Archives for posts with tag: hypergrammar

The sparkling yeast of a secret, whispered behind her hand into your ear | A neural fire

It sets trees of blood growing at speed, a red forest soon engulfs the moon and even the sun as you feel light | becomes superfluous

I love dusk in London, especially in summer and spring, I’d love to see it all from a distance, floating above the city like a figure from Chagall, the progressive flowering of points of radiance all over the grid | An intense | expression of artifice / the simple need / to see through gloom

In the dense undergrowth, the brittle, glassy toys of syllogisms crack beneath your feet as you make your way through the secret’s / glades / its temperate splendour / leaf-dappled paths | ramifying | evolutions

Aroused dreams unfold and grow all around her, flourishing and fading | civilisations and theories

You find your heart is composed of an infinite number of disparate points, most of which | don’t belong to you at all

The secret’s forest floor crackles with the tread of strangers and you realise you’re not alone | inside her whisper

She turns to all the things she is not, and she | is them

 


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

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Through the moist ghosts of rain, I run for cover, then I walk out | into the rain again

In a diamond hearse, spring sunlight’s carried to your touch’s grave | Baby gestures / flutter and creep

From a daydream vampire | The shadow of my wings / touches the sleeping virgin’s face, but does not | wake her

My head broken open spills a glittering swarm of sapphire flies | The pillow so soft, the lane of sleep winding and winding…

A guttering candle, I fade into the silence, then | flame to a voice once more / Speaking and burning

Now you’ve left me, I cannot touch your lips anymore, or puzzle over | the meaning of your words, only | at night | I try to hear your laughter and doze off / to the murmur of funeral lullabies

Beethoven played on a toy xylophone | a wry glance | at spring stars

 


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

Unfinished novels

“how Rory was furious” and “the unicorn’s golden iris”

Hands reaching across Asia, to the tents of Tamburlaine | Jack | crushed the bud of a peony | in his palm

Lives, too, unfinished | the girls in their party frocks | in cloakrooms crowded with coats | patting and stroking down | Sam in gauzy angel wings | Monty | taking a quick slug from his flask | white gloves and opera glasses | and all tied with a neat bow of silken giggles | as Cory and Josie slip away | leaving shapes on hangers | and the finest | disturbance of stillness in clouded mirrors | taking photos on their phones | and rushing, rushing, rushing | like souls | caught in two minds | between two bodies | Josie and Monty | flustered, yet

Badly arranged | transmigrations

Not getting | to the end of the episode | passing out | in the middle of the wedding

Arriving too late | for the fireworks display | the air muted | scented with smoke | and flat | all the bubbles of “oohs!” | floated away | into the

And death no end | a clunky | plot device | the tulips in the unfreshened bowl | by Granny’s clock | droop like snakeheads | dipping to drink

Crushed up in the car | the weeping ballerinas | still in their tutus | gawping photographers | in the midnight fields | horses stand, very still, under a full moon

And death no

 


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

Gary’s heart has old bits of string in it | metal banisters, leading down into parking bays | leading down into rivers | leading down into swimming pools | into beds like pools full of floating | girls and | KFC boxes | lotus flowers | oil stains

Gary’s heart is packed with old junk | like an attic, his attic | <the latest | of his attics> | has deer running through it, deer and bats flitting | between the joists | stacks of manga from the 90s | obsolete electrical appliances

Who comes to Gary’s heart?

Mostly empty, consumed by voids, constructed by voids | his mother | puts her arms around him | there | he is frightened by the seagulls, his father | comforts him | Why do the gulls | shriek so, and what | power drill should he buy | the DeWalt?

Mostly consumed by voids, constructed by voids | Gary’s heart is an open lawn under the moonlight, the placid | enigma of suburbia, the white | corners of houses | prefab pavilions | of conservatories | and the acute | stillness of the moonlight | the perfection of it | for it has | found its moment here | a moment | shaped like a shell from his | sister’s necklace, and the moonlight | fills the shell and doesn’t | spill at all

Pages: 1 2 3 4

Falling asleep over the words…

The trees bow and lay down their cloaks of shadows / with sweeping gestures

invite you in

The bear’s eyes burn with the sombre fire | from the old animal furnace | grumpy and tired | will he | give us a ride?

At dusk, owls ignite their stares | of gold and young sun and peeled orange / the woodsman’s three children / down below / on the path | don’t notice

The snake by glide | the salmon by leap and swivel, turning the pearls on a layer of air | to flying beads of silver

Everybody is very sociable in the forest | Even the psychopaths are charming

But which ones are the psychopaths?

The landscape slips open | the text and crows, now, which is which? | The creep and screech and twitch

Head heavy as a bear’s head, as Bruin with a Bruin’s plod and slope | sleep slops and sluices | on the edge of the moonlit lake | a fairy girl gazes as she goes | on her light switch schoolwork | pinnace of beetle’s backs and frosted sails | of cobwebs caught in a short gasped shot of winter…

The catalogue of ships, calling forwards | and back | to the Greeks and teens / Trojans and Kit and exile and gulag and gloomy Achilles | and Ilium | and scrape of the Ark’s keel | on the first | tip of Armenia…

The grandfather clock never quite escaped
its native genus, and at night, from polished sides
twigs and leaves begin to scratch, while on the glass face
centipedes drip and trickle down
uncurling like loose, bronze necklaces…

And that sound? | Of distant chimes? | Half the sound of Gion temple bells | summoning to the spring air | the hearing of each | an echo of the impermanence of all things | half | my snout and muzzle | bloodied and rusted by all I’ve snaffled | for my noonday meal | but no that sound | is the end of the fight | swords and armour laid down | and the body | and the knowledge of wrong, and right, and wrong | and in between | half that is | the sound | of Achilles at midnight…

••


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

Has the time passed when we | will have forgotten this?

Coal dust and roses

Intimate eye, no more truthful | than any other | except | in that it is our eye, this | intimacy: it is | our kiss…

Coal dust and Jack Frost

No, no: my kiss | A thief’s share, always | Then barrels of traffic, blunder and clouds | round and round | five more days | of commuter life… | My kiss, not ours, I take it | in a sack thrown over my shoulder | across rooftops at night | tip-toe and teeter, trot and slide | on clinking tiles | fear like a cat’s eyes glowing | in a sudden shaft of moonlight…

Jack Frost: where are his footsteps?

Burning dry flowers on a fire | in the same grate over time has gathered | the ashes of ledgers | faggots of cherry, oak | peel of satsumas | and slight | satsuma pips | spat through smoky air | lissom with glisten

Why the tears? So smoky in here

How can I put this?

Portents and foreboding

Where can we put this?

Charms, chimes, gleams, games

Where did the wind come from? | blows a vapour of cataracts | from the silenced willows? | The river’s | rifle doesn’t fire | I get so confused | by saints and skaters

An overpowering scent of cold woodsmoke | in mornings cracked from slumber | and a hoar cocoon

Has the time come | for us to forget this?

Thompkins’ barn a black mass | gorgeous | theatre where spiders weave their cobweb ruffs, a spiteful | tractor rusts but did it move? | Did it?

Intimate, belonging only to us, a jewel | locked in boxes of moments and inches | how much | theft is left in us?

Coal dust and boots

November boy, that matters, skews the seasons round a jot | blends the humours | add a pinch of solitude | like an airy yeast | snow | inters Jackson’s ditch | we grow caught up | in the sea’s | transactions with the moon | a life | littered with hidden, personal things

Boots, and fire tongs, and coal dust

And your heart? Will it?

Withered flowers not fresh with giving

Grieving | and the Laceys’ girl born stillborn | the Carpenters’ girl | born premature

Has the time come

when we will remember this?

••


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

Left hidden, meaning to be found later

Midway across the bridge of an instant, press on, hoping to get to the other side

The blizzard worsens, take shelter in a woodsman’s hut | the ghost you find there, you pour into her | all the love you have been concocting | out of sight | slipped in the backs of the books of | harmless pleasantries

Billet-doux

The single bullet the suicide cherishes | hidden among routine light | under the frozen surface | bulbs sleep, porting their secret | Heat and fragrance you will never find

Mademoiselle in daffodil silk | all a-fluster | She stoves the sun in her pocket | What is the sensation | whips the clouds to such fine lather, pushes April deeper into harm | teases the petals, all at once, open?

Soft bash and flutter in the woods | the birds are set | rushing to their own discovery

When she leaves me, I dream of that book again, the one where | when | I part its pages | banknotes peel out in streams and fall

Bones for the attic | boards for the floor | and what the rich | think of the cold

Irregulars | steal from the store | The plummet and gash | of milk from the clay jug | shatter of mother on cool tiles | the pantry | in my paternal | grandparents’ house | the narrowest of alleys | reduced to a snowflake | creaking in a cobweb | scatter | of raider rats’ claws

Going back | to the same place, but the same place | has gone

I wake suddenly, into an aura of treasure

Bones for the flagstones | bones for the gutters

Orphan

••


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

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)

It is what you carry with you

The labour of a life in a moment || Love in the lit buildings, then it seems | sometimes | only the blocks of light are left, the buildings have | dissolved like a | taste on your tongue

Principles, statements, sweat beads, the tattered | trees of your predilections

When you are young the world is young | The future is peppermint | staying awake past the normal hour || When you’re old, the world feels aged, too, yet | is it? / It is what you | carry with you

The great weights, the stones, the ruins, how they’ve bowed you down, they | float in a simple change of direction, the coin-flip moment of letting go, that | jitter of blurred arcs of silver

All the words, too, with their infinite | wisdom and dullard | plod || How they have threaded you for so long | The people next to you | the strangers in their | glittering lines | each a bead | strung out on words, it’s what | you carry with you

In each thing is the | seed of the end | the moment of fatigue | the loss of impetus and volition | The holed | shanty of the cocoon | All the shades in ashes

Your life, your fate | your politics and where they’ll take you? | It is what | you carry with you

The act of carrying, as you age, it’s what you become | Answers, destinations, bottles to recycle | Your mother in a | sepia dress with | Chinese swallows | upon her shawl, your father | in Brylcreem and white | tux with cumberband | they are both | younger than you, now | and carry | out of their gazes | all the hopeful ignorance of their | desires || You wait for them | all you are | a smatter of thoughts and | daydreams | the scent of pine needles in a forest you didn’t | set out to find, the task | you neglected and | deserted

Put down | all the suns | Put down | the trains with their | lulls and drones | their knitting of knotting | over the points and the primary yellow | of oilseed rape against an | indigo sky, put down | Turgenev and Mark Strand | invite into you the final | question mark of | sleep, the serene, hazy, quizzical | total | interruption

And all the things you put down | what will become of them? | Nothing, mostly, but some of them | perhaps, or | some form of them, or | something like them | perhaps | or | mistakes that | look a little | like them | a stranger may | take up, a stranger may | perhaps | walk on with

So, to the brilliant | red | atoms of the cherry trees | So, to the | tears of self-pity and of compassion | the grunge and | squeal of the | train on the tracks again, the woman you love | improvising her | delicate beauty again | the | elongated pagodas of | pine cones | the elegant | formulations of your | futility, the | mobile ruins of your | ideals and | the scent of failure like a drifting gas

Take the peppermint, take a flummoxed | call for solidarity | Take what you can | Take what you will | What reason will you find? | What | choice do you have?

It is the | inevitable shape of your | next footstep

It is the name you remember and the name you forget

The memories of | anguish and of | bliss, of | ordinary things, things that | seemed ordinary at the time, or seemed | extreme | all the things | just a tiny | handful of the | things…

It is what | you carry with you, yes

And for a moment, yes, it’s

this

••


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

All the mothers are walking towards the sea.

They aren’t going to be mermaids, or angels, or anything like that, and they aren’t going to be motionless for too long, or food for worms — although, I guess, some of them will be mermaids

for a little while.

All the mothers are walking towards the sea. My mother, first.

The sea raises its old white head, and makes shapes — strikes poses, not even from memory, for it is beyond | memory, and before

memory, too.

The mothers are walking towards the sea, the ones who died in their cars, the ones who burned, and their mothers walk in front of them, their children straggle behind.

The fathers can’t make sense of it, so instead | they do what they always do, and watch, impotently, as the sea | dumps its tons of white carnations | onto the beach, they have things they must achieve | before they die in cars, die from inhaling | smoke: they have money to make, and money to squander, they quickly | grow tired of watching the waves | foam into the sand, and their children are calling.

All the mothers are headstrong, they insist | on walking towards the sea, your mother, first.

Their beds were green, eyes | peeped out from between the leaves. They loved the evenings in the city | in summer just after rain | the lights were tender then, the future stretched wide, like a plain, and their bodies | came upon them over and over again | like king tides.

They go in lines, towards the shore, it’s not a matter of will, not a matter of thought or of design, not a matter of fate, and the fathers | can’t make sense of it, they start running away, although I guess | with their children calling, why would they linger?

The sea raises its young white head, just for the mothers.

Along the coast road, as night falls, the traffic builds, the vehicles put on their lights, it will take a while | to get to the city. Put on some music. Sleep in the back.

What’s the worst that can happen?

Let me tell you: it’s already happened.

All the mothers are walking towards the sea. Their young children | struggle to catch up.

My children, first.

••


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