Washed up, in some corner of life… | Youth was also like this, there were such days / I stole the sun then, and would | give it back, quite freely, but now… | It is right to talk of ripeness and poise | dry leaves scratching on hot pavement | Lord | but, well, it’s wrong, too | Like everything, right and wrong | Do you gauge | the current of the poem run through | parasol and the odd | bright dings of bicycle bells, continual | sprinkle of phenomena? — all these details | incorruptible in their irrelevance | inexhaustible in their plenty | certainly, more than enough or perhaps | just precisely enough | to fill, quite perfectly | the space permitted this | Bank Holiday Monday | backwater of a life, autumn | lining summer’s jacket | pale | blue on orange | acute | melancholy for the flamboyant dandy, or is that | too much of a cliché? | Tant pis | Circus of atoms, and the horses dance | while in the hollow | tomb of a diamond | you find quite new ways | to waste your time | Frankly, I feel I have | got it backwards, or | badly sideways | partly | topsy turvy | just plain odd | My philosophy | bends the orders to a skew and rot | my art | is a massive | missing of the point | technique a shambles | a crescendo | where a muted | sadness should be | a fanfare instead of tears | or weeping bang | in the middle | of the car chase or the lustrous | shower scene | Dragging the ship after me | across land | when the voyage is over | hiding the map I need to | find my way back | or on | to happier days | building a fort in the desert | to protect a vanished | empire’s reputation | bowing to a queen who | dishonours her subjects | with her love of | facility and paradox and | clouds and | suicide… | Digression is the | true mode of life | not some | Nazi species with commands | an overlord | Conclusions should be | of necessity | aphoristic | Suffice to say | such years have passed | to render me | uncertain | avaricious for remaining | my heart a | cave for hibernation | a bloody | pudding, a putting | on of fat | even for August or the fresher spring | Is to know so much | to know, most of all, most | intimately | the triumph of | nothing? | In any case, tonight | I will keep the sun


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

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