Archives for posts with tag: hypergrammar

Nostalgia… | Memories like mountains, high peaks | snow-bound in winter | The bent | boat of her body | drifts | you are inside, another, a smaller | vessel | And all the animals? | Only the unobtainable | possesses the true | cruelty of beauty | in a French hand | The grasp | weakens, and the dream falls out | rolling across the floor like a ginger | cat’s eye marble | The place | you are trying to reach | is in the past | but don’t give up, isn’t the past | within you? | Lost kingdoms | Undiscovered graves | Hypothermia sets in when your body temperature | drops below 35°…


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


Falling into a light sleep, take someone | with you, touch of cool | snow-shine fingers, fresh | rustle of young birch leaves | under a blanket | with the hoofs of blue reindeer | crush crush crush of steps | parting in | dividing paths at the heart | of a ghost | dripping | clock of meltwater | and the white-painted room, really the first | colour of spring | a faint | taste of kirsch still on your lips, who | put it there?


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

Common kisses, and kisses in common | a dry kiss, moist kiss | kiss with kirsch, Lucozade, apricot | Schnapps <old man, remembering young caresses> … | Buried, far down | the first kiss | still | lights up, under the ice and the rock | bumps back into life | after its long sleep | while in the cold, clear | streams of their blood | ageing children | begin to sense | a new use for lips | find a fresh path | to an ancient thirst…

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

All things are gateways, and merely lead to other things
— Dustless

Denial of service | We never see | inside our own eyes

Floating desert | Wrap the moon in a passing heart | Waiting for a cancelled flight | The crematorium in mid-summer

Are you thinking?

Folding empty clothes | A polite sandstorm of the streets | Commuter days, the lost children | Hidden in plain sight | ghost trees chattering with voices | a pale dust | where roses flourished

Servants, more noble than their masters | Haze of blueprints | anglepoise | architects’ pencils | doodles of spooks | memories of Iraq, Palestine, Saigon

Folding a darkness | into an emptiness | into an emptiness | into emptiness

How will you connect them?

Waiting for her | A chain café | macchiato and Guardian | illegal logging | degradation of coral | no further inference to be drawn

Answerable to another moment, she can’t reach where she already is, having | already left | folding an emptiness | into a darkness | into a numbness

Under a leaf | in a windowbox | in London N1 | the gates of a cocoon | tremble | pushed from the inside | opened from the outside

Guessed presence | Bird singing | from the ghosts of trees

What were you thinking?

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

<last days of summer | Cambridge | 2015> clinging

A serene wreckage | A ship of flowers | the dry | carcases of wasps and bees | kings and queens | come apart from their coffins | and the coffins | memories stirred | start to remember | their cedar, remember | their oak

In-fill of heat | Allotments round the back | of housing associations | Pocket gardens | Sunlight


The water cold, the mariners | bracing themselves | for the long swim | to no known shore…

Lovers, too

Young children cry for the continents | of mothers and fathers

Floating clouds of islands…

Broken transport | sheds seeds of journeys | and arid beachcombers | study flotsam and jetsam | washed up from | lost voyages

Late literary lion | where castaways | plunge and tumble through surf | towards hot sand

Sun’s mane

Sun’s roar

Jungle lifeline | compasses | drift to the bottom of the sea

The naked | reach for their clothes

salt in their sleeves | and in their hair

they tumble half awake | into a mainline station

The north | calls…

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

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)

Body floats off | feet square on the ground, but the ground | floating

Head says “work”, shape of a bull | body empties itself | body is hidden behind a thought

Body says “sinking ship”, body insists | on mass and bulk, head | asks for water

Ocean in a flask, body sleeps | but the sleep | drifts off, apart | Head surfaces, bobbing on the current, rolls and | descends and | rises

On/off—on/off—on/off—on/off—on/off… | On | Off | Body flicks the switches, head | opens its eyes | In a dream | a mound of angels | black angels and white angels | some still alive | wings broken | feathers glistening | they can’t speak, they can only | sing

Various forms of headhunter…

Body’s currents are numerous, a river delta | body floats into view | hands drifting towards London, Paris, Berlin | head is one moment the spring | of the river estuary, another moment | the sea into which the estuary flows

Shipwreck days | Old farmer | in wellington boots | carrying a bucket full of lights, lights | the things his head spat out | eels | plans for renovation

Head orders the sounds into place, sounds order body | to flow | Head floats off | on the current | body | is poured | towards a different destination | Head | tossed behind a screen | rolls out of sight, into the undergrowth

It takes only a moment | to bring a thought of mountains | to the mountains

Head very still, but body moving | body chasing butterflies


dug graves (you may have seen them?)

Water | flooding the graves doesn’t | know the graves

Head, spinning a coin of thought

Body a castle fallen, fortress, fastness | Tides and the winds | come back for their share | ask for their part and body | has no answer but “No!” and “Here!”

Head keeps body in a phial, stays up late | ignores the moon | maps out the slowly charging bull in lexicons

Head sloughs body | body after body | Head | cooks up body in a wok | tosses a sliding | disc of bodies | frying and sizzling | Head dines on body | Body | waits | hesitant in mirrors | pulls | head after it into the long grass | head | protesting but | snails tickle on temples | slime the proud | glasses of axioms

Body sloughs head | not symmetrically | head after head bouncing and falling | melting away | like fingerprints | on a train window | dab a power station or a | line of tall poplars | such | soft | impressions…

Body sure | a mute bailiwick | so ailments | know where to come | head | anguished suitor | sometimes present | sometimes absent | sometimes both | sometimes neither | wraps body | in a million | layers of cocoon

Bride and bridegroom


made beds

Head | coughs and blinks | bodies of raw | chargers | And body | on | ever enough | is never | enough | head | flees into skyscrapers and codas and postludes | prevaricates and vacillates | prevaricates in distillates | vacillates in postulates | second thoughts and afterthoughts | head | sublimates and explicates | astounds and implicates | terminates and intimidates | wonders | is it enough? | Body


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

The children had a secret base for their fleet, an island | in the long grass || A secret base is an important thing, like memory or a heart | a place from which you may launch your operations, or retreat to, if things do not go quite to plan | They had strategists within their ranks, and visionaries and engineers | Among their vessels were strange submersibles, which left trails of milky phosphor in their wake, and sported weapons as elegant and apt as those | of duellist swordfish and narwhals | ships | Verne would have adored | or tyrants | died for || They knew the land | and with intricate measures of reconnaissance | kept watch on the moving forces of neighbouring states | and devised | elaborate systems for sending messages | They spotted things the adults | overlooked | details | of a knee-high world | and read | their spies’ reports | coins gleaming in dirt, and | from the wasteland of the nettles | the jagged white butterflies’ | semaphore | They kept their knowledge safe, encrypted in special codes | cached in bottles and huts | scattered in locations | around their hidden island || Yet, for all of this, their intelligence was limited, and they did not foresee | the source of the catastrophe | that would befall them; nor, at their age, did they suspect | the threat that | impends above us all, and which | conceals itself in emptiness || Stunned, and open-mouthed, in the dust, the blades still wet, they stared and inhaled | the haunting waves of summer breaking | over the bared ground | and almost drowning them | in passing scents of new-mown grass

Basking in the ocean depths of words, sharks of silence | wait out the centuries and feel inside them | and their obdurate bones | a kinship with the dinosaurs | The day arranges its pieces, calm and composed as ever: the time of your next appointment, the svelte procedures of superconductors, laughter after the light-hearted demonstrations of my genius, and the snake’s tongue glimmer as the lightning | slips back to its secret base

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

Golden dregs…

{no one writing | the obituaries of | grasshoppers or | mayflies}

You put my body down | We have called to the stones for so long, and now they have come to us

Gross and gorgeous | I | roi soleil | across a room like a | sea | The sunken | galleons of my thoughts | drip and spew pearls as | they are salvaged | This is my Levée, you may attend, only | be quiet and | suitably | blinded | as I | rise

Do you remember when | waist-deep in ocean waves | we held each other, and the Pacific | urged us up and | down | so we | stood on tip-toes, and had no | thought of the snow?

Dawn’s lapdogs

Yes, unfathomable…

I can’t count the paths I took to get away from here | So how is it | I am back?

We put our | threads of | electrical | diamond fuss | between | stone |     and |     stone

{cobweb in the frost, February 2009}

Exiled to the past, and buried in those graves of words | which, for so long, had no need of sense | the childish legionaries climb out | and hand to me their stage-set stones | vouching for their innocence

{rifts of time between | moment |     and |     moment || grief of ego, thoughts of you in swirling snow}

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

They come and they go, people

They are complex objects | arrangements | of belovéd signs, places | we adore or wish to | forget

Atoms | compose them, they are | strung out into the past, the | playground, the family pet | the sound of | fallen leaves and shreds of | bark from a gum tree | scratching on the stone | slabs of the | back yard

intense | personal things, or so | they seem

cannot hold on to their own | shape, the same | ankles

They change with the light, they age, they each | must make their particular | assignations in time and this | essentially absorbs | all of their lives, although they | call it by different names

They have seen | at low tide | the little iridescent | emerald-clawed | crabs twinkling across the muddy | banks under | mangrove trees, they have | conjured angels from | desire, and sometimes those angels | might be crows | in a withered | pine | or firemen in yellow coats with | silver reflective strips | messengers and saviours under the | surface | threading the | banal with the | divine | fabricating | a house with | foundations of | moving | flames

No person ever | quite | reaches another, that is | written in the law of caresses and inscribed in the furling privacy | of our so- | sensitive skin, the recesses of | thoughts and the | presence of the tiny but | inescapable | moment inside us and all | things


come and go, they | make plans and | speculate | make love and | groan, kick and | sigh | their bodies | are sources of anguish and bliss, forms of | impediment and liberation | wrack and litter and emptiness

There are holes in people everywhere | absences | of thought | forms | of enquiry or | loss, places | the memories shine through and sometimes | burn

People are | often confused | They have all sorts of ways of dealing with | light, most of all, though | by moving on and | forgetting

They are curious, but they are not sure, really, why they are curious | It is just | a way the sun sets, how | the shadows extend along the beach or the filling station’s | forecourt | the way the plane crashes and scatters its debris for miles | the mute | soft | bulk of a foot | the taste of her skin | the pattern the words | leave behind as they are | abandoned

People start | inside us | and grow | necessary | but do we ever | know what they are, these | people?

Or what they want? Or where | they think | they are going?

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