Tuesday, 23 July 2019

O, To Feel Unwell



For a new Leader...

✄ To get to the vomit, o, days 
of hope the code is 808,
remember nothing, there are amateurs and corpses
the philosophy is junk is threat organisation 
poisoned. Said
the rumbling turd in whitey flop: Never try and do 
your own fan belt in a dark car park with the wrong tools 
under a tiny bonnet. It’s gone, jettison reform I believe
to trust just thin enough / a seaweed thin / an almond thin
we fashion a coward’s soothers, a glue for a Blob Job. 


Your balls come off, production values.
Industry standard. Outside commodification
become violent on the stairs to myself, paradigm
growth and one in the armpit keep peeling skins: Por rata. Por. 
I went downstairs, on the phone to the driver, collected my food.
My skin fell off on the way back into my flat.


Cause over matter. I went inside my own home, closed the door, 
and pressed ‘record’ on the voice memos app on my phone.
Energy over space and time, shut the front door
after a loud scream and banging, 
a moth bellows
a sweet tooth falls out,
followed by silence, I ran upstairs,
I knocked three times at their front door, but there was no response.
Just a stack of brooms, a limb of corpses stealing on the road. 
My father would cook for us once a week, a lorry came over the Moors
packed with food. 
We ran towards the lorry. 
We had been striking
for two weeks. The shaft was primed with dynamite. Five soldiers
and four police officers ordered us to put the food back onto the lorry. 
We laid out the officers and cops, made them carry the food 
to the village hall. I went back upstairs into my flat, 
and we agreed that we should call the police.
Do you like 
calling the police 
crap glue
I called. Called the police. 
A hot pink sun
my love for you, aching
beck to
thrusters. The sea calls your name.
A sad sandy mopped turd lowes on the beach. Why is there beauty. 
You’re a policeman. 
You go weak in the arms my arms this country faces a
restore on the path to long term get
with more money on the beat full fibre
punishment routines death on job destroying lunacy
lies under the ocean. Unleash on
as a toughed sil
stir up in love withering in light. 


Really what beauty is 
national speed limit 
wrought in turd.
We know you’re all up to something and we won’t rest
until every last person in Britain is behind bars. 
Issued by HM Government. To support from a seat 
death is death 
we need you go on the floor suck your life’s dawn
here is the head here is the heart bring up the floor
whoever you fathom together the floor to death
you to death there is death there is
forfeit and there is death you are born; 
there is a floor
there is beauty there 
is death and equipment, 
hello 
across the river and a drowning body deliver what
will help. Still though you over energy over matter
here he is, each pylon has a name and personality
you’re too untrained eye, if I forcefully stare
over your shoulder
put a child in a wooden box, a good 
mouldy death, crying on the banks
of the stairs like a cost, disruptive
and a lathe, flowers! Oh! Would you be prepared to hang there.
We formed a queue. And that lorry 
were packed with oranges, tins of beef, bags of flour. 
You’re disgusting. 
Constable stops it in the street and the soldiers stand 
in a line, like toys they were. And we’re told 
the lorry has got to turn back,
well, we just weren’t having it, 
so we gave the soldiers a hiding and made them
carry the food to the village hall where we could store it,
share it all out. 


Later 
that day 
more soldiers 
came, 
and they shot us. I looked over at my people, 
some of them were children. 
“They shot us.”, I said… 
You have until nightfall. 
Cooee! Mary! 
Here it comes. Everything comes. Everything…
Never ready for it though, are you? Funny thing is
when I had nothing to lose I always won. 
He looks small…
Did he kick you? 
Yes. Where did he kick you?
On my right chin. 


Two members of the ERG in the bath
one says to the other ‘from the White Cliffs of Dover
to Joshua Clover where is the tenderest threat?’:
‘It does, doesn’t it?’
Ahem, my name is Grant
Phosphor the first time I saw you at Beamish Museum
a wren’s heart thumped in my eyes.

My name is oakham weave and the Imperial Measure
coxswain yells ‘dive!’; my name is Ambuscade,
is Botch-His Wrong-Cum 1912 and still with a boat
to claim for:
It’s no use,
go on without me
I’m done for
it’s no use: POP goes the mnemonic user agreement
just like the screaming hills, the listing biplane
the endless fog off a dusted grub: 
You, like the moth-eared curtains are disgusting: 
Upper parts variable in colouration and pattern.
Histories; out like journal submissions 
on the top of a sprawling pin. Lurking in the LTD
recreation facility, distraught and popular. Spit passion
with a corpse stuck in
they discovered me cosied stupid
when they looked round at the world 
and thought it was really beautiful or really mysterious
legs to jelly, there is a turd-blonde
sadness shining in the air,
come on if you think you’re hard enough
look round at the world
pick up this
brush you poor fucking
corpse. ✄

Wednesday, 17 July 2019

Podcasts

Hello. I'm putting up occasional podcast / music show thingys on my MixCloud page, if that's your kind of thing... "Music". It is pretty popular.

This one is a kind of devotional cult Mass.

https://www.mixcloud.com/kay-impson/devotions-1/

Friday, 7 June 2019

Ere Met

Oh it isn’t autumn heartless
chromatic or sunbed coils
round the frame of the door
to the undertakers
antlion days
rushed indignant, the phone keeps going
not that you or any river should pick
from an anxious rush of tidy
they have police for
antlions
they come in cars get onto me
are meant if you will to protect us
what, the ones no one truly is
chromatic settling day
not autumn
but a better sign, intertwined gold
in the tacky pyramid sky, L Ron,
what were you thinking,

aren't they all so tragic.

Thursday, 6 June 2019

Bridge of Sighs

or gentlest air


last night I prayed to God, I under
airless was
drunk and gone
to your prayed out frame, and what
now at home below the dark sky


to call out desperate
impossible air
troubling eye
to cry  in a little


echoed
empty still gentlest
cedar, of sighs and I am through to
put this kiss of the heart back
on the ground,
your ground, endless run of air,
or the last we spoke


your so calmed
diurnal sprung
and I was just then happily ground,
kissed and sighed on a bridge the gentlest heart

and of all of its carefully scatter