pizzicato punks

anvil marriages
in flux bebop polemics
poli tick tick ticks
I'll demean it Charlie
you, me and Kansas City
boroughs borders bowed
to medieval guilds
privilege smuggled
beneath parliamentary prowess
high res spec
ulation
even Atlee sighed
but we
are vectors
walking bass lines
complex
syncopation straying
from cathedral steps
beyond that one square mile
ricocheting splinters
above the heads of aldermen and mayors
altered incubators
fingers curled around the neck
pizzicato punks
scroll to endpin
four quarter notes
to the bar

make your own mantra

A 9th century Nagaraja Guardstone from Sri Lanka on display at the V&A

catacomb womb

a 

plutonic self creation

an igneous

anatomy

hip thrust

atibanga

beatnik

naga raja

candlestick

purna ghata

teardrop in an upturned denture

Allen Ginsberg’s bowels

cat a comb

womb


a
plu
tonic self creation

an
igneous
anatomy

hip thrust

atibanga

beatnik

naga raja

candlestick

purna ghata

teardrop in an upturned denture

Allen Ginsberg’s bowels

fell fall fell

how the unsure wind

widens

just studs

the bare embankment

mottled

past tense pageantry

the parallels

parallels find no friction

just the smooth slow

slide of a manufactured

curve

clean you see clean

tidy

today the clouds

look like callouses

bruised by the skin

of the sky

and when that sun sets sets

sets split ends

whisper it

split ends copper strands

cross linked polyethylene

insulated orators

we are

insulated orators

What to call it?

those disparate streams David 
they ribbon into twisted hums
of soliloquies made of barns
and watching barns
geometric lines
the curve of the horizon
like the cusp of something culpably 
sublime and mathematical 
I want to feel that sweat, that salt
that tornado that bent your face to it's grid
I want to logically determine the wind
your loneliness
lyrically alive in those 
carefully 
chosen
words and diatribes 
stitched between the leanness of 
narrative
meta- narrative
mid west Mecca 
meta of autonomy
the smell of burning corn
co-ordinates of culpa 
crawling through the ligaments 
of is and is
the inner worlds we knit
and knot into a hubris of longing
how we fantasize and fetishize the high of the high we wish for 
let me crack that ball
cleanly 
knowing the bend of the breeze
the pock marked tarmac
let me not know 
of straight lines
let me breathe
in the depth 
of what
is broken
imperfect 

xy

she feeds her own fiction

firm thoughts loosen their roots

disowning the dirt

the debris of change

chapters chiselled out of undertow and myth

her mind tilled

and spilled into a scar filled river

Styx, her corridors

collide in your water

she's your daughter

dancing on the welds

and bolt holes of balance

tear those womblike walls

let her break

the banks of her own self loathing

drained

by the demolishing of love

a stray

earth

current

conducts the wake

of her imagination

time

on it’s tip toes

tired of belonging