It will be by the sea, that town, on an unfashionable coastline, far from the metropolitan intellectual bric-a-brac that passes for modernity or style or the leading edge | and he will forge his path through all the radios of the day | and young girls will break into tears for no apparent reason simply when they are brushed by the starlight of his singular gestures, and young boys, who are so much more feminine than the girls sometimes, will cry as well, and be a little afraid of | so much uncertainty

He has a peculiar acidic tenderness for fakes and wannabes | Indeed, he would be tender with everyone but | they will not permit it and logistically it might be difficult and in essence it just isn’t the manner of the age, so | he ends up | out of the days, really | alone like anyone but more so… like anyone…

His work is raw and etches itself uncomfortably onto the interior of the brainpan | at times it seeps diamond like a kind of cursive bling | at other times it is so soft and safe frightened fledgling birds can crouch down in it and let their hearts not beat quite so fast, when his hands are shadows and his voice | says “shadow” and is one

His name shall be carved in desks | in the smooth-barked trunks of ancient trees | and though long gone | he will adhere | and bloom | through a mist of rumours | “the one who escaped”, “the one who returned”, “one of our own, yet not our own” | in the chip-fed unrest of klaxons and bells | in the pent-up fervour of the games arcade | he will wander | in the boudoirs of brilliant but spineless poets | heroic in the theatre of their privilege | he will linger | engrossed | where the spunk shot and the hysteria | built and built | the promises of divorce, chirped threats of suicide | a brittle champagne bursting from shaken bottles | the cheap pop and fizz of an obsolete class | unable to overcome itself | but reduced to a scented treadmill of poses and torpor | histrionics and opiates | he shall pass | over and over again | with his purity and his revolver | his revulsion and disdain | which merely serves to egg them on | and by holding him prisoner | in their semi-sham ardour | must forever let him go | a poster boy for uncut sincerity | “mud on his hobnailed boots”, “dirties the carpet”, “foul-mouthed but the lips | so sensitive and of a light pink | straight from childhood, and seeming to lead | vertiginously, at once | to his heart” | and the old will mourn him | because he died and will not | unlike them | die

Native of the spring | even his errors are kinds of flowers | and therefore | naturally | in the evenings we wait for him | when the air is filled | with the fresh charge of a threshold | and the full moon | is so bright | blossoms continue to open | tricked by a cooler blaze | sensing his approach | we know | the past has just become | impossible | and all we have to go on | is to go on | so

from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)

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