Tuesday, 11 December 2018

Magazine FOR SALE


There's a magazine here with hororscopes, gossip, adverts, think pieces, slander, lies and transcripts. It is yours for £2.50. PayPal ashley.french@gmail.com with a note of your address and it is yours.

Tuesday, 6 November 2018

Joy (1)

  Today I will speak with the bank and the person
who frightens, as it happens is closer, almost nothing
today but terror then hearing that 6000 workers at the bank
     will lose their jobs, what better day
to face down tube and confess the failures even just to ask
are you okay. To which the answer is a recorded ‘yes’, but first
   I will make some soup, archaic in a maddening agitation of stretches
called “God Soup” and think back to my dream where the bank
congratulated me on a sensible decision and I was there in the enormous
     branch of Homebase piling up wood to exchange for money
then going to buy Starr Hamilton’s collection, it was good in that dream.
They kept me asleep made me ready for the fear that bulged from the day;
      so first I will make this soup, second I will stand back up, third
hear some shithead MP who says that we should visit
the library. But mister, the library was closed.
     Even better! The next one is twenty five miles away, you could jog there,
and your mind, a full destroyer, devourer of ‘the arts’, in Strathclyde
they came at knife crime like an enormous boat turning

     in the harbour. Fuck it. Like a diagnosed hinge I go on in the corner
of your door. I am inside the through space like a vacated study
trembling against the walls, wondering, the code
     seeps from the wall still stuck until it’s worked out;
I have made the soup nostalgic and pathetic as it seems
I do believe in the remedy of a built up surface, a complexion

     don’t trust anyone who’d tell you to do this like that minister
same as saying love trumps hate or thoughts and prayers
never advise me, I ask of the bank as it changes giant hands,
     hands in the air over the visible cosmos hands change
and we remain like the teeth which hang in the gums
the sun is behind a cloud, the bank is its teeth. Beyond

     this corner of the sky, like a damaged cutlass the sinew
jerks to a halt at the end of the phone the person who is working
soon to make a call like this, identical but for knowledge. Hindsight
     as a populist myth like we are not required by God
neither they for us, utterly superfluous the dream slips
on better decisions, the kindness of unkind vectors, the reverie

     of everything in this world minus the popular tring
of jets, forced labour, eating the ground, rotting the limbs,
razoring the caravan, curbing opinion, never having known
     a non local sufferance, inlets of unmonitored finance,
a man called Fred Goodwin, a man called Warren Buffett,
a man called John Locke, a man called a man called a man across the sky

     for now not to recourse to their long names, the origins
of a picked battle gently not flowering, not mounting
the sex gland of a reassuring magic. I stir into this simulated oblivion
     the agonies of a kindness and the wrongs of its name.

Thursday, 18 October 2018

Last Manifesto

How hateful you've become. It's the day before the deadline for the GRA consultation. Maybe you're reading this in a few years time and you don't know what that is - you don't know what anything is. The whole world has been sucked out and paralysed and you're not capable of knowing anything. No. That's now. Hostile subject, you don't know anything at all. We are left with almost nothing. Hatred is not knowledge, it is idiot passion. It burns in me. The reason this feels strange is because I barely know what any of it means anymore. It feels like they're having another one of their elections which have collapsed onto us over and over again. Even that last one where that desperate little weapon called Jeremy Corbyn made a bit of headway. Everything that's happened in electoral politics for the last ten years has been a hideous repulsive disgusting ridicule of human subjectivity. Actually, twenty years, actually, more or less forever, and more or less almost nothing. And so here I am in a horrible state not dressed yet, working away at the thing that occupies every minute of my entire life and often takes me closer to universal central point, making me worse, being told by my financial ombudsman (I don't know what that is) that I am not working and that I need to be working, and I look at social media where loads of gorgeous people are doing their absolute best to accommodate people who are like me, or a bit like me, or not at all like me, or a little bit to the right if you squint but almost like me or who are almost nothing like I am or who are nothing like you and I also are, or who are a bit more than almost nothing, or who are almost nothing like almost nothing, asking things like "how can I be a good ally?". I don't know what this is. A nebulous vocoder. Fuck you, ally. You are as bad as rotten soil. That's not even an insult. I am the thing rotting in the soil and you are the soil. "You are my dust" I read somewhere. It's not even going to accumulate into some wonderful moment if it goes well, the GRA if reformed as proposed will at best attempt to save a few hundred lives and what are a few hundred lives now when we are almost less than nearly nothing, after all of this? How hateful I've become. It happens from time to time. I try to resist and curtail it but it's so difficult. To have seen magnificent humans brimming with love deliberately fall out of this world and to have even a vague understanding of the mechanisms that seem to be sustaining it against so many incredible possibilities - rendering the better good utterly impossible, it's hard not to recourse to hatred... It's been a couple of hours since I wrote that. Now I'm a little calm. Or exhausted. The thing about this moment - the thing, is that it's one of those questions that I can't believe we're even asking. Around that questions is a swarm of grieving fear being clutched tightly in the fists by opinion journalists and people who've been thrashing against us obsessively for years. Suddenly they're walking under the banner of "legitimate concern". We just want the noise to stop. That's all I can hope for at the moment. I'm sick of human lives being at the centre of violent questioning. I'm sick of your pretend intellectualism. I'm sick of your stirring. There is no such thing as a trans poetics. I'm sick of the great big old world keeps on turning. There is a tongue in the neck. There is rotting soil. Moments of collective healing. What. Slow death.

(niner - after Nat Raha, after Linus Slug)

Slow death, now as in gently they made
     a centre, this hazing remedy
     hostility recognition act
     legitimized until no moving;
slow death, slow death, slow gridded death, by
     what. How hateful you've, no not "hateful"
     exactly more like a gentle grind
     called love, exactly. What. Reduced us
to releasing wasps in their houses.

Today is the last day in the entire world. Waiting at the end of something for almost nothing. Waiting at the end of something that is also nearly nothing for almost nothing to happen. Being attacked for nothing and for wanting nothing more than nearly nothing, for wanting almost nothing more to happen. Being killed for being almost nothing at all. Being nothing. Being almost something, nearly the idea of something but almost called nothing. Waiting at the end of nothing for almost nothing to achieve almost nothing; we are almost nothing waiting for almost nothing for an amount of time that feels like just a little more than almost nothing but is in fact barely anything, and is nearly almost nothing. Feeling almost nearly nothing about waiting for almost nothing being killed for almost very nearly nothing nothing and almost feeling nothing. Being feelingly crushed under the weight of almost nothing knowing nothing forward and nothing backward, knowing that ‘forward’ and ‘backward’ is less than almost nothing, the inescapable less than nearly almost nothing whose consensus we are stretched inside to the length of nearly nothing. The consensus of being almost nothing for almost no time, for feeling almost everything knowing that everything we are always feeling is slightly short of almost nothing. You are everything to me, and it feels like we are somehow going to be crushed again, gently crushed to the glint of a scent of a flavour of a speck of a maddeningly tiny almost nearly nothing, a minuscule almost nearly nothing coerced and tendered into a world of minute almost nothings forever, an objective and administrable, almost nothing. an objective and administrable slow and silent death.

Sunday, 7 October 2018

Monlogue - from Hopeless Vibrato

MARTIN: I am Martin Costello - Hater of Paedophiles. For the last few months my daughter’s been softly tugging on my arm asking about higher education. Obviously I’m a very busy man what with leafleting and the little plastic gloves they use cost a penny each but we could be waste them on or at maybe ten pounds a glove! etc. For a while I paid it little attention thinking this was a soft phase which would pass her by and maybe leave her feeling really stupid when it all turns out to be make believe. Unbeknownst to me, however, she’d sent off UCAS applications. She received three unconditional offers which I was bloody well expected to be proud about when the little rubber fingers not fit properly a bloody disgrace at ten pounds each a glove! So I did my homework. I’d heard all about these “Universities”, snowflake replicators. Parsons Extruded Remoaners. I checked the list of courses available and to my surprise there wasn’t a single one listed as a “Social Justice” course. Perhaps Sargon’s petition had actually worked! Next I checked to see if there were any bloody well Paedos. There were two convicted staff members. Doddery old white professors. Not much of a grooming gang if you ask me. I ignored them. For once I felt my conception softly inch itself towards the door like grandparent fingers unwrapping my fingers, peeling them out of the little plastic gloves they have. My daughter. My deal. My taxes. I left myself at the door and flew back home with the leaflets. The sun let itself shiver through the curtain. My heart rate monitor. No daughter of mine. No.

The above is from a long theatre / poetic monologue piece I'm working on. The working title for the performance is "You Will Live Today", with the internal monologue under the title Hopeless Vibrato. 

There's a new Binnsclagg E.P. here for you to listen to, if you like that type of thing: Binnsclagg - Fly Away Peter Fly Away Paul


Friday, 5 October 2018

News! Gossip! Books! OMG!


Hi there.

There's loads of exciting published matter that you should go and buy immediately.

First of all look at these wonderful objects from Boiler House Press!

New collections from Nar Raha, Sophie Robinson, Francesca Lisette and Marcus Slease. All of these poets are doing incredible work. I'm also mad about boilers and gorgeous printed matter.

I may try and review these as a set. You can pre-order them here (out on November 5th):

(funded) Boiler House

And look what's new from Sad Press:

Stoked to see new work from Imogen Cassels and Naomi Weber. They can be got here:

Sad Press

I have a new book out on Pilot Press. Also any day now you'll be able to get A Queer Anthology of Rage. Here:

Pilot Press

Timothy Thornton's In Skyscraper Dawn has just dropped on The Winter Olympics Press. Solid banger.

The Winter Olympics

There's a new Press in town run by three absolute Baberaham Lincolns. A book is out by Calliope Michail, which is excellent. This is a press which supports writers and has good politics. It is here:


I've made a Patreon page because I have very little money at the moment but I'm working really hard and I want some new cardigans. If you'd like to support me in my life you can do so. I will send you treats and stuff.

Help This Nervous Slow Worm Live its Best Life


So the TOTALLY gorgeous poet known under Francis Crot, Pochahontis Mildew, Axle Prose, Jowself Walton etc. has only gone and landed a job at Sussex which mean's he's in the same town as me. The other week a group of us had a little intimate reading in the upstairs of our local and it was GORGEOUS. Totally. So like, we should do another but with Walton in the room. 

OMG me and Joe Luna are both at the University of Surrey now! Surrey is known as Britain's Patio!

Keston Sutherland and Stephen G. Rhodes have an exhibition on in the back of a vape shop on Western Road in Hove. It's right by me and Dolly's house so if you go give us a dot at verityspott@gmail.com and maybe we can go for a cup of tea. Here's a like to that: We Get it You Vape

Come to the next Hi Zero too. Hi Zero 64. There's going to be a Nat Raha, a David Grundy and a Gizem Okulu. It'll be a madness!

Speaking of which I'm a bit worried that Ally Law might be in prison or something. His YouTube account has been pretty quiet of late. I know he's meant to be on tour doing Madnesses every day. Lord be with you, Ally and your pals.

I'm not sure who fancies who at the moment. If you know please drop me an email. I'm also trying to get back into the agony aunt business so please drop me an email with your problems, but be aware they will be published.

Cya. xx

Tuesday, 25 September 2018

Being Passionately Wrong - an Improvisation on Reactionary and Fascist Action

Hatred and Morality

Revisionist histories and mythologies don't always manifest in society as formal ontologies. In fact I think that often (and particularly in this moment) they share a lot of their oxygen with urban myths. One that I learned as I grew up was this - that though it may be horrible to comprehend Hitler and the Nazis would not have done what they did if they didn't think that they were in the right. A friend recently recommended that I read Jean-Paul Sartre's book 'Anti-Semite and Jew'. I've not been able to give the book my full attention yet, but there are two points I'd like to think through in this short improvised essay. First of all Sartre describes the Anti-Semite (fascist) impulse as a recourse to passion. I'll come back to this later. First I'd like to address this quotation with reference to current far right strategies in public and in the media.

“Never believe that anti-Semites are completely unaware of the absurdity of their replies. They know that their remarks are frivolous, open to challenge. But they are amusing themselves, for it is their adversary who is obliged to use words responsibly, since he believes in words. The anti-Semites have the right to play. They even like to play with discourse for, by giving ridiculous reasons, they discredit the seriousness of their interlocutors. They delight in acting in bad faith, since they seek not to persuade by sound argument but to intimidate and disconcert. If you press them too closely, they will abruptly fall silent, loftily indicating by some phrase that the time for argument is past.”

If you spend any time watching right wing groups on YouTube (whether they define themselves as Identitarian, Free Speech Activists, Populists etc.) you will have seen a lot of instances of them framing arguments as having "owned" or "destroyed" an opponent. They will often have titles such as "Libtard Snowflakes Get Owned - Compilation". The term comes from gaming culture - and it is no coincidence that it mirrors in our present moment the fallout of the "gamergate" scandal - and it is used to denote a straight up victory; an irrefutable outcome. In gaming culture this might happen in a grudge match where two players play head to head, each having bragged that they were the better player. Because of what the ending looks like it never actually ends. Rarely does one gamer say "fair enough, I was owned" and gracefully leaves the lobby. Usually the owning is followed by accusations of cheating, hacking, camping or any form of foul play that might unfairly sway the outcome for the more skilled player. The arguments are based around technical skill but really owning or ownage is a rhetorical device, and that's why it's attractive to people who are knowingly illuding truthful representations of the world they inhabit.

Sartre describes the remarks of anti-semites as "frivolous". This is a violent descriptor. The voices of those that would create a hostile environment, who would enact or encourage violence against an entire race are "frivolous", I.E. throw away. As in the case of ownage the scheme of the anti-semite's argument (in Sartre's configuration) is based in their most pressing ontological axiom: That the end of philosophy is found in the defeat of the adversary. Where is the moral argument? Surely these people are conservatives bent on the preservation of a set of values that is under threat. If that is the case then the reactionary does what they do thinking that it is right. We should be careful here not to assume that there isn't a moral basis in their method but we also need to take into account the role of the vanguard. The first into battle. Professional contrarians in our culture - figures like Milo Yiannopoulos, Katie Hopkins or perhaps one of the most pertinent examples of the symptom I'm trying to Describe, namely Luke Nash Jones (of the Make Britain Great Again movement) are tasked with paving the way for figures with real power - figures like Donald Trump to ascend. The Trump campaign's main voice was not his own, but rather his army of outspoken media personalities who worked to spread disinformation, stir up untapped passions and infect a (nominally) disenfranchised public with the reassurance that there were nameable enemies who could bare the destruction of a new regime. That isn't to say that Trump himself and his administration do not embody these ideas and strategies. It is simply the case that Trump is a business man who is happy not to pay his unofficial interns to do whatever work it is needs doing on his behalf. The character of this movement is not a moral one. Quite the contrary, it is one that openly and explicitly states "I don't give a fuck about morals". It is a movement whose assurances are built upon the cathartic allowance of hatred and on the rise of the budding amateur who in a few weeks can become (the reactionary dreams) a monetised online voice dictating passion against those they do not understand and abjectly detest.


First Analysis - 'Make Britain Great Again' demonstrate in London

When right wing sentiment accelerates it begins to divest itself of moral characteristics. It will soon discover that, say, its recourse or lip service to a version of Christianity or traditionalism in fact on some level holds it back. It may try to ignore the teachings of Christ that sit uncomfortably alongside its end goals but eventually they become manifest through some dissident priest or other. A few weeks ago a group affiliated with the Make Britain Great Again movement were wandering around London after their protest against Facebook. The protest had been a demand for free speech on the platform. I'm sure you're familiar with the demand for free speech. Returning again to Sartre: "They even like to play with discourse for, by giving ridiculous reasons, they discredit the seriousness of their interlocutors. They delight in acting in bad faith, since they seek not to persuade by sound argument but to intimidate and disconcert.". The demand for free speech is this tactic. It ordains a mythological right with power above anything else and petulantly demands what is already owns. A kind of primitive situationism which shares its motivation with a megaphone antagonist goading the police in city centres or somebody obstinately and deliberately farting again and again in a Library. I want to draw attention to this group and the actions of that day because it demonstrates the rationale or lack thereof implicit in their spoken demands contradicted by their words and actions once passion takes hold.

Linked here is video footage of their protest earlier that day: London Protests Against Facebook Ban of Alex Jones InfoWars, Avi Yemini, and MBGA. The protest is fairly quiet. A spokesman talks to passers by about their cause and he is being fairly ecumenical. He's presenting what he imagines to be the reasonable face of an argument. The mood changes when Martin Costello (UKIP) and Luke Nash Jones take to the microphone at the rally after the march. There is something a little dilapidated about these two activists which it is difficult to pin down. I think that a part of it is a certain manner of speech. Both often address their comrades in a slightly anxious manner. Martin Costello stumbles over falsehoods wrapped up in moral consternation:

"We know how... What a pain the BBC are. Erm, they get funded by the EU as we know. They're just a complete menace to democracy. Erm, and it's time that the... the TV License was completely axed for one thing."

It's not a strong start to the "great lineup of speakers". In a sense it seems laughable. However, what is laughable in it is the tragedy of the ease of falsehood. Nothing needs explaining or elaborating. No evidence of EU funding, of the violence of (non compulsory) TV Licence payments. It is evil. It is an enemy. It is jammed in our throats. And without further ado "Mr. Luke Nash Jones!" He begins his speech by graphically describing the execution of William Tyndale which took place in order to "stop people understanding things" and "who really runs the world" and "how we're being lied to". He posits that since then "nothing has changed". "Those who see the truth; those that take the red pill are shut down". Here is the monolithic violence of liberalism as Nash Jones sees it: Social media companies are literally throttling and burning Alex Jones at the stake at a public place of execution just for spreading libel (see Jones' comments on the Sandy Hook massacre to assess the kind of 'free speech' at stake here). I won't take apart the whole speech. Needless to say the spectres of Cultural Marxism (a conspiracy theory détourned from Joseph Gobbles' 'Cultural Bolshevism' conspiracy theory weaponised in the Nazi's rise to power), clumsy Orwell references and the obligatory callback to V for Vendetta (mask held aloft).

The speeches go on and on lurching spasmodically between callbacks to traditional values, liberal values, attacks on individuals (the retired professional footballer turned crisp ambassador Gary Lineker comes up a few times) and conspiracy theories that trace their way back to the end of the first world war to name but a few. Tensions are not high. Nobody outside of the group is taking much notice. There seems to be a libidinal strain. As the formal speeches end people begin shouting more aggressively, as though the act of performing a peaceful demonstration was a form of chastity for the participants. A devotion the a certain presentation of a cause that perhaps hasn't yet (for them at that moment) been allowed to enjoy its orgasmic potential - the enemies aren't attacking them.

It's presumably after a drink in the pub that we find the group reassembled outside Bookmarks, a left wing bookshop. The mood has certainly altered. A shrill cameraman starts shouting "oi look that's an antifa place! That's the antifa flag!" Here's what happens next: Far Right Fascists invade and trash Bookmarks Bookshop, London

It would take a long time to weigh the logical contradictions in this video against the speeches made earlier. What I'm interested in is not the particulars of the logical breakage (e.g. attacking Gramsci who was surely more a political prisoner than Tommy Robinson and Alex Jones though less than William Tyndall or else the absurdity of attack a bookshop and its context in the name of free speech) but rather the speed at which the supposed motives of the day and the movement in general drop away in the excitement of action - in the enactment of sheer passion. After a fairly lackluster demonstration with a poor turnout and no tangible opposition suddenly here is an enemy. Here is the prey. The narrator of the video is particularly gleeful accusing the owner of the bookshop of being a paedophile and grabbing books at random shouting "what the fuck is that?". At this point there is nothing left but hatred of the supposed enemy. This enemy was too big to attack when it was the secure BBC but here is another manifestation. A tiny independent bookshop selling books that we haven't read and that we don't like.

The video was posted by the group whilst they were still living in the afterglow of their shrill orgy. It was removed soon afterwards when UKIP (whose acceleration crested some time ago and is now tempered by a strategic moderate facade) suspended three members who took part in the action. Luke Nash Jones then released a video statement disavowing his comrades and disassociating himself from all responsibility whilst he can be clearly seen on video coordinating every part of what happened. Truth in retrospect remains perpetually fluid, "I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir".


Second Analysis - Elem Kimov's 'Come and See' (Russian - Иди и смотри)

Obey all orders. All is order and discipline.

Right wing thought does not engender order. The Wehrmacht stormed through Europe crazed on methamphetamine, cocaine and morphine - drunk and bold. The invasion of Poland caused one of the greatest traffic jams on record, the cavalry at the front.

Right wing thoughts - thoughts of the self that betray the self. Thoughts that populate their worlds with morals; those morals tempted by the ambition and will of the self. Strength. Satisfaction. Above all passion.

In the Soviet war drama Come and See there is a scene that absolutely embodies the taught contradiction between the ideologies of fascist moralism and its terminal recourse to absolute passion. The scene opens with a kind of rampage in a village. Nazi soldiers on motorbikes and crowded on trucks, some running alongside. They are herding civilians who are led to believe they are being relocated. The narrator, Florya, stares aghast and shouts to the people, warning them that they are being sent to their deaths. This becomes very obvious. One of the German soldiers grabs Florya screaming and laughing "I'll teach him!" The drunken drug crazed soldiers insist on taking papers in spite of the fact they are blowing away left right and centre. A corpse tied to a door balanced on top of a motorcycle sidecar. A German officer lecturing an imagined audience. A private holding up a portrait of Hitler. A soldier climbing merrily into the church, batting away the doves nesting in the tower.

An announcement comes from a speaker: "Germany is a civilised country". The announcement continues stating that those entering Germany will need toiletries. After the people have heard this they are forced to go inside a wooden church. The soldiers begin to celebrate around the church - it becomes the centre of their spectacle. They sing and dance and eventually start throwing grenades into it. Soon there is a frenzy of cruelty. A young girl dragged by her hair, the soldier dragging her stops to light a cigarette before continuing her torture. Florya is dragged into the middle of a photoshoot, an officer holding a gun to his head. When the photo is taken they leave him on the ground.

At one point one of the most libidinal and crazed Nazis is mistakenly locked in the church. He shouts (at the people he is about to incinerate) "Let me go you shunks! I'm the police!". A moral treaty to the dead. Next an officer in the spire of the church shouts in Russian "Quiet! The meeting is open. Who wants the floor?" Then a face at the window. "Those without kids can leave through the window. Leave the children here". Florya climbs through the window. The cost of his life is to watch the slaughter.

The church is burned to the ground and Florya falls on his face in the smoke outside, having survived by becoming somehow invisible. The procession - the carnival marches on, having sacked, raped and pillaged. Civilisation restored.

The moral is insisted into a reckoning of terror. The relationship between moralism, its will and the passionate outcome. It becomes clear that nobody here believes that what they are doing is right. What is believed by the perpetrators of extreme violence in these scenes is the sheer enjoyment of that violence and the weakness of its victims.


Passion as it is found here is not poetic passion, passion for knowledge or even passion for religion. It is the passion of the foot soldier; the vanguard who do not care specifically for the outcome of their actions but merely that the actions themsleves take place. It is a sexual passion for the immediate gratification of owning, of destroying, of having won even though that winning might be nothing more than maleficent self gratification on its terminal course to the long knives of the next stage; but in Come and See we clearly recognise that rather than ascending to any type of utopia the violence simply occurs again and again as ideology rises on the shoulders of latest foot soldiers and their victims. 

Thursday, 1 March 2018


for Kesh.

26th - 27th February 2018.

For I have seen love
and his face is choice Heart of Hearts,
a flesh of pure fire, fusing from the center
where all Motion is one.

It started to snow at midday, maybe somewhere after
why there refused to be snow for so many years  and now
it’s hanging in the sky and I came downstairs to see
the snow and I met it with my toes and with very few flakes
at stretches apart and a cyclist glared as I ran after one and the air
was ringing with you, how it impossibly felt like a world under
the hand under the eye and the skin itself was my skin your skin
full of snow and water bumps us up and tossed to the fish
to the porthole. It upended it started it goes out of nothing for
if you, we, claw; for I have seen his face, a voice or that exacting
curve from cheek to eye of in our minds what isn’t
able to go or an unobtainable exit dangling in the sky. To one
another now it is still there the rising and falling the flakes the
accidental winning, remember when we accidentally won the
quiz but we were all and it was summer. And it was still the
end of summer still near enough that it was warm and sitting
outside of it. None of this rising and falling they have now
from Russian air I see the toadstools and the swallowtail and
the ropes and fledgeling bulkheads. Now there is no you only
the rising and dipping motion impossible not to simply stare
and if it is, if there is hell to get into its memory drifts back
and up in the order of relentless suns, waves, portholes,
collapsing into our arms they were waiting for your body’s
commencement in motion, down and outwards your soft
falling body. I want someone like the powder it is up and
varied to come and destroy this collapsing chain of snow it is
how welcome could a thing like this be as it collapsing in pain
and in the light, in the rising and falling light that is coming
in the morning, coming gently onto the surface of the world
and remaining. I want to know that this snow will never
finish until the whole of the world is gone to its gentle
shoulder. Now it starts to go, it’s all melting and all
there is is wanting. Wanting nothing more than for nothing
to ever have to melt again until everything at last is covered.