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from ALien Memory Machine (serial poem)


Syntax is sadistic and first rate grass hardens. I’m sick of proficient regrets and ach so I’m texting my way into a pre-emptive heaven which indeed is most modern.
What is heralded in the folkloric plomp of our text spume. Read the text but don’t answer the questions. Which image do you like the most?
Indivisible equations mother the sky but I’m searching for a softer seat to engage in Socratic discourse.
It appears thought is a daguerrotype of a pharmaceutical climax. Have you ever created something artistic? Forget the crowds and what’s been taken from you. How do you deal with the new light?
Hallucinating laughter and clogged with the bossman, dictating restlessness, I couldn’t stop looking at the fat faced boy racing around a tree with blinking shoes. I couldn’t stop myself from tonal clashes. Please help with the spotlights. I’m sure I’m gonna be somebody but I’ve got a few bits to do. A jolt from the electric fridge. It shits on its own darling. There’s something waiting by which a hue is red, cast-off by a glance and filthy around the edges. We are all distant bushels. Hardened.
Salt broke the decks and a speckled eye is in the corner. Yes this is a painting and the walls are painted white how else could reality arise in immolation?
We were insulated by the molten leather in Ravenscourt park. West London is not protected from the groans. Ah, the groans. Acute, and yet unable to speak.


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Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
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