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Showing posts from September, 2011

in progress from fractured burps

Opening the Eyelid (for David Rattray)

ripped by rum and oranges

we’ll picnic here

there’s no difference

between homecoming and going

God’s whiskers on Jesus skin

I have an inside to my outside

fireflies in a leaf filtred limelight

thereby fulfilling a prophecy

every moment empty space shines 

bathtub rings

I think of your children in spacesuits

In Progress

In This World We Do Mutt (for Joseph Ceravolo) my doll is firm aboriginal blubber from this bottle we did drink pull up the blanket affection rides home mother is windy built on  the body is coming these knees are a spongy breeze in Seattle we did chow on clams look at this saint’s hat for whom the bell gloats birds float it is white foam when will my gluckenspiel run dry like a toothpick among the shaken my son leaps the carribou I have no carribou this is a rehearsal for Zen music it worked very well now it is past use my girlchild  there is no snake tell us where to eat the wind tattles all done? smells like fish o yeah rice spring rice spring
Love Cyclops
(for Piero Heliczer)

the vaginas of birds in burnt grass in Milton
my feet as they entered the reeds
stone stone
or so I have heard
heaven is a pebble
in the eye signature
eye weeping bird baths
her bobby pins
her bobby
this bear day
there are no bears
it scares me
joints in the grass
sure can
faded blue jeans
on my wilting face
in Patagonia answer me

Hagan we've got the handshake

Hagan We’ve Got the Handshake

Hagan we’ve got the handshake
under the sun du du dudu
malls ruin the lives of Wood Green people
this is 2011
what happened?
we live in an invented bed
in summer it rains
in winter rains
in spring the bees come

Richmond, West London


My new machine arrived today

in a green Buddhashade

after a night in New Orleans

my handshakes were full of resin

not green gray like they say

on this Austrian passport

we shot arrows into crab apples on the back of Tom Raworth

while he was riding a motorcycle

and debating the merits of English country girls

at first tomorrow is a fugue then a fife

insert hair and balsa wood

birds on the streets of Richmond




in progress from Fractured Burps ms

England’s Lane

American Ones: “salted as a ceasefire in a Christian Bakery”

Sudden Address: “moveable panels or stretcher bars”

All Poet’s Welcome “Includes C.D.”

Trundling Grunts in The Book of Night Terrors Lady Air The Natural History This Time We are Both  Complete Minimal Poems Povel A Purchase in the White Botanica Art Chronicles Midwinter Day Selected Steve Carey

Grafton RoadChalk FarmGospel Oak Harringey Green Lanes

from Fractured Burps (in Progress)

Marchmont Street Soaps


via hand signals outside the window

sucking the tips of impertinent fingers

you get A to B


I have a big appetite for love

sleeping on the floor on the sofa

a number of fixed positions

he was just complaints


what am I?

she got Spanish two months ago

when she was born

I turned it down

what can I pour THIS into?

silver flashes

the flapping bellies of fishes

no more Eng Lit Krits

lookin to find your click thing

women do it more

you can use your imagination

obviously wanting to get the money from IT

three years

I can’t afford IT but I can write IT down

ahhh shucks

beer and the good stew in the gardens

gum brothers vitch vitch

what do You want from ME?

short shorts in Russell Square

let’s get rich IN SPIRIT

crunching numbers second draft

Crunching Numbers

the price of beans of which I am constituted
the dude behind all that rain
time has this shadow 
check this dog a bone
every man jack gets to be a wife 
the states
somewhere does a sky bend into lassitude 
a full court press 
into high hips 
into a form fitting sheet
new jack sex
thunder puddles
in Wood Green
no pev no gup ya
no pa pa

ongoing from Fractured Burps manuscript . . . first draft

Crunching Numbers an earcheck  breath from a hooded hook no pev no  gup ya part of a slipper  they call it a gulf time has this shadow  sometimes a chant the dude behind all that rain check this dog a bone every man jack gets to be a wife  the price of beans of which I am constituted somewhere does a sky bend into lassitude  full court press  no pev no thunder puddles at night the states into high hips into a form fitting sheet new jack sex what we call it could be worse thunder puddles in Wood Green no pa pa

Marcus Slease covers Steve Carey