Heat martyrs | Peach one-piece, pool a patter of vanishings | lush spray | shot to vapour in my indolence, Sir Sun | thou art an… errant… | Time’s indigents, we no longer strut or | tauten to the faintest | zephyr of a caress | but sole-flat pad and flop, grin | with a silvery arthritis | mouth gnawed on gleaming crowns | Knowing many | ways of knowing | still I am a dunce | at summer school | the ta-ra-la-la of tiny | ethereal trumpets | rattle in my ear | fanfares to oblivion | A monster of torpor | accumulated over the years | no thing for chat shows | only for webcams or | lairs in zoos | denizen | of a former era | apologist | for a corrupt | regime | At wit’s end | laze in a stupor | set aside my tools | of Sappho and polygons | ignore the shade | but bake and glaze | almost free | of any need | for liberty | Today, rather a cloud | casting a juvenile shadow | than the light | with its ancient machines | inane and floating | registered only to the art of rain | Not oneself, that’s how it goes | a conversation | like choristers | gossiping before choir | And always too early to say… | As to termini | the young have a lithe wisdom | I kid myself | they’ll carry my long body | as the tribesmen bear | the great serpent into the city | maybe they kid themselves | they’ll be sure | when the time comes | of precisely the right moment | to put me down

Staked out by the metal rays | hung on egos | from trees | ghost-formed by unchecked kudzu | simmering in perfumed oil | plunged to gasp and writhe | in freezing water | only the silvery peaks of the most regal | skyscrapers | escape the tendrils of the climbing weeds | the mental state | grown sclerotic | clogged with damp and rot | from miracles of flowers | chat of gods and antimatter | of black holes and social justice | mushes | slips in sludge | sideways | gloops down | pools in cisterns | drains | tunnels | your entire notion of reality: doze | Oh, Meneer, your musket has crumbled, and your beard | is full of the flash and smatter of wings | and buskin, baby, is long | out of fashion | do you want to start a trend? | Is this your “look”? | In Toytown | explosions occur | almost daily | assassination is a constant threat | no one’s heard from Schneewittchen for years | I heard she ended up in the Valley | and, naturally, she was doing drugs | Connected | but the dead spider doesn’t | feel the fly | convulse and judder in her web | Hordes of kids | out in fast cars | searching for the next sensation | I hear their hunting horns | the breeze | carries across the rooves | of the poorest suburbs | treasure of aspiration for weaker minds | Here the nymphs | text and cuss in a sudden slang | I am | a sunken wreck | upon my back I lie | at the bottom of the pool | rigid and holding out | my arms to embrace | the whorled and rippled sky | through the hazed fathoms | of chlorinated void | and with a sput! and fizzle! | out of the morbid | vines of my brain | once in a while | a flower of ruthless jewel-like red | fires and glories | Did we make a | massive error, all of us | the citizens | so terrified by the squirming lengths | of mercury and black? | We thought the natives were bringing | from green jungle | the snake into our city | but was the danger not ingress? | Instead, were they taking away forever | the terrible serpent | leaving us to a safer future | in calm cafés and pop-up bistros | a secure life | clearly ruled | by Google and frappuccinos?

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

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