sobbing of the dutifully altruistic, those eternally ill-expressed men toying with their little boy books and celibated salaries. Along in the quarry lorries come the justified localists with their soldered wrists managing, in a five second spiral, to pass the ‘velvet glasse’ to the pregnant leaf dust of the deadagogues. State chimps too, with their forensic acoustics and dry nausea, feel compelled to poke their nose in, but these kind of elective mutes are being nothing more than revenue men, nothing more than saliva deeds. They’re impelled by their moderate need, to continue on with the vindictive dud work of the abandoned opera. Affronted love is all that remains of the score and the script. A scream chain in a fear box. Mainstreaming. “Stop it! Stop it! Bad!”

 

 

 

Axle of the Sum

 

In the bag:

a dry burr

a foxkin branch

a bottle of volvic

a filter

a feather

a comedy club flyer

eight complimentary tickets to Thor3D

a printed sketch of a church cottage

a kids-eye-view of a made-up face

a twist of light blue nylon twine

a receipt from a shoe shop

a broken off bike prop

a bee pic on a bottle top

 

 

 

 

Cuhrce

 

There’s a restraining order on your mind for to think of the past is to be cursed out of your presentism and to be there, exposed, in the continuity of your life as its feared ending becomes less dim.

 

But without this summoning up, without this ever replenishing fullness, the ending that you fear is eclipsed by the ending that deposes your desire and blocks the becomingness of your nowness.

 

It makes each and every moment an anxious moment; a moment of vertigo when the well of your own past poses an irrational transcendentalism paradoxically rooted in the materiality of past feelings.

 

Resistance to such a materiality, resistance to time-conjunctions, a fleeing from the mutuality of pain, can also serve to bind you more tightly to the nowness of an historicism an idealist rendition of your and your contexts past.

 

To be lost in idealism is to be tricked by a buttressing accumulation of memories that fits your tradition to the tradition of that which urges restraint; the fear of endings holding us back in a suspended nowness voided of risk.

 

 

 

You May Us

We were replete

Us Blooms of the forward signal

Us exsuns

Us useless ones

Us easy ones

Cassanova-ing

Into the dawn of universal perversion

Into the day of wire-entangled calves

and foreclosed streams

Us Blooms

Too jobbed

Too full of ads and blunt axes

Too time conscious

Too colonised by the right decision

Us Blooms Us

Awaiting the nights of

cobweb hose’ and

moonblue satin slippers’

Awaiting an end to this

idea-stalled prevarication

Pleading instead

for silk flash rich

for coin spat bliss

for our ilk to explode

in a sunburst of satanic grace

Us Blooms harbouring

Us Blooms not savouring

the nameless unspoken love

we’d cherish the if-chance of

Us Blooms

Us Blooms

With our narrative vigilance

our cops at the psychic borders

our slick inviolability

our desire for denomination

Us Blooms

Not one above

Not one below

Man & Woman

Use us Blooms

Use us useless Blooms

Dependent in easy fear

Independent in our effortlessness

UnBlooms all

UnBlooms caught up

in the wired-up cash box

Still listening in

Still responding to our name,

To our behindness,

To our fear of frankness

Still reacting to civilizing ugliness

to the ‘agenbite of inwit’

 

 

 

He’s Thicker

 

Distortion – subtle distortion of anothers views

Decontextualisation – isolating them from (your) context

Denigration – belittling them (in private, to others)

Caricature – ‘cartooning’ them

Character assassination – discrediting another, removing them

Change of name – eliminating their proper name, ‘molarising’

Category as aggregation – individual made into mass representative object

 

All and any one of the above can occur in the ordinary prattle of ‘progressive’ debate

 

 

 

Pen Elopes

 

Go off without me. Elope pen. For if I stop, if this word rush that happens elsewhere (in the psychic terrain of ever-deferred disappointment, foiled foible exchange and unexpressed anchor hate), if this word rush, this rottening mouth babble, here and now, if this word rush doesn’t materialise, if my pen doesn’t elope to fuck with the nonsense, to fuck with the cinematic cut-ups and jump cuts that bespittle my brain, if this word rush doesn’t become a word rush, here and now, if it doesn’t become penned rather than pent-up, if this word rush injected with those unspoken hymns to the night, if this word rush can’t find its libidinal pipe by means of my vagina-ear, if it stalls and I silt up to implode, if it becomes stipulated into stasis, if it looses its fibrousness and becomes a building block in search of a waxen plan, if my pen doesn’t elope then I’ll be left to be sprayed by the backed-up sewerage of the value gavel that had it that it was my fault, that I didn’t do as doing should be done, that timidity made me a fetishist, that I peruse the present moment, pursue the here and now, only, only in order to preserve it as an object, an object that a controlled, denominatering pen, could craft into an id-less object, an idiot object, an object of consultation and deferment. Go off without me, then, be spared my bluffing ink-blood. Elope pen. Leave me to ‘exist-as’ while, you, eloping pen, while you go forth to prove that no-one, no person, no assemblage known in futility as ‘me’ or ‘I’ exists as such, go forth pen, elope up the ontological slopes with your momentuming paramours, go forth with your nocturnal solar plexus draught, with your ridge of precipitations, with your silver wavelet, go forth to prove, once and for all, that no-one, no person is really here yet, no Bloom, no egg, no bossmen, no hay Dias, no little birds, no Joyce; elope then pen, elope to prove my solitary inadequateness before the absolute astonishment that the world-changing shared venturesome word can induce in us. Prove to me that my bloated authorial stance, that unprone proof of power, that, that, that, prove eloping pen, prove that it makes me a love sick scab, a canonised cunt, a pre-sentient desirer. Oh Anololuxa

 

 

 

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