4, 3×8, Waterfall

A myth can happen anywhere,
Yes, even here where the black wier
constant as evaporation

As constant as the bird-song thrall
Never lets up, always pouring
Dark and when the wier is eaten

Still its constancy will shatter,
When all and the wier go up, splat
In the suns final inferno

Thunder out into space and pour
in a wall of material –
Stars won’t know what to make of it.

A Riddle

What am I?
My breath is the sea foam’s subtle churning
My breath is the bird’s automatic babbling
My breath is the cloud mist’s clenchings and unclenchings
My breath is the thundering star-wave thaum
My breath is the forking of lightning angles
My breath is the forging of mountain’s face
My breath is the sand’s tumble-glass roar
My voice is the sea whisper slump
My voice is the crow-cry’s arcing
My voice is the cloud gaze recognition
My voice is the thunder’s propogation
My voice is the forging of elements
My voice is the landslide’s destruction of roads
My voice is the pile’s piling angle
My brain is the moon’s towering amazement
My brain is the bird-brain’s response to a jump-scare
My brain is the sun, and the astronomical unit
My brain is the twinkling of nuclear despair
My brain is the electron’s earthquake fizz
My brain is the shading and curve of space-time
My brain is the hourglass curve and falling
What am I?

Narcissii

The cold mind of a philosopher
Might freeze love with a snowflake gaze
In the same dull ice that crystallises
Faultline truths on a heap of life.

Til hot dogma deigns them to preach
On politics, bearing confidence of the freeze
But narcissism is neither hot nor frozen
It’s just the mark of a certain childhood.

And poets who take their inspiration
From ‘religious sentiment’s’ gloaming cocktail
That quaintly drinks the soul with ecstasy
Til verses drop off the tongue like gold bricks

Think maybe religion is a knot
Their young life and guardians tied them of
And now its blank mythological verse
Finds acceptance among drunk critical cousins

These tender artists tend to sit
On good old knolls by the zenoic pool
(Far from the muddy estuaries) and swill
Till their daisy heads fall off and rot.

Carving & Reading

What is the real? What makes this real?
This telemetric poetry real?
Whatever it is it vanished after
Reading those who click and splatter
Anthropoidally upon the page;

Is it a certain semantic field of earth?
A subject, wombic matter of the birthing of the present?
Bleak bus stops and financial crash
Impacting on a brave new young.
Is it urban hopes; a singsong illocution
And a lack of rigid form?

Must I be complacent in my shambling edicts
Of what the world is, encyclopediac beings?
Vast endemiological stalactites
Falling slate-like from my pen?

Or is it tangled sex-tape thread and other inscriptions
Of modern desire, the breakfast business
and typing stunning empty letters,
Sent to other Londominium adresses?

– – –

What does it mean that you dip-dye your hair blue?
What language of dying do you speak
Here a girl passed, she the second, establishing a rule.
Do you enchant my imagination in dark humid-evening orgies
Do you bathe in chemical baths to preserve your heart
Does it invite the sudden stranger to embrace you?
Are you a fan of runic authorise, of ringing fantasy multiworks?

The labyrinthry of your follicular intentions bemuse me;
I read you like a torn-out page.
Does its length correspond to your chastity?
Is it blue because you want me to notice?
Well I notice, I’m dull as a blunt arcadian pencil
Sepal, shall we write?

Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response

Oh your voice,
It carries the geology of the tongue
In a startling language
Your saliva and its stones, caught by geographical time
The knot and bark of your swallow
Sussurations of your lips, of fur
Brushing past itself, salted in the night-forest
And your eyes muddy marsh
Sodden in the hills and routes of our conversation
Between moon-dragging planets.

Female, you shake me
Your strata bared by the sandblasting wind
The grass bent, rent and shattered by a foot
That mountain collapses and tectonic plates tear
You gulp in the nothing of my ear.