Could anything last longer than Los Angeles?

Confines of connection | living with my husband, the dinosaur | skull | laying a bridal veil over the toxins linked to my fingers | the gold you gave me | rotting out under the cloudless | sky around noon

The traffic was hell that day

Phones with no voices at the other end | of the line | your mouth full of corals | skyscraper growing slowly out of your heart | at an awkward angle, black | bulls tangled up in printers and cables | where the promises used to be | how you belong to them | the decayed | playgrounds in supercities of the future

Ice and mushrooms in your hair | you lay back | pour out the ink a million writers could use | the essential | languor of a typhoon | half asleep and half dreaming | in the ancient seawater

Fossilised theories crumble and burst | into powder | Memories revive | a dead suburb | and the zombies of old crushes | shamble down alleys, there is a white car | then the chain | is broken | when the life starts again | we enter the Museum of Deserts | look at exhibitions | of what this place used to be | i.e. | dead

Lord of Earthquakes and Tsunamis, Lord of Tennis Balls | Left Out in the Rain | Lord of Garden Snails and of White Cars | rest, your work is over | the cleaners are here | you should go home

A sugary debris pours through my blood | flakes of cherry blossom and | at this precise point in the information | location inflames | with stations melting in the heat | of our infernal minds | the people standing on the platforms | waiting for other trains | flash out of focus | enter the persistent, infinite glare | of the sun of muddle | the blinding | light of elsewhere

I held your hand in my guts, and then | gutless | floated inane and bobbing as a child’s balloon | into the next scene, complete | with blondes, tigers and waterlilies

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