Saturday 25 March 2017


Some Assembly

They move towards a new 
themselves, plugged
into a shining romantic 
grey-black surface, 
reflecting two 
skintight legs & there's 
a smoothly passing 
hiss of bulbous shadow and 
bright edge. They ache slightly 
to be at the forefront of a past,
of lights in a wet city that echoes
with a cold night satisfaction,
and they may get some faint
tremor of that kind, maybe, 
across a perimeter and through 
a forgetful burial in necessity
and information as they 
move towards a new themselves. 


They're not sure if they want significant movement or 
space in which to quietly enjoy their own self, or
both, in fact, variously. It's nebulous, 
but in either case and both cases they need to
couple and uncouple and couple again,
whatever it is needs to be built and will
reach out as they say, to some sort of 
other thing. What is this scenario? They are 
a movement with a projected potential and a
light, pearly grey and unrecognised, 
within which they move, suggestive of something
that affects a quality of movement. 
This is something like what they want;
it seems both easy and almost 
impossibly difficult, this utter involvement
out to the farthest reaches of space and
all substance and time for that matter and 
back down to a sensation of a slightly greasy wall
against fingertips, along with a sense of 
unfolding differences affected by choices
without the interference of a fascist establishment. 


In a cloud of light, a drift of smoke 
they see it, they see a projection through
shining winter hair and laughter, 
not hiding so much  as extending 
a sense of solidifying music in a
very major key. Everything's fine
and growing in the warm summer 
lucidity, a frozen bare-legged stride,
a pirouette, a warm sophistication. 
Just 20 quid and there it is again,
stretched across the dirty brickwork. 


Moving through, beside, shining hedge leaves radiating depths of vegetable bitterness
Indigenous Armed Group Formed in the Mountains of Guerrero
Thin yellow light strip between clouds & distant shallow hill, muted winter stripped lung line 
Dasein must in the first instance answer for itself
Reflective play across glass, through flashing light and dark and shining blur 
Last ditch talks over tube strike arranged 
Trailing gently over damp abrasive bricks alongside shallow wriggling tarmac reflections 
Dozens of inmates killed in Brazil prison riot
Heat, light and a rich black shadow burned into a road
These are the women who have the least to lose and the most to gain
Pans hang and collide gently, a unique music to a unique breath
I may not have meaning, but it is the same lack of meaning that the pulsing vein has

Sources of quotations:

Derrida, The Gift of Death
The Morning Star
The Guardian
Hannah Zufall, "Jin - Jiyan - Azadi: Women, Life, Freedom", Lens Culture
Clarice Lispector, Agua Viva

Fried Chicken

Felt in the pit,
in a brightness sliced across a pavement, 
redness and scabby white and a dirty
pull they're lit by,
to sit in swaying thrall 
to blissfully full vacancy 


"... this oaf had acquired instant grace ..."

A machine for flying  deep
         through the sweat 
       and the aching calves

in a pathetic fallacy
                      from under 
       oppressive strings

smiling is good

                and they can feel the grain of a
cold morning 


Somewhere in the folds of their palms,
       beneath the skin they
       feel giddy depths of thrilling darkness,
complex, rotating crystals,  black fractals

splayed legged under yellow lights 

breathing cold smoke and fumes to private 
music, traffic, Doppler perfume,
muscular humming & fizzing against a

weight of atmosphere soaking into a throat 

open and greedy



An expansion and a relaxation though 
still they face the eradication of possibility but,

unhindered at first by a perception of crushing power 
always sitting on their sleeping chests and laughing 

through their seeming absence of significance, until 
they start to wave, even without bucking or fighting exactly,

weight increasing and pressure on the air pipe and
it's so easy for the others who are sitting on their 

sleeping chests, ignored largely, mostly, but now they 
have even noticed and the nuisance must be eradicated 

easily because it's not them just glancing but the sun is 
low and bleak in the mirror and a joy of beauty

is going to be snuffed out, an absolute shredded and binned,
except that a night six weeks ago there was a glance that 

is there and can't be removed, and other glances 
into the low sun and the fog of Spring. 


A working at snaring a breathing, 
chaotic fragment to illuminate some
sense of sentient fire, to transmit across
a network of receptors a shivering, just feint, at 
the surface, theft in order, to order
for the sake of marginal shimmering out
over a vertical blue to a depth of some three
metres on a good, polished day. 

They skate with some grace along 
the bright rim but seeming imperceptible. 

There might be a multi-dimensional
solidity and liquid movements through
warm, breathable sunshine.
There might be fresh unfolding. 

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