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)