Dead star | Light from a dead star | Dead thought | Reason from a dead thought | Dead word | Music from a dead word | Music of order

Reaching you

Dead star | Light from a dead star | Dead word | Reason from a dead word | Dead star | Music from a dead star | Music of order

Reaching you

Dead thought | Reason from a dead thought | Going to school | Watching a film | Dead film | Music from a dead star | Music of order

Reaching you

Dead star | The last star | in your thoughts | Dead thought | Going to school | Reason from a dead thought | The last star | Dead star | Light from a dead star | Going to school | Dead light

Reaching you

Dead effect | Reaction to a dead effect | Dead star | The last star | in your word | Light from a dead word | Reason from a dead star | Going to school | Dead thought

Reaching you

Last thought | Light from a dead star | Last word | Light from a dead star | Next thought | Last word | Next word | Last thought | Dead star | Light from a dead star

Reaching you

 


from the series method (open-ended, 2012–present)

Advertisements

Goldfinch battalions | Desperately | fine lines | Refined | almost to | nullity | Supplies of | velvet and crimson, junipers, materialism | growing thin | Booking right out | of epiphany | It all made sense, but | you couldn’t stay there | Hotels and moments | Stayed ‘Lost’ in the | Lost & Found | Shadows of text throw | trees of light | No | point | of | rest | Not here | Not there | When you’ve found what you’re looking for | what will you | find next?

Does that | make sense? || Over, on the other | side of the poem | in the corner with the | stem irises in an old | milk jug of | earthenware || Lips flit and | have their insect | life | the heart | clamours for fuel || Battle | insists on us | This war | requires our presence || For love, too, RSVP || What do you want next? | And what | did you find last? And | do you think it will | still be here | if you | come back for it?

 


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

At once, divides. As a sea, with wake. Dacha, from desire. In the forest, of your youth. In the glade, the horses | clouds of small flies | and the light like milk | pouring. In the clearing, of your memory. In your memory | of desire. At once, closes. And is seamless, after the episode. Like a sky, after our glance. Like a love, after our love.

Put flowers into it. Sunflowers, in winter. Like lumps of bell or | dead dragons’ heads | hung.

Put your sex into it. Frizzled | withered | of the brown plain | the grey plain | in winter and sometimes | there is snow. Long, long way to walk. Clump, in your boots. Stubborn old child. Eyes like angels counting on their fingers | yet to learn | of evil. Hands | caged in unknown | tensions: hands, very soft, like angels dying in their sleep. Ignorant of the shapes | of all the caresses they may form | the gates | they have not but must | open. Perfect. Like a sky, during our love. And the light | just light | with a little wet | salt | pouring.

Put your back into it. Labour, to a stench of bitumen in April. Your thoughts | scrunch like shovels | scattering gravels: put your back into it. Hunch your shoulders | drift from | job to | job. Squat down in your own | heart | brooding and mute | observe | how the moments are polished and | cut | each to an acme | each | like a view | from a tall tower, looking down | over the brown plain | the cold plain | frozen | wishing to be | completed by snow. Perfect. Like a glance, as carbon goes by | hooded in a jewel | in a mask | of diamond. Hostage | to loss. Unable | to accept | defeat. Like a god, after neglect. Like a science, after a new science.

A new scene. Feet hung down like the heads of dead geese on | long white necks. It allows | you to travel. At once, with ships. As a sea, with wakes. Find a | private Russia. The ideas | fail here, you feel | the immunity of peasant boredom, how time | inoculates them | with the summers’ | towering volumes of | sky | a bastion | of empty blue | no thought will ever take, no | word could dint | the land beneath is | littered with “fucks” like | glistening needles | like stalks of straw | you | lie down at | nightfall | in the stables of your own heart | and feel how | all the horses of your youth | are beginning to | run.

A new sea. At once, divides. You’ve aged. Love has re-made you | taken a little | of the god out | put in | pinches of | children’s laughter. A land, clustered with the word “BUT”. The virus of roads | has not left you.

Put journeys into it. Teeming with junctures, it has become a semapolis. Showman, it performs | the old routine | miracle | of being one and at once | divides. In a sideshow booth | in a side-street afternoon | soda and no sex and flies, and the empty bottle | in your hand for no reason, and then | the evening | in a no-horse town. An imponderable melancholy, like joy | after true joy | like a good lie | after the best lie.

Foolish old child. Mouth | very quietly | humming with the | millions of words to come. Brow | troubled | scooping up the pearls of | teenage troubles | chucking them in a bucket, see | how they turn to | atoms | obedient | going off to school | to classes they can’t abide | like History or Latin.

At once, reforms. As a sea, with wake. Put your | mind to it. As it creates, so it | vanishes. Dacha, from desire. And the light like truth | sculpting the glade | the horses | in the heat | their heads | hung down.

A new scene. In the petrified forest | silent | imprints of birds | sing. It has become | a habit of ends.

This is a bad day. People will die in housefires, and you will never | write this poem. To have fought so long | for your place in injustice – is this all there is? The weather is no longer | the weather of desire | of sunflowers | of glorious | marks. Imagined | disaster. Already, heading out of here. At once, you can’t remember. At once, it closes. Like a sea, with wake. Like a book, with story.

Figure it out. It has no need for you, and yet | waits for you. Beautiful, and flawless. Like a sky, filling with dawn. Like a love | before our love.

 


from the sequence, sentence (2012–present, in progress)

What are we to do with | all these unnecessary words? | Do we really | make any more | sense with them? | Marked as junk | bounced | Theseus, the | Apollo programme || Long, brooding walks through | Romantic poetry | standing by the shore | looking out to sea | Hum and chatter of a metro train | lost in Gogol or Paul Auster | the strange | bat-winged project of Modernity | ladies and gentlemen in personal planes || Those carriages | in goods yards | that never seem to move | weeds | growing up around the bogies | daisies and fine-eared grasses | So many sounds | flesh | wilts under their light | weight || Shadows | of kisses | convulsive | nebulae of climax | the horsepower and the | mist | muscles shift into | when you | come || Oceans of | type and pixels | this | fragile spray | Nowhere to | park the oceans || Shelf life | Ovid and Naruto | the drifting galleons | of discarded | Victorian tomes | tons of | bizarre cargo || Space | inside a comma || Heaven | an erratum || The body | sends out its mules for | unspeakable supplies | and we | talk about pores or instinct || In Nevada | and here | a graveyard | of signs || Silence | comes for the voice and did you say | you loved the snow?

 


from the series superstyler (open-ended, 2012–present)

Ghost state | Putting out a dish of milk | for those old | strays, their | beautiful musculature | eyes clearer than | plain blue skies in August | their tears | always as if the first tears | so | pure || Late-night matinees | of the silver screen | flicker and dart | of the black and white | deceased | comedians drawn back | to their custard pies | or Spitfires and Stukas | held together by light | sparrows and fifties’ vowels | come to a half doze and Samsung || No one | to understand | these letters, now | Memory | on the move | buffalo selves | long into their | migration | Unfashionable | books | line the shelves | a spirit decor | rendered obsolete by | irony and “the new idea” | a world of aunts | and aspidistras and | antimacassars | And each instant | a vital | summit of particles | convened and adjourned | no minutes taken | no method of record || Bell Bottom Blues | and butterfly | images of the lost | you find | fluttering | superimposed | on forgotten heavens | while one | stranger | walks towards Kansas | through an army of Dorothys | heading for Oz

Ghost state | Echo on the line | Stroke the young stray | Pull back the curtain | let light in on the | magic | but when you sleep | the magic creeps back | the room | travels round the sun | when you wake | she is still there | and the shadows | move differently across her face, her eyes | so steady as she looks at you | her thoughts | long out of date | secret forever | fresh as your fear | and just | setting out | for love

 


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

Hurt more | Hurry to where home should be | through the stones they throw at you | following your stench | an other odour in the snow | I | can’t be with you | too difficult for me | this is how | alienation goes | I hope it’s a valuable lesson | for both of us | Stay true | to the quirk they make of you | and safe for now | pause in an alley, run-down | a net of sparkle catches your bleeding eye | See, how the cobwebs work?

By phantom measures, the pain comes in | Where the children go, when they melt from our sight | our grasp | a place for neutral pineapples or old issues of Vogue | it’s an okay purgatory | not bad at all, really | a little | out-of-the-way, maybe, woozy, a bit lost | woods without riding hoods or wolves | a warehouse for mid-range goods | No thing to any man | that is a beggars’ lot | but why dwell on the fate of beggars? | Enjoy this largesse, my love | and lush nostalgia for the washed-out nineties | lying in a fever’s meadow | asters and parma violets | such hot bonds | for perfumed sugar on the breath | the sweetest hit | the tiny death | and in the rush | of songbirds and oxytocin | a desire to let in | a careless life | ending in | a squall of indifferent roads | so going | Hidden in our point of view | the wombs of various wars and shit | but how the spray | sparkles as it flies | see, through the firmament there! | You touched me right, too soon | Spilled, and went everywhere

 


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

Holding the fort | of the summer | dice still rolling | breath of a new thought | stirring under your skin | Tremendous | ghosts | carrying elderberries and satin | the price | of gold | the cost | of living | Her letters | burnt in the fire | Her words | branching into the ashes and the | roots of them | asking of the sky | some slight portion of the | fear and the essence | of the sun | Scars so far are where | you did not die | and she | may remain in you | So many | birds in the forest | each with their | caption of shadow | of lime leaves, of | song, you cannot | possibly hope to | open | all the doors from your heart | A life of | fritter and chasm | ignorance and flopping plaster | Jesus’ face | cracked right through and | fissure right here | in the sparkling | light of these words | Old | poet | old | beggar | womb all | disconnected and | only others’ | babies crying keep you | awake at night now | A drop of salt | on the tongue | and then | laughingly | a view of the sea’s | grind and glitter | its voids | of rotation and the look | in the eyes of | drowned mariners | as they | sink away | Ships | in bottles and the | whistles | shrill as | toothache | Bust up and | mined out | pulled away by | hooks | under your blood and | in your hopes | Alone | Homeless | Dying | Mocked | and autumn | must defuse | the trees’ | explosive green | But wait | Breaking | can’t be | entirely broken | It’s not over yet | There’s still | a chance | Are you so | sure | after all? | How do you know, for certain, that you aren’t | one of the lucky ones?

Edging the ocean | Shivering after a swim in autumn | Pacific breakers | Towels wrapped around our shoulders | thinner then | Suffusion of | jewels, not | cold | not | accessible, not | acquirable, but | they make our hearts | wonder and spin | Tremendous | ghosts | bearing wounds and memories | Despite the | rage | of | pointless | conjugation | the verb is still | so green in us and the shoots | of summer still | tauten our time | under the sky | When you leave me | you don’t | leave me | When I lose you | I lose you | so deeply | it can only | end in return | or so | I feel || Into the great “meanwhile” | our days were thrown | They never | seemed to come | to nought | We kept busy | We held the fort

 


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

Come home the song said | It was an old theme | but old in the way, each year, spring is old | despite the new departures of the blossom | Come home said the TV, and the walnut veneer and the freshly | oiled castors | but they weren’t in the song | and they didn’t possess | any of the song’s depth or sadness | Perhaps we should take a break I said | in a voice that was new, though in the way | annually the winter is new | still, it was probably the first time | I was really cold | What time | are you coming over? | you said | We are a history of discrepancy | the long | this is not that | I am not this | this is not me | we are not them | over and over the shuffled elements, hands | wafting through clouds of particles, chalk dust, cigarette smoke, a lover’s perfume | over and over | to arrive at the re-parsed set | the banks of the river | the place of rotting flowers | the mildly desperate game of status, the room by the lagoon | with its litter and stagnant water | the point of the series | the rank | I couldn’t feel | anything at all, not even | in the heart of the ice-melt | the snowdrop’s | chute | pistils of cherry or plum | you couldn’t feel | the nature of the wrong | I laughed, quietly, at the end | Come home | I said to the song

 


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

She’s a last summer girl | walks slowly through the fountains | Small whorls | of liquorice and CK One | pulse holding | the darkness together | Imprint fading | They are setting | other agendas | and now it’s a new spring | she’s a last summer girl

Pockets of memory | Small water | hidden in green | dens | a perpetual | subdued | fricative | as the translucence | oozes | She lives there | where the moisture | collects and | drips and spills | in quiet measures | No one much | notices her | She may turn into a deer | or volcano | what will they care? | She’s a last summer girl | and they are following | different agendas | glancing across | humid carriages at | the freshest of strangers

Dart

into the sun again | for a few | quizzical instants | He turns half asleep | but half awake, too | She flits through his head | that room with Taiwan and | subdued summer light, the evening | ready to give birth, but | immensely calm | and she | is part of that calm | heroic | quite still | staring vacantly | at some app on her phone | So serene | the gods emerge from the trees | no need to hide now | He wonders | what will knock | from under the floor or | out of the lisping tap | to start the world | being wrong again?

Steam on a mirror | shaped like Africa | Extinct species | walk with her | The lithest of spectres | she still has her keys | but the doors have vanished | They | fan themselves | in parked cars | restaurants with | inadequate AC | 90° | F | He | adores this heat | his lover | centres July | The years | keep no establishment | She | is lateral to us | fragile | a cat’s | footprints | in snow

leading… | ? |

Pulse holding | the room together | Melange of stuff | Typed up | much later | inevitably | a précis | Her edition | already out of print | They | have other parties | other causes | other worries | She is a Space Age | These new dates | are not for her | She must make do with scrapings | filaments of copper | electricians have left | near the skirting | in an unoccupied house | and blebs of solder | plumbers fired | with blow torches, the flames | were kingfisher blue | and utterly real | like everything | that summer | that last | unremitting summer | when they were young and | all of them knew her…

 


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

 

Uhlans and dragoons | Snap-to-it and swagger of a military band | passing into the side street of an amnesiac war | Now the house is a lake | and the officers are swans | deserting you | their brother | Technicolor | treasures the neutral tones | the Flanders mud | the field grey | When peace comes | the looms put off khaki and | set themselves to turquoise and viridian | and bridal white | We all slip | deeper into the secret | Such are the years and our | being marooned | among words, hemmed in | by all we know | Our divisions | stem us and let us go, we cannot | be elsewhere | Softer sounds | than strident horns | emanate from the other side | of the side we took, but of course | we can’t hear them

Slipping deeper and deeper | into the water | Remembering your youth | how you came by your moustache | what was lost when you neglected | to love | You have learned everything | there is nowhere else for you | to find surprise | Great events are | swelling all around you | or so | we are told | Orange and violet and gold | the decorations on your uniform | dry leaves floating in a pool | where a house once stood | Heading in a different direction | to the main parade | The office is so quiet | people ranked before their monitors | Crowds | called morals or justice | surge back and forth | Wings | open and close more slowly now | and history is poured around us | like ether into a jar | noiselessly and with no colour

 


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