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Nero

In the techno-creep, broken glass, you know
what reason torments
fallen face in the surf
perpendicular foot on my memory
what you selling
oh comeo, oh obsidian
token sanity, it behooves you
to impound yr authenticity, crop
and leverage and spade
the hollowed ground.

bellies agog light shows
through weighted shoes
we’ve got lift in the stirred porridge
what tinkles while London growls
us northerners draw our mouths
in the surfeit nothing
else for teeth
in the gravitational jungle
listen and cheek
yr answers.

Enter people and their cars, poor louts, yr folly
extends itself in the maze-gaze. Ah-rum. Wind
breaks and air pops. Stop to start, back to front, was it equal
to your self? Eternity is a stage prop for what?

complexly
removed my flat body
on the most crowded
streets of London
no one reserves
what they have
sounds molt
to heal and I’m gunning
into the occult blue
bar on the tube
a sighing gum
popping ploy
change
for the
circle line
& mind the rap.




my celebrated companions there’s an ox on the bridge and it’s the headquarters for delicate customs. She sd what I can’t stand are the airbreaks in the air tunnel and I still must piss into the counter analog system. What’s a little opportunity to buy stoic fruit and manicured folk art. Sad fucking assists the desperate. I’m speaking into your sore toe, rasping in the formless and faithless mortality with inventive fictives. One of these days these faint stripes will bleed through yr afterlife, pulled by the lobes, to pour into airlines with a hirsuit hat and an overgrown vocab. Momentary messages and a little mindfuck with faux emotions. The man eating KFC on the tube is the spirit of innovation. I keep scratching at history but I still have to piss.

Size yrself up in the plained-out courtesy of British culture
I’m aware of the dimensions
washing paradigms out of my passport
this bond is professionally severed
she thundered into my unattended face
she has pinpointed the colour of eternity
red red red
no need to discuss the cancellation
of my afterlife since
I am in London with animal magic
and a revived slant of light
this city thinks I am real, this city
fingers its crotch with voyeuristic
stories what free galactic Portadownian
gaze carnivores my irony.

Unabolish my body
my soft wear
there are higher
drapes in the distance.

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Another Ireland: Part Two
Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
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