Just as is | Oh, that old | chestnut? | Booze oozing from every pore | directions come for us | with rooks, squalor, glint of isosceles | sail from the other | side of the harbour | A huge mountain of detritus | we call order | a leviathan | of fish-hooks, ladders, wheels, gullets | allegory | of Plain Fact and the River of Metaphor | dust mounds of details | the whole shebang never | quite whole… | I woke up next to her | we were young | she was already awake | the fifteen flames and tiger lilies and inevitable | stardust | compelling and bemusing | where did the | wheels come from? | Off-fallen…

Maze, not made with ends | in mind | not made by mind | to end | not wrested | to mortal humour | not wrangled | to finite wishes | the watch | much larger on your wrist than you | might think | Oho! | Look who’s coming! | POLITICS | with their pitchforks and stocks | listen to the underground | oratory of where | your nerves are being slowly but ineluctably | bonded and harnessed | it is our brave hero, The Market, rolling the chambers of his beautiful gun | striding in silver gelatin | with Custer curls and Garbo sighs | into our ghetto | Who should live? Let The Market decide! | Where should we mine | for data or helium? | Ask The Market: he will know | What should we do | with the weak, even the weak | wolves, not just | the ladybirds, the honey bees? | Don’t worry, they will be alright, or at least | they are not your concern | The Market will decide | Bored with morals? Me too! | Let’s gentrify this borough | rid it of citizens | not so good with their | long division | who worked its character in | through poverty but now | dishevel the streets | disturb our Muse and our metaphysics | pester us | with their repeated | shortcomings, their all-too-human | limps and death metal and the mirrors | of their forms | crooked, of course, not fit | to reflect us | bug-munching | Calibans | under the floorboards, lounging in scuzzy bars | needing work | on their teeth, needing | better drugs | better, and more… Better, and more… | Well, fuck POLITICS! | Who wants them? | Maze comes with a maze’s sun: unhappy with this maze? | Get another one

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from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

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