Three girls at a table in the Market Bar with an overpriced jug of sangria. / Sometimes words are enough. Sometimes memory isn’t.
I will outline a light switch / in black so you won’t miss it. How / the pendulum swings with the / sun in your eyes. The hung crystal / in the window refracts faint greys, / blues, yellows.
…we’re playing parts, but i wouldn’t act / in any other bullshit play.
My new formula for grief: who might survive, who, with hammer, might crucify.
My favourite podcast is about the end of the world / It’s the big new thing happening. / It is already happening.
the writer does not write / the words that are there / or the words that are not . . .
I could come closer to tickling / the neurons, pulling them a // part, making connections / between the benevolence of a // bright summer’s day and my inability / to perceive reality accurately . . .
how can i / keep eating / popcorn when / i’m going / out of fashion / been going / been going / been going . . .
and the oily rainbow aura on the spirit cluster flakes off / as the treatment fades while I still alone and addicted // to new knowledge in my liquid crystal display
Tumbling through the cunt of Elizabeth I, kissing boys and kissing girls, I lock myself inside my house with 365 rooms and fifty-two staircases.
Humility / Taken on the rocks / With double shot and / Uber driver waiting. . .
a weighty jewel of a sun-bound / harkening, reaches (again) the memory / & malady of a doubtable god, part- / unseen, emergent. // On kite wings, we qualify.
Your hands are like fists all the time now. Lick the webbing / between your cats’ toes and wish they could set you right. / Know that they never can.
Let’s salute the minimal, the fragmentary, the acerbic, the complex, the indefinite and the conceptual. Here is Minarets 11—ready for reading, ruminating and reflecting.
Rivers I could hear their voices long before I knew what they meant (Wrong.) boiling glue in corridors, goose feathers disinterred from snow somehow still as white as butter. Apart from this, everything opened like the prospect of a good mood, fish eggs easy in the dark inundation. The wide berth is given. But is it? No, No, No, No, No.
W/ the aim of poisoning the pure minds of the youth John says history sur prises us less than us our selves well sunflowers shock me most most or best infact here esp ecially so since the war against sentiment gave me my glass back that bag of beaten gold in time would be found filled & so leader o please tell that long title that that little looking lens trailing John’s lower lip why the clasp shuts on help & on spilt sun or rather pray why are the Zen masters murderous? I’m asking for a friend
Supermarket 10pm The snack aisle strikes me as too peppy. And I tripped on my own shoes trying to self- checkout too many apricots. Nina Simone on low volume’s really bumming me out. This year, I cried in your kitchen while you made crepes. I stole a tub of ricotta cheese. I was late on purpose and I never did my laundry. It’s fine when the sun’s out. UV kills the mould though it won’t get the jam stain out of my singlet. Listen, there’s so much work being done. So much gathering and display and it’s fine and it’s“Ellen Morgan Butler”
O victor-bird, o vector, / I am like you, a non-state actor, / Death-fletched, alive, immune to all elixirs.
Valleys, oceans, crumbling earth, slices of tomato, milk, the presence of something ethereal, the absence of something wild.
I can only describe the narrator as a lost zoologist who must regress into memory and childhood yet also cannonball our awareness into a strange new world.