Piecemeal man, tatter cake, taken from a bag of scraps | what comes after “fragment”?

<fascination with Rimbaud, boyhood, 70s>

And the road is having afterthoughts, the ship of maps | with Paris, riding at anchor | nothing | stays in these pockets | they are full of holes

Smoke smiling in bottles | brown fog, lashed to echoes | frays and dithers | then fades through the long dissolve | to empty decks, no crew survived | frost chastens the spars and rigging | rock and creak, crock | rock and creak | no five bells no come about Mr | the stars are super-cooled | Alpheratz and Fomalhaut | toy to Christmas lights on Finnish larch | when ice falls in washing | stalactite spears | it sounds the breaking of Chartres gargoyles | magicked to brittle glass | and litters of angels in sacks for drowning | like wriggling kittens | will you stay | to see them cast | or to hear out | the excuses from your benevolent genie?

Drunk in a mirror hotel | pin your senses to a winter cloud | those old, hand-drawn poets | lolling on donkey epithets | chasing down butterflies with gauzy nets | all queuing for their papers | on the side of Parnassus | cirrus-maned lions | and deal negotiators | vain mountain | land-locked and heaven-pointed | take up your berth | in a fragile | see-through boat | abandon the age | with visas franked by snakes and tigers | booked passage | and headed out | into the heated air | rising like Montgolfier | igniting like the Lumières | the sea, the fountains and the debts | the squabbles and the reputations | the blooded cobbles and the city squares | are lit into three syllables | and turned to gossamer

Lima, London, Caracas, Port Said

You see

you cannot buy shares in paradise

if so, what use is that stale eternity?

and those passport poems | rejected into fashion and degrees | turn toys

Ransacked, heaven is a mess | a place looters and thieves may camp awhile | donning silks and feathers and pearls | but words | transparent to a T | failing from promise and their absolute

you seal their fate | by turning your back on them | and all their frail craft | their fleet incendiary fire | put on your boots and walk through mud | prefer a truth of goods and guns | schedules | agendas | notebooks | for lines of figures

so you wake | start to roam

in a trail of steam, a scream | of strange seabirds | diving from bleached cliffs | gaze from the stern

left with

tusks | ivory | journey | bald foam


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