Samuel Carey

parisian marmite

she was crushed by the moon.
on her seat. heavy clap.
sounded blood on iron.
seat inappropriately tuned.
she tried to adjust the seat
but was struck by the moon.
Adélaïde, moon girl with deadly
vipers. her seat is blood.

Adélaïde, the moon girl,
killed by the moon man.
he can not walk this earth.
if the moon man touches
the ground then it will be
dark. the moon man stood
on Adélaïde’s head as she stood
on the earth, as not to plunge
into darkness.

 

 

“someone treating you in unimaginably reductive terms”

formed the child;
‘we are no
longer young’
in deep head
cap sounds
almost ended
thank anybody!
tribunal bells,
no more
talk of
deep
southerly
winds
and planes
not landing.
immaterial
tributary fawning,
this middle
child. post
capital and
longing depth.formed your rage
hit twitter
hate on
cuba st
with water
buckets
rolling on
in high
pitch
homeless
screams
so long
blankets
of parihaka,
reductivity on
parliamentary
grounds.
we are
all still,
forever
subdivided
sons of
a million
reasons.
fall away
from
this break.
reality
is a relation.

 

 

Samuel Carey currently lives in Auckland. He is a leading proponent of the Loser Occult. He never uses more 3.4 milligrams of soap per hand wash. He has been published in Minarets and Otoliths.