Poems - 25th May to 28th May

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

and doggerel

cameras twitching 

bad bad

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

permeable char-haze

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;

cum stockade

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

ecumenical counsel, 

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?