Verity Spott. Poet. 'He'd make a big show of sticking the two torn halves in his wallet. When we buried him, Frank and I tossed the last two halves he gave us into his grave. Here ' 'Between the two torn halves of my soul are cities and climates' 'Place those two torn halves of the map together again and you are re-enacting the history of the Silurian to Devonian periods' 'The two torn halves promise but never deliver full restitution'
This sequence has become a compulsion. I am writing several poems every day in this new form which the poet James Burton has suggested I call the Coronelle. I will go with that for now. The working title of this sequence is 'I am a FREE'. The order of the poems here is chronological. This may well change. If you'd like to read the few that came before the ones presented here see my previous blog post. I've not included every single poem I've written in this form. Some are out for repair. Some may vanish. This is work in progress, but with the compulsion of its composition comes an excited anxiety that they enter the world in some form right now.
To anybody reading this, I hope you are safe and well.
Everything circles the carpet. Drive away,
stay with all torn off yer head
pulley this sickening LARP, you read:
“as is to be expected, such clampdowns
always also backfire.
Counterinsurgency is, after all,
a desperate sort of war
conducted only when more robust forms of conquest,
appeasement and economic incorporation
have become impossible.”
When the sky was starless
in the void of the night give it up: Somebody else’s world
goes bang the birds in the air, the falling bang the irradiate kiddies.
For the sake of the element the verse destroyed
ripped from under my failing
thinking put on the furnace again:
“The disease is often presented as if it were
something like a natural
disaster—at best random,
at worst blamed on the “unclean”
cultural practices of the forest-dwelling poor”
stay with me forever close that flap
or the sky gets in
That I speak no more
and my voice be still prison without walls. Fantastic voyage
out to the lonesome heart pathetic and strewn on the fence.
Of course we’re torn apart
tuned up to explode or merely buckle
the heat of the day the strangled mind
I saw you walk through the flies
weirdo. I wondered the possibility
they’d follow you forever like crows
to crucified bodies in hell, that
strongholds come tumbling down
a banner that flies across this land, negative approach, parasites;
I think of your ashes today, if they should rest awhile on us.
Please try not to spread yourself
don’t be so crying take my gaberdine.
You’re listing in the swell.
A day of barely pressure
sticky soft fire
why so dam-
age don’t be so blistering
fat on nectar, follow me says wanked up
daylight flies a sticky bun
there’s a way we can go there
we can live there beyond time 9 crimes low
almost everything I do, I do for fear of you.
Dressed as a fish, he
waddles amongst us.
“The Mayor! The Mayor!”
Cried the succulent clubs,
but over the fields the pressure hive
a danger sought to doctor you.
The bandits are raw,
the sea stars no more:
Come ye poindexters! Dingbats!
Ron English’s whitewashed a pike!
'Cause I can see what
the devil's trying to take now, may it be astra et luna;
proceed to the checkpoint and get to fuck.
In the very beautiful dusk we spoke about the bins;
our burnished tongues of bronze. Snap up a speaker ID:
This is littering. If you can take a plastic Co-op bag
full of bottles into the park, you can take it out with you afterwards,
and dispose of its contents yourself
in a responsible manner.
Currently, the data shows that the R value
for England stands at 0.75. The total annual repayment cost
of all PFI schemes and repayments will cost at least £9bn a year
for the decade. Oh good.
Your grace has found me just as I am
empty-handed but alive in Your hands, forget about clearing,
naughty boys get sent outside. Now go on, get back to the rats.
Spider crawling up your spine; across the dunes
the King of the Tussocks, sheer blanket joy
furies through the night;
just before the fucking “sun” came up
we saw Dunblobbin.
gleaming through the trees.
28 km from Foxton.
Magnitude 5.6. Look at all the piglets
who’s a lovely stump then? Pulling our legs off
back to the castle, oh, Blobby
whose voice the waters heard
and hushed their raging at Thy word. I’m back. “Good riddance”,
muttered the furious king as we traced our lives back to the sand.
I put on my cossie and went to your grave.
A gentle wind rocked the nettles.
The silent hole stared up to the sky.
You died, in dephlogisticated air.
No one can deny
that these are difficult times.
But I don’t know
where you’re buried. I have tried to find you,
but even so you are not there, even what remains;
and so breath comes in nasal compulsions. And in the dark hour
some thorns buried deep
and the tears that he cried as she tended his wounds. Palomino, burn
in the throes of a wretched holiday, she sang as she sewed in his hair.
Very tender, ever quiet
falls away the field.
blurring haze forget me not
the moss who holds your head.
The city is almost silent
sloping out to sleep,
the stars, who sing our closures
over the earth;
the trembling morning moths
crack up to snow.
Your peace in our hearts, Lord,
at the end of the day, heavy water / I’d rather be sleeping, treasure,
put out the lights of London.
It’s the end, but the moment has been prepared for.
Guts at dusk / the Warmheart fiasco.
Pump the gear scalpel brains remoulding
grated on the zither; climate neutral company;
vipers writhe in verdant pill dust
nudge past the post.
Watcher you, devil my heart.
Strapons. Disagreements. Can 2020 just
chemical burns latest in search for missing persons
we do our marching to one beat
crushing the enemy under our feet shut up bluebird
the way has been prepared for, O, watcher of entropy come man come!
BAMBOS CHARALAMBOUS. Crates arriving,
dockers holiday, concrete coffin,
the band venom, slides its way to the front of the mouth
and pickles there. As is a router to a blind man's eye
test weakly creeps the moon
across the borrowed forest
the last thing we need is a summer
of love full of softfash avant gardists, their crap
idpol variants, five year old cancellation ‘poetics’ LARPing
round a fake henge. What love could mean;
there’s a cemetery deep below the sea
where I’ll hide from news of the GOP. Who are parents? Jogalong
this table’s taken. Floreat Bambos: Labor omnia vincit.
and sorry, but today I miss the poets:
The Peter Manson cactus garden, the Frances Kruk cobweb
dispensary; going into London flying out our hands:
The wholesome queer ultraviolence Raha feline vertical assault.
A tortoise far below
skirted in rain / switched your lungs back on and then went still.
Risk calculated against life
opposed to life at risk I danced, jackyl, I hardly danced.
You can put a fly in the fridge for one minute place it on the windowsill:
Seeming dead. Place it in your hand appearing to magic it to life. Wow.
I danced in the moon
and the stars and the sun. My heart will go on, black planet.
They all say “wow” and clap and their faces; the warm fly flies away.
If the objects in hell don’t work, switch them around:
I.E. Red blooded Capricorn for Red Army Capybara.
For all the new soothsayers none read a card for COVID-19
even death was still turned gorgeous in elective vagaries adative
a heads up your finger won’t put to cloth
here in constant Fouetté
sew the throat to the avuncular data analytic, relapse
shut up,dad this thing’s gone ripe someone saying something
about organs of the Chinese state welded into their homes
bitter was the night
before the break of day resistance 1. resistance 2.
Are you getting anything? Is that a pipe into the skull?