laundry ammonium tang cloth nappies in a bleaching bucket dry ones hang from a rack fresh giant snotrags suspended from the ceiling like a sailor’s cot
potted meat now there's a treat but never lettuce green water in a leaf if she could find her way to a hand-up and tea in a cracked mug would be a fine thing
how she manages those shops I'll never know the damp cabbage and muddy brussell sprouts not to mention wrapped mince in brown paper I shudder to think of it
we are the spaces in between the holes within the hoops the midnights make the days able to pass—you want to play the silence but you cannot play the silence with notes or loops
here I have to make do without stories I'm left with traces, impressions what's all been thrown together tohu-bohu still my voice when I call you brings your face to me
we're just the copies of the copies but we love to see the mist rise in the valley we too are just suspended and we'll wait as long as it takes to wait for the wait to take place
sometimes I sit in the laundry in the late Sunday afternoon light children tinkle, coins spangle through trees over the neighbour’s fence I take-off; I’m unbound like a Montgolfier balloon
I keep a jumble in my head of all the spaces between the named of all the numbered items of all the stars and grains of all the graceful pauses the waxes and the wanes
Rien à faire. So unfair and how to make that nothing (and how). You wait for midnight it comes and goes: the space between days You wait again with nothing to be gained from waiting
rattle of rain, whistle of wind through cracks soundtrack of impertinent facts the sound of morning garden has gone the sound of morning garden will come back what kind of nothing is that?
The number one comes after the nothing. What if the music covered nothing? You measure lines, count beats loop the breaks, break the loops over the nothing for the notes to be played, the flows to escape
realism is no excuse for paucity of imagination correct diction a matter for the authorities the transistor's red light on the dresser Mars low in the south
you never listen to a single word you never do you're too busy telling me how like the mountain I can be appreciated from many views all of them incidentally yours
cannot feel the pins take out my spine and cart me in a bucket. That lad with jumbo ears and a mouth like a rip. Why him now? Zoony we called him. Fifteen
I was the tattoo inked on the wrist of an amnesiac agent trapped in the back alley of future city in a world which had put into question all destinies and destinations
Now I hear the coda midnight’s inscription on the night’s dark sigils, glyphs, curlicues signatures of impending sleep I cannot see the hills of my knees