I’d put a little something at the start | just to throw you off the scent | And you’d wonder how it would relate | but it won’t | You’d think it was irrelevant | but it isn’t | Or a trick | But it isn’t | You’d think you’d go on reading | But you aren’t and you don’t | Just a little something | like everything | Just a little bigger | for a moment…

And I’ll walk through the lobby | in my dark blue suit | the Zegna | white shirt, no tie, collar open | and the ladies will raise their hands | before their beautiful mouths | the gentlemen | lift their programmes | and speak discreetly | behind the Chekhov | or the Ibsen | and they’ll say | Yes, that’s him | Yes, that’s Ayres | Looks amazing, despite his years | So elegant, so distinguished | The master | Shorter, than I imagined | His hair so white | Eyes of sea grey, still with a little | of the cold sea inside them | Will he speak, do you think? | Will he honour us with a few words?… 

In the ballroom, the fans will flash and flutter | like a colony of butterflies | the lips will be so red | the music grave and polished | in the club | the German DJ | will leaf through her vinyl | in the bay | the yacht | gaff cutter — gleaming, and sculpted like the most perfect | idea: perhaps the most perfect | idea there has ever been — will ride gently at anchor | and on her back | Francesca will rest | in her turquoise bathing suit | under the rays of the afternoon sun | while stowed away | in the cabin | hung neatly | in the cabinet of cedar | will be her tutu | and her ballet slippers | in an old shoe box | Capezio | Her long legs | the left | stretched straight out | the right | crooked loosely into a ‘V’ | and her lovely feet | will point, the left to the prow | and the right, nearly to starboard | and her auburn hair | fanned across the deck | will echo the tumble | of bougainvillea on the shore | She will be dreaming of Hampshire | the apartment in Rome | perhaps | even of this poem | I have yet | to show her | in the trees | the paperbarks and scribbly gums | kookaburras and cockatoos | will fluster and stare | out over the waves | twisted to a tinsel glare | one moment | then flickering back | to hauling shades | of lead and pitch | in the grass | by the picnic table | a party of ants | will reconnoitre | the fallen rind | of a watermelon | at the window I will | set my headphones down around my neck | track still playing | Stones | live at Hampton, Virginia, the Coliseum | 1981 | look at the page | of my notebook | put down the pen | quite useless now | and settle back | in the creaking chair | feel sleep | that pocket | in nothing | lined with a stray whisper’s | black velvet | reach over | and turn off the amp | so Mick and the boys | are cut into silence | and history | close my eyes | put the bag | over my head | wait for the famous | footsteps to start | and my youth on the streets | to begin | running and running! — so fast | I sort of knew | those skinny legs | would bring me | eventually | to Kent and Francesca | and would release | my genius for love | in that most | humble | and heavenly | of kisses | the first | the one | that closed the gate | on the path | back to the garden | and sent me off | to the dusty days | living rough | with Karl and Hooper | under the concrete arches | of the flyover | long before Beethoven | and long before Rilke | and long, long after home | became a place only | to rob and leave…

I won’t speak | I won’t say a word | I’ll walk calmly | into the tremendous shell | of the auditorium | take my seat | wait for the show to start | and in those unspoken words | I’ll be composed | having made myself ready | for the grief to come


from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)
(this poem, October 2017)

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Astonishing origin | Sparkle, blood, spark | The scene of a miraculous birth, but the sight, fast, once | Arriving, actually, initially, for the second time | Returning, with eyes, to the mysterious | blind spot | at the beginning of all stories | Awaiting an event already elapsed | exploiting a vein already exhausted | Holding the intact shell | of a bird | already hatched | already flown | By way of a history, reaching | what is only now | ripening to transpire…

Gorgeous blow | Drizzle of blood, the heart | very conscious | the city | so peeled, its buds | opened… | Immanent nativity: there is nothing that is not, at this moment, being born | Foal of a car, wriggling in the see-through | bag of the caul | Lovers and criminals | the Bethlehem of the heist and the affair | rehearsing their alibis | getting our stories straight | In early morning sunlight | through school windows | dust motes | spark above the cotton-wool | snow on the dilapidated | roof of a balsa-wood stable…

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, October 2015)

Striking camp, elephants
fretful as always,
hesitant in their lumber,
trumpet their protest and distress.
The weather soldered to our wishes.
All our magicians in shorts and slippers,
their sorcerer’s pallor hungdog with stubble,
the Great Alfonso grouchy and grey,
frying pan in one hand, cigarette in the other.
Caravan, balanced on the edge of a lone
petal of hawthorn.
The roads, so ravenous.
The clouds, laissez faire.

My view for hours a balding head
of sandy gold hair,
a head of dark hair, and some faces.
Everyone so serious,
why are they so serious?
Some, nodding to an unheard music,
perhaps they are unhappy, as we are?
In a mantra, there is holding on;
in a sutra, there is moving on.
And spectacular panoramas of the mountains,
stoic as Sherpas as the stars drift by,
dragooned into consolation.
Always, in the end, the sutra —
the orbit of the dishes to be run,
the bores of suburban helicopters,
and thistledowns floating past,
catching on sungods’ feral dandelions
feasting on a fallen, a carrion lawn.

They had so much they were to do today.
Then the summer caught them in mid-flight,
their wings’ blur and mash of crystal and air
somehow seemed too much for them.
They lay down in the boat, embraced,
a pearl button left a mark on one side of his face,
she took off his watch and tried it on,
at first these seemed a monument, and then,
as the moments gleamed and swirled,
more so.

The world made no concession to their spirit.
They could not change it. Defeat after defeat
followed; for instance, the car not starting.
Brutus declined to fall on his sword; instead
sloughed off his armour, sighed,
and slipped away into the night,
looked for work tending flocks or washing bottles.
Sometimes his hands at rest in the water,
he saw how things lay: bubbles were still bubbles.
How our months go by,
burying the bones of constellations,
not quite knowing how to fit the living parts together,
gathering up the pieces in the evening,
spilling them out anew the next day.
We’ll never speak properly again,
we muten slowly over the years and,
in this, grow ever more in tune with the state of things.
Bit by bit, our purity dissolves
by escaping nothing, touching all.
What now, Alfonso?


This poem was first published in A Festschrift for Tony Frazer, 2015

1 | How fares the muting word?

From The Dictionary of Semantics and Metasemantics, Miles and Sigurðardóttir, 2010, no publisher, retrieved artifact — oblivion factor 9.975.

Invariant variation | The law of semantics. Nothing ever means the same.

Departure shadow | The word as it understood to leave.

Arrival tremor | The word as a tremor of premonition. Before we hear what we hear, before know what we know.

Semantic horizon | The limit ascribed to a parcel of semantic information: for example, how much a word can possibly mean; how far the meaning of a sentence can travel before effective dissolution.

Un-zone | An impossible construct, or a construct indicating impossibility or no further conceivable semantic progress — the “place” we imagine where there is no meaning. The un-zone is said to “occur” beyond the semantic horizon. It is an indicated place: an outline of nothing. Certain commentators ascribe to it a sacred function: and some of these commentators have called the un-zone God.

Perception investment (1) | The process by which a non-existent phenomenon is constructed by the amount of attention we choose to allot to it.

Perception investment (2) | The process by which an existent phenomenon is regulated by the amount of attention we choose to allot to it.

Perception investment royale | A phenomenon is the amount of attention of we choose to allot to it.

Semantic ratio | The ratio of meaning to non-meaning in any semantic construct. A notional and indeterminate value: A word means far less than it doesn’t mean.

Zauberfeld | “The domain of magic” | “The charmed field” | “Magic country” || Language; language as it operates; the operation of language: semantic country — the place of meaning, or the state where meaning occurs. A conjured space, wherein life floats semantically.

Ghost tailor | Semantic actor in their role as designing and dressing other actors.

Discussion | reading and interpretation: interpretation – words don’t pre-exist, and we don’t interpret pre-existing words. We don’t “place a construction” upon the meaning of a person’s words, because that would be to suppose that there is an ideal entity underlying speech or writing. Language is a form of semantic energy. Language is not a set of objects, but a series of events that can look like objects, or we treat as objects – but are “wrong” in so doing. We don’t place a construction upon a person’s speech – we perform construction upon it. “It” is a fiery detonation of non-existent explosions, the creation of modalities.

Invest | To clothe a ghost.

Investor | Actor in a semantic play.

Semantic capital | The amount of meaning accumulated within a semantic construct.

Semantic hoard | Another term for semantic capital.

Semantic bank | Another term for semantic capital.

Semantic metropolis | A construct with a high semantic population.

Semantic province | The area of meaning not included under the portfolio of a semantic capital.

Semantic coherence | The moment of meaning.

Capital semantic coherence | What you are reading.

Provincial semantic coherence | What you are not reading.

Semantic decoherence | The moment of semantic capital fading into semantic provinces.

Semantic incoherence | The region of neither semantic capital nor any semantic province.

Hodgepodge | The actual state of the total semantic field value at any one moment.

Semantic field | Ghost envelope of semantic activity assumed at any one moment.

Glass capital | The desired investment value in a semantic capital (as opposed to the actual state of the total semantic field value) at any one moment.

Glass capital games | The analogous semantic spree that includes “glass jaw” , “glass ceiling”, “glass floor”, “glass walls”: glass country…

Recursor | Semantic actor exhibiting a pattern of behaviour.

Strong recursor | Semantic actor with a pattern of behaviour that imposes attraction, either on a large semantic population, or with great power on a solitary semantic actor.

Weak recursor | Semantic actor with an apparent predisposition towards ephemerality; a semantic actor unable to assert its attraction over others. It should be borne in mind that recursors are subject to the law of invariant variation — in other words, a strong recursor can grow weak; and a weak recursor can strengthen. Any actor’s semantic horizon is endlessly and necessarily in the process of expanding or contracting: no semantic horizon can remain stable, because no semantic actor can dominate the stage for more than a certain amount of time.

Dominant weak recursor | An actor that is constrained by logic to appear to provide a stable pattern of behaviour; a quasi-logical operator, yet still subject to the law of invariant variation.

Dominant strong recursor | An actor who holds a starring role in the Zauberfeld: the audience for a dominant strong recursor is large, and this audience is highly convinced by the actor’s performance. A strong recursor in the dominant phase can hold sway over nations, and even over entire trans-national blocks of population. Such a strong recursor is so convincing that their pattern of behaviour is accepted as literal: the performance, in other words, is no longer a performance, and what the audience believe they are seeing is their own lives, and the basis for all their lives. Only age may diminish the powers of a dominant strong recursor. On all screens, on all channels. Charismatic. A world-swaying actor — “the foundations of civilisation”, “the Lord”, “Her Majesty”, “Rule”, “Law”, “Public good”, “Public order”, “Revolution”, and so on.

Recursor royale | Highly controversial actor, the existence of which, even as a concept, is hotly debated. A quasi-mystical actor, often attributed with divine qualities — the ability, for example, to exist outside of the Zauberfeld, or to possess the power to bring the Zauberfeld to an end, or to create, or to have created, the Zauberfeld. Beyond aporia, and not subject to the law of invariant variation. Some commentators align “the royale” with (in English) the “I” — the individual human agent, and the source of that agent: a specialised notion of self. The actor who never appears on stage, The sleeping actor, The actor in the audience, The actor without a play — “the royale” has been the recipient of many different epithets, with the validity of these epithets also a subject of much discussion. A “symptom of a decadent discipline”? Or “the longed-for figure of absolute unconstraint: freedom from traditional models of humanity — a revolution not by, but in, humanity”? Or (my own favourite characterisation): “It will do until we get bored — like anything”.

Recursion | Both the institution that employs semantic actors, and the theatrical principle of definition. Actors gain and lose status by their powers of recursion: actors likely to enjoy a long run in a production (in the Zauberfeld) recur over and over again, performing night after night: some are mere humble extras, others enjoy the privileges of fame and celebrity — but like all actors, semantic actors only exist if they have roles, and the roles of semantic actors change at an imponderable rate. (The paradox of the “out-of-work actor” is a famous example of recursion theory.)

Semantic population | The people who mean: also, the numbers of people who invest in a particular semantic capital.

 


from the series construct (2012–present, ongoing)
(this poem, October 2018)

For a moment, everything hung in a kind of solution, with nothing decided, no centre determined, no map drawn up, no conclusion: it was like a photograph of falling snow.

You’ve just defined any moment

 


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

Pushing silence to and fro | the words like hands | sculpting snow or sand, and the wind always waiting | We don’t necessarily like the sound of our own voices but | we grow used to them | At night, in dreams, though, our voices | climb out of our minds, out of our mouths | and scuttle around, taking ships to the desert, or asking the dead to be happy | in other words | we stand apart from our own voices, and notice that | they have a glittering, alien shell | a maze of definitions | a public ice | and it dawns on us | perhaps even our own voices, after all, are not | our friends?… || In the defile between the mountains of buildings | I make my way along the meaning I make | from the sense of the day | My sentence can extend out space and time in fairy glamour | and each proposal convenes a cosmogony || It is not the generals who order armies to advance, but | the words | not the politicians who | inherently harassed and compromised | tweak and fade their lies, but | the words – it is the words lay down the grids that | generals and politicians | adopt | it is the words | mould the people into the clichés they become, and the words, too, that | in their tendrils and their filigree, their gold like smoke, their silver in fumes | in arabesques and serpentines and curls and coils | offer the vines of voices | ornate escapes from overly | controlled courtyards and gardens || From bubble | to | bubble | the wizard orator | climbs | from bubble | to | bubble / stone to stone / ascends the heights of persuasion | lays out a sparkling trail of truths | and never looks back to see | how the iridescent, vacillatory stepping stones he took | have popped into the ether, leaving him | no way of returning | to the place he set out, but by | confabulating just such another string of glistening words | that people may follow, as if it were law || Half in yellow and half in red | we stroll in our queer coats | following the shrill and mazy notes | the music of the pipes we play | heading for a portal in the mountainside | which will lead us who knows where – some kind of paradise, perhaps?

The voice as light and the word as beginning | Will o’ the wisps | deceiving elves | scaly and brine-soaked creatures from | the old pots of folklore or fairy tales | The elegant equations, written in salt or chalk | how the squealing hordes of goblins and flippertigibbets called | the forms of the void | mock and screech our sense, and with talons and corkscrew fingertips | trace the lines of our limits, the very | announcement of the state we’re in || When the voices cease | piles of silence resume themselves | like cones of pale sand | in the temple gardens of Ginkakuji | where snow | whitens the greens of the pines | in the air and in the water | of the pool

 


from sentence | angels of order
sequence of 100 poems (2012–2018)
(this poem, October 2012)

Mr Shimmer smiled his “very sincere shark” smile.

In lamé and velvet. His soul felt too tight, like a badly fitting suit, like a chafing cliché. He couldn’t stop the fat. Moral, of course. Corset and jowls.

He was at a signing session in a fashionable bookshop in the middle of town, but no one wanted his autograph. Then he was in the Caribbean, some island, Marco’s yacht. Memories like jewels. A hole in things, where the youth went.

Mr Shimmer, Mr Shimmer, with the shim-sham-shom. Schmoove Mr Shimmer. Svelte and slender, with glitter and clatter of hard-soled shoes.

Entertainment, these days! God!

Is that what they call it?

Soul too tight. Collar garotting, the hitched crotch of trousers serrating through balls, belt squeezing into his guts, cutting. The feeling that if he moved too sharply, buttons would burst, material rip: goodness fall out.

They were no help. Antoine and Maisie.

It was difficult getting good quality sycophants these days. What had happened to the world? Back in the old days, it was easy getting sycophants. Mr Shimmer himself had been a sycophant, that’s how he’d started out. Mrs Pooh-Pooh, Guardiola, the Dom Twins, all the greats, it was the same, they’d all started out as sycophants before they were famous.

There was no shame in it. The cartel in banality insisted on it, you had no choice, sycophancy was an art form then. Guardiola, Mrs Pooh-Pooh. All the greats. Boy, could they turn a compliment! Flatter, but gracefully. Butter you up so smoothly, place a tribute so casually, but so elegantly, like a diamond pin perfectly sited for the tie, just the right sapphires for the medallion. It would set you off. It wasn’t even a lie. Guardiola, the Dom Twins, they understood servitude, they knew greatness. They recognised the genius of fame, how demanding that genius must be. The Palace of Celebrity was a rickety, glamorous edifice, trembling on foundations of tilted mirrors, floating on a mirage of gossip, in a pool somewhere in the centre, a pure white lotus of skill, and at the heart of the lotus, a dirty little bug of will, while in the gut of the bug, a tiny parasitical worm of ambition. Jack and Jill Dom, Guardiola, they knew.

Antoine? No. Maisie? No. They were hollow people, without awe. Youngsters. They hadn’t suffered like Mr Shimmer. They hadn’t fought their way up, licking and licking. Spittle in the face? Hot spittle from a tortured dolly? Fine! Get on with it. Look up. Smile. Look ahead, to the time when you were doing the spitting, and they the licking. Maisie, Antoine? No. Hollow. Shallow. Too easy. Death was too far away from them. Poverty, just something in a magazine.

But the greats? They understood. They knew what it meant to step into the Palace. They felt awe, serving the stars. How brutal it was, galaxies of flashbulbs popping off all around, taxidermy in light. They knew the bargains, they knew the poison swilled and swilled. Sustained contortion, the injuries, like Snake Johanson, like Billie the Banana Girl, Flying Pete. They knew the gravity pulling you down, you swan, you boy, you girl, how you were out there, exposed to the elements, Hurricane Fickle and Typhoon Whim. They knew, the cruelty of being someone who was made up of others, careless others who liked to peek, liked a snide remark, liked to dream, and then move on, or the damaged, the psychotic others who wouldn’t stop loving and wouldn’t go away, the terrible ones you sometimes found in the Deer In The Headlights Motel, when cavorting with members of the ZigZag Club, hunting the thrills, the thrills, those exquisite filthy thrills, the ones that only genuine pain inflicted or received could give you, ah…

The industry, the system, the whole country. Sometimes it felt as if the journalist was the star. The star! When the world was right, when Mr Shimmer was young, when the nation was young, when the universe dripped with milk and semen and the drugs jumped around the room like baby rabbits, teeming all over the floor and the bed, and the pools had a lucid turquoise hue to their waters, and the cars were big, heavy, redolent of eaten space and conquered plains, sporting the fins of jet planes and rocket ships, journalists knew their place, which was in the common dirt, and they wore their lackey livery before everybody, no platinum blonde or Parisian suits or Mexican stints or ropes of glistening pearls for them, but the sweat and the grovel and the slide, begging for entry to the wonderful Palace, slinking round the gates, clunky cameras like angular yokes hung round their greasy necks, Never let them get close Jill Dom would say, Keep them small and keep them guessing, give them nothing, and they will take nothing away. Aura is precious, Jackie my love: without our aura, what are we?, and the new concrete was so white in the new villas, white as fine cocaine, white as luminous clouds of bright cocaine rushing up into the sensitive spot in the skull where heaven might be found if you only flew faster, faster, faster…

Snake Johanson, Flying Pete, Banana Girl Billie, they’d understood, even then, before their careers turned into shaky, cheap, badly shot scenes in gas stations on the road to Oblivion, Oregon, before the junk and the infections, before the traditional squalor, the classical abandonment by friends: they’d understood, the Palace is no place for weaklings.

Maisie, Antoine? No. Too young. They think their life has only one direction: UP. No respect, not really: no idea. No sense of the death of kings, of beautiful queens who ruled a generation. No idea of the nerves, the precariousness of brilliance, the pressure! No sense how Time, that bastard son of Torture and Misery, slunk around, always haunting the pillars and the pillows, making the Palace a jittery, flickering place. And this country, now? They don’t want you old, or only to torment, or to congratulate themselves they’re better off than you, despising you for your arthritis, flaccid tits and penis, misplacing Idaho, the catheter in the geranium.

Entertainment, these days! My God! Is that what they call it?

Entertainment these days!

Oh, God!

 


from the series superstyler (open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem, October 2014)

And then, abruptly, nothing | The storm stops cooking its violet | The train simmers, oil | is not enough | The dream is no longer shared among sleepers | Feathers | dither in the air, flakes | eddy and settle | around the body of the slaughtered goose, still, set to | one side a moment | What should I do? | Kiss your heels? | Stand up | in the burst of bright silence | deliver a lecture to the cows and fences? | Applaud the clouds? | Kiss | each of your four ankles, give up | waiting for the wings | to slow their beats?… | Childhood | rings us and there is a path | spongy, tawny with dry needles | under dark, imposing pines, it leads me back to | to the beasts of my childhood | and all I’ll lose to them, suddenly | I know I must take that path, if I | get going now, the sooner | I’ll reach you | At the edge of the field | in motorbike Arabia | pause though | poor white trash standing in | a free blaze | of poor white trash | wondering?… | And their breath smells | of hormones and sweet | anger | and their manners rough | their teeth for boxers and tinkers | and their need? | Their need? | Their need … enough…

Very still, like those mornings after heavy snowfall, your lungs and the backs of your eyes | lined with deep, white velvet | no choice but to love | It is decided | Your Holbein child’s | cheeks, roses from lullabies and nursery rhymes, clouds | on the edge | of dissolving | The darkest glance | Nodding off | in a lecture on the origin of | Romance languages, safe | to do | there is so much future | But also | as your body | releases the swans and ice | “beautiful, mysterious” | a place you | stop for | no | feelings to hand | maybe with crumpled daisy chains trailed | among the marking stones, the soft | light of buttercups held under the chin | on a hot, motionless day | entirely full | entirely empty | like graves in midsummer

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, October 2013)

Dawn | Meaning to go on to fix | everything in place, but… | To the group of all known and unknown things, you must add | a moment, every time | Wild fire stampedes through the heart of the city | Waiting for the first ferry after making love | Mind not quite | made up | a fuzz of susurrus, the sound of | passing sounds | autumn at the core of summer, leaves falling | inside the glass and concrete, the gulp and gantry | of pelicans mooching close in to the shore | Checking your watch to find | sunset, also | turned to dawn

Moments’ yeast | In the organised silence of a cenotaph, chic | fronts of department stores, empires of litter | mammalian heat and beat in iotas’ portions | a sparkle and foment | elfin | foundry of a working brain | City at 4 a.m., such a dull | drained feeling, money | trying to sleep but unable | In the distance of the pavements and jaded ginkgo trees | a loft and agitation dwindled | to whispers and clouds | vast flocks pouring into flight | So, you see, this is how it works: I can go back to sleep | Everything is, and everything is in place, now | isn’t it?

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, October 2013)

A subtle | shift in the sheets | a fissile whisper | tows all the darkness down with all the lights | love | kiss | the stump of an ankle, stroke | the moist nests of | wiry hair, the eggs | draw and simmer

A pastime’s | cathedral | Hours spent | wandering the vaults of the | kaleidoscope or your first “literary novel”

Dreaming of one of those places where the weather is stable | sunshine all the day

How will you make your money?

Oh, by blogging | Maybe a fishing village

It is Gulliver, your sigh | dragging Lilliputians left and right, sending them | tottering and scrambling, and April | locks into March and May, the planet | turns, the galaxy | ages

The universe grows and thins and | your bed begins it | Once upon a time

Fragments of the sheets’ whistles | form a fragile debris, your lover | rises and the mattress | feels different, lighter, less | important, somehow

A shower, then dress, then they’ll go | into the order of the morning

The pointlessness fills with points and | you miss your lover

The story of Everything feels broken, the parts | left with you | The heroes and heroines | are elsewhere | You can’t | whip the mules of your character on, or force | the narrative of your control | to any reasonable end

You are responsible, but | it just doesn’t feel that way

Trains coming, trains going – that’s the only | sense you make | idle and unshaven and | detached and | unwittingly amoral

You can’t sign the chit for the world today | for the arsehole on his phone | for the time off to explain | the cat’s needs | to the pigeons | for the unimportant way | the starving die | for the hard-working mirrors | in the households of the vain | for glaciers melting into your coffee or the politics of | fritter and gas, the | crashing | trucks of wealth and for | the “harmless stupidity” of | doing your bit towards | deferred genocide | so boring

Hold on to the next moment, find a way | to make the clock go round

A fishing village, with lots of sun | calm days | a pocket of the map no tourists | harass with their fuss of theatre, exits | and entrances | arrivals | and departures

Once upon a time | I had a fight to fight | values to propose and to propound, now | I carry a labyrinth of sleaze and torpor | in my soul, and my spirit | has no home

Like it says in Zen, right? –

One loss | One gain

You’ve forgotten your novel, Oblomov but | this is your train

 


from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem, October 2013)