tuck-in # 1,667 (approximate)

Lovely miniature neighbourhood of night,
just assembled from some titan’s toybox,
lamplit and shrouded in clouds,
tucked snugly in gloom.
Parked cars on sleepy streets,
trees still as stones, driveways tightlipped.
Nodding houses, interior lights winking.
‘Good night, Night!’ she says
from her upstairs open window.
She falls asleep curled into it all,
a ball of love and burning dreams.
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forgotten fragment

[found this on a desktop document – forgot I’d written it, sometime earlier this year]

 

they thought they were someone
they hoped they were someone
they imagined they didn’t care at all
about whether they were someone or not,
only that they made their sound,
sounded their unique flesh-mind,
just as I watch my fleshy, skin-draped fingers
flex slow-motive and metaphysical – what is it?
what is it all? how does it coalesce…

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Protest # 1,003,989 (Decal Burninator)

Spiritus sanctus
licked me,
holy phantom-fire fingertap
ice hot, not
ethereal but
sidereal, solid, starlong,

the burning one
burning through my skin’s mind,
curling it lathe-like and lithe,
flesh folding up like
paper blackened, flame-eaten,

all your animals blazing through me,
fiery doves
and serpents and
foxes,
lions

roaring gouts of flame,
bellow and shriek of praise,
butt and clack of rams ramming
inside my ribcage,
a red-dyed ache of ages,

it’s your world-dissolving chuckle,
ah!
your flesh-shucking footstep!
horns of light gore every pore,
stabbing from your flashing hand—

that I might learn, poor student,
that I might love, poor suitor,
that truth may track me down a little,
trap me, truss me up, skin me alive
and hold my bloody meat in searing

compassion, reclothe
me in death-redemptive hides,
hide me inside his side so capacious,
eat me alive with love
hallowed and rapacious.

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Bark of The Manatee Man-Tree

growbend sidewise
for a long age,
grace hewn sideways,
yawing growth-esque;

brother tree told me
to go and gnarl likewise;
the sun is the ocean,
my body elegant horror;

it bulks up brindled, brined,
gruesome and hilarious
in corpu-sleek passage,
deadly of force, meek;

NEW MONSTERS FOR A NEW AGE—
this is the way the world bends
elongate and foamgrown,
mer-weirded, floranthropic;

heart-palp beneath barkbeat;
my coarse brown wood skin;
the boat that I’m within;
the sound when I ‘Speak!’

colour for printing-20

Through Ferguson’s Eyes (1st attempt)

Those with guns

get sons.

Those without

go without.

 

Beautiful brown hands

are raised,

shots are fired,

hot life runs out,

is not gathered again.

 

Does the blood run

right to his home,

avoiding the carpet,

to tell his mother he’s dead,

like in the Colombian tale?

 

It seems to have sent a trickle

to every house

in the neighborhood

(‘these are the people

in your neighborhood’).

 

Every single citizen

bears a single drop

to the scene of the

shoot-shoot-shoot-shooting,

shaking with fear and horror.

 

They pool the drops together

into a great red weeping

question mark

that smears into a raging

unreadable scream.

 

This is the way the world bends

down,

to birth another enmity –

and fire must follow

as surely as tears.

 

Sooner or later,

weeping and gnashing,

rioting and looting,

rubber bullets and

tear gas reactions too.

 

Shadowy masked figures

loom out of smoke, heavily armed

and blue-lit like bad retro sci-fi,

a corny dystopia

not funny now at all.

 

Those with guns

get sons.

Those without

go without.

 

White skin is beautiful too,

but it’s harder to see

right now – it just looks

bloodless,

absent of color.

 

Good cops exist,

and peaceful protesters,

but naked animosity

runs deep in all of us

and very near the surface.

 

No one really knows

what’s going on,

but we blog and tweet

and like and share

to show we (appear to) care.

 

We don’t know

what we care about

or care about

what we know –

it’s just a show.

 

But we do feel,

and in our better moments

we try to follow wherever it leads,

to whatever little truth

it bleeds.

 

Those with guns

get sons.

Those without

go without.

 

Or so it seems

when we’re living

hellish dreams,

where power never left

its hallowed whitewashed halls.

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protest # 89 (Bug Revelator)

your kingdom in the uncasing of veined pellucid wings
amplified in my mind’s eye,
eyes closed in meant praise,
hands raised in willed wonder,
veneration and volition interlock,
become transponder:

revelation in a bug,
a buzzing euangelion,
a crack-refracted liturgy
gazing out of compound eyes,
sight multivalent
(it feels many voices) –

insectile ontoreceptors rampant
weigh me in balance
upon this micro-segment of timeslice,
the silk-fine crosshair-capture
of a para-spatial cube-sphere
whirring near my ear,
the one behind
my closed eyes.

MESSAGE RECEIVED.

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protest # 173

thank God for Immanuel!
thank God for Immanuel!
go ahead,
bind and gag,
bind and gag.
thank God for Immanuel!
I’ll shout it through
the dirty rag.
all the gulfing chasms between us
bridged by a yearning star burning near!
I’ll die on a choked and muffled
praise in my mouth
thank God for Immanuel!
and you’ll think I begged
for my life.

but Life begged for you.

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