grate . like cheese his sweet ambiance rises to a sweat . the punch is coming f2.8 the glassed interior of the moments hold . & I am implicated by her letter which outlines the true events . at least

from her side . & the motorway will pass right through this garden wall if we let it . leaning over I pluck the lint off the dead mans suit . ergo all things must fall . 1/1000th of the second naturally still trying to wring something from her last words .

and they found him where they found him . i kiss her & turn the whole thing on it's head . climbing in embracing . we are making holes for each other to climb into . later on

all the glacial subtractions . hair-clips . pliers . small and delicate trusts . and hundredths of seconds shaved from my minute of freedom . as if . f16 . And the under-taker scrapes the shit off his trousers while we play twister and get aware

that emotion flies it's own intimate missile . the flavour is sealed in and the photos show it went right on target . & there's comfort in that & there’s local radio on the radio in the far room . outside consumers barge & the fight goes on . the hissing walkie talkies

the mute partnerships the all elusive profitable course of sail . mud on the step & missing her at one-two hundredth of a second . who is it who is letting in this light . fist . heart attack . the remaining moments particles of speech

her singing floats over the lemon trees my collar flies in a breeze too cooling to be true . there is satisfaction in the bedroom but out on the street the grey cruisers prowl at corners where you have to walk closely by . sword play . she says don’t be sure there's not someone else that my thought adheres to . & the suits death march up the escalators . some hundred stories lead up

to dusk & you lose sight of everything even if you cared enough to remember . her words catch in her throat & there is a brief moment of fright until it clears . later in the feel sessions she nominates me for an award . maximum meaning in the silences that hang from the triangulations of complexity . or at least

that's what she says . I'd prefer to get lost in the kinesthesia . but here we are still sucking at breaths and wouldn't you know it righteously full of ourselves for making it this far . our fashion is plastic inlaid with plastic & our idea of a great night centers on the glitter that we can paint on . the coffee pot licks in bulb light

& her particle dreams of stardom against my reason . my folly . I'm not sure we should even stop to question it a wave never stops nor even begins so much as you can tell . just our section is enough to take care of . sitting in the flux embracing the void as much as the satellite singing our words deep into the slipstream

future cult

sign here . accumulate the static marks of your identity . still you have no idea which one which margin which seemingly arbitary sequence to call on . today is

picture in picture & mute on . behind it all the impatient glands of fury . & small things at that . the parking meter . over-tight jar lids all the trivial stuff really sets it off . but here

back in the turning codes of your embrace we hold the beginnings of some new mode . a new music of appreciation . a new shot at the idea of new . like us the implications rest together

stems of the moment . blooms of difference & the dazzling cruelty of the colors . so many ways . & never once pass over the same ground twice like signing your name . you can pretend it's the same everytime yet each day

has a new gesture of belonging . a new intent curling towards some tenable riches . so many things to join not least our coming together . can you remember signing that day where even the future seemed possible again?


are you going to take the journey that you can't make long enough often enough . you think there's a limit but that's only what the man has told you . you have to connect grapple with the tailings of it make like john wayne wrestling the squid

get on in there and move it all around . like right now I'm working the remote control how good the buttons feel ( the best are those which feel soft as though you were pressing someones palm . reading it

as if it could really mean something . and we can see our lives stretching out in lines that are weather fronts or railway lines or lines of text . we know these as our own the paths that run down to the sea

and the red lines the great interleave of shipping routes the tracings of aircraft satellite beams and router lines . they are all personal . like the paths we run down

to avoid each other ) . these keys to the remote world they are as much my brain as what I say or feel they are my wind that blows logic & umbrellas inside out . into delight

and complexity . we are our own R&D . we bend the lines & fuck with the endings & move right on into flux . we can push the notions of physics another notch or two

until we accelerate beyond our own knowing around a future that curls up past & brings it out of sleep to thrash like that fish that once had to get lungs . & my brain is breathing this new air . & i could make it through


the 48X power-zoom desires . buzzsteps on the escalators . & finally when you find the toilets they have a sensor so when you step back there's a flush . wow . your bladder is congratulated on it's release . shitting is not so automatic because here it comes in so many ways

it comes suited . casually buttoned down frosted . dyed . 100% man made . tech enhanced . phone-slinging & hip-loaded muscular . workplace team mediated . sport jacketed & marlboro smoking & anorexic . drunk stoned tripped speedy

slowed down . sub suburban & painfully hopeful or hip trick flossed & loaded . all this shit goes down here & comes out as gold somewhere else not here but levels above credit-locked with ear-phoned kids hanging tough

where each bar is a designer perfect perfectly disposable . & the electromagnetic buzz steps out your fertility . air hot punctuated with the rhythmic suck on your chips when you loose . & against their odds you throw some more down . you throw

in the name of lady luck . a dream you had a hunch a feeling a need . a knowing that you above all deserve it . you do deserve this & right now . & once in a while the odds shoot their load & you can go the bar and give luke langley your money while

you watch the replays of your rewards . close-up of your hand . the mechanoid spins the symbols matches them up grudingly hesitates then spits its' metalic wad onto your flesh . a great shot & that's is as good as it gets . this forking out for the intensity of a cum shot

the politic

tingles . the apostrophe . happiness is a notional swing towards the innane . you will see exactly where you look and nothing more & nothing will reveal itself . meanwhile tossed in the furnace the creative breaks into deeps . won’t make it back unless it can come out and call itself design . and turning on that the candidate slings an earth-wide smile the dribble of self-importance swings from the equator where the followers catch it . drink it shit it as statistics and look at it . look there’s a swing to the left . such is not nothing no dig deal to sling back the anesthetics of involvement . like the politic wasn't some joke that orbits the earth immune . ambivalent . even it's mutation . & there's a hand coming into our light . following the endless arm multi-jointed . built by robots for robots . hydraulic slightly fleshy & a thousand offerings to forget & many more rituals of taking . denied the center of it all but allowed a playful & corrupt . paranoia . manifest . entertainment . & making it is playing while the ship goes down .


paul klee said . now objects perceive me . and that's the killer's credo too . those bright young men among them friends of friends . failures but at what you can't know . you can hear them back down the road partying in the upstairs flat . their round drunk flames our sleep . the liquorice twist of night melts into their tacky dreams . balance . you say . and i have to ask what . & have to work hard to believe that the fridge is not out to get me . it's a trick of the light flick magic fire tipping into poison green . ghostly almost gaelic . the killer leans down says `lick me' and his genes wrap my legs . the sequence is unravelling & around my throat . surely he doesn't mean it . i mean his sick radiant atmos . his backways crassness . his sourtooth . and the fridge the fridge is hysterical and needs my help . & i am really awake now & peaking up large head darkcast and crystaline while the fridge limps out of the kitchen it wants to score . it wants trouble it wants violence & it wants it now . & with it the last source of light . i am trying to write my last lines in the dark while the light sickens while the seizure snuffs the last of my resistence

stupid (paroxitine)

& numb . the burnt amber shifts a light switches on a light switches off while the blunt nothing fumbles . shafts of blue horses . headlines . sunlight on my burnt forearms . i am a child a broken precious cup of cricket bat & susnscreen christmasses . no fun here go elsewhere with the help of another hundred pills . & falling up the random staircase . & hundred after hundred erases so i am hitting my head on everyone as i go up but fuck it still remaining slick dabbed and slam dunked here . the poison of this fixed moment . dead body wish . managing another fifty pills i fly my 747 through the skyscraper wanting to take you all with me . flames . blood . polyester t-shirts brand their clever owners with the scars of brief sentiments . if it's rockin don't bother knockin . a kiwi eats shits & leaves . shit happens . & the black-box falls down the elevator shaft & back into memory . suffer the downloads . backup complete . the evidence & convenience of duality . & yeah surfacing cold snaps my lungs shot-gunned . poor . half synthetic . wearing i am with stupid . but i am not ( this ridicule ) . but i am not standing next to anyone


this unexpected ease . it has no shadow and no form except which we make . of course she is leaving soon . that same old repeat tragedy slash time-limit thing that same old same old . and the new & altogether not quite disintegrated .

we are ignoring the morning light and play out into nights and afters . her dog licks my hand . salt haven . her mouth dips me right off the scale . & i remembered her before i saw her & caught her brief in a kind of silence . 30 seconds after that under the influence & we are laughter over nothing

right out over nothing & onto another side where we inhabit a new idea of space . turning each other round & round . an active collision of cares . this a scene shot in lightness & something of the past has gone over there . come over here come over here & let me hold you again

the other worlds

the future circulates around us and has no gaurantee . maybe the earth doesn't care if we wipe ourselves up with oursleves & throw us away . we are a potential archeology a temporary flicker of light on the screen and half accidental at that . and when i waste away into dreaming your method of speech will be a visible network on my skin . neurosis universe . nothing beyond me but potential . from your station you report that we are inadequate and sick with each other . and sickness is not enough for you and this is all we hold . the trains that pass overhead . even the buds of rust & the track itself twists in the heat . these gestures to an escape & a suggestion of expectantacy & there's something to catch & if we're late it will leave without us . dominance . scrutiny reveals nought . just one piece of plastic explosive could end it all . even your radience is a danger . you have all the confidence of someone who trips into the next century and belongs there . exquisite & without history . living all the possible worlds . & maybe leaking back to this one . if there are no boundaries only soft transits then where am i . how can i hold onto the future when you have thrown the future far beyond our reach . & right out on into whichever whatever comes next


is it even anywhere near enough to take you in my hands and in my hands take you off somwehere else . who knows which where but under a pleasing and silver light we could fathom the deeper sorrows that gather here . where here . we're here . i have a guitar i can't play and you a piano . we have two hands each and nothing else . black dots arrange themsleves on the page with a fierce regularity . temptations of exactitude . the staistical calling forth of order and a certainty that is blank . at least to us . madness and queerly tilted . ambient then broken notes unravel in savage type frenzy in a frustration of not knowing how to play the whole thing . or even a part of it . but this is one thing we have over the thing . we can play time with our poor music . we can laugh at order we can laugh at orders and leave them at the door . this door we got from the wreckers even though we didn't need it and the guy said why take it if you don't need it and you said . or was it me . we like it . we take it cause we like it . and who knows one day we may even use it for something more than drums .


shitday. the usual however drunk & shoeless man & the other one who beckons with his finger & has a cowboy hat & so on . more of them by the week just their presence is a commentary on policy as much as `newspapers' . and both of them covered in trails the dark scatter of insects . wet feet breeding somekind of new disease . and everyone looks younger and older at the same time . and no-one is my age anymore . the tedious flatmates are still there . the crap job is still there and still there at the middle of it all the sourness of money & necessity twists my fingers and my arm up my back and pushes me to the floor . a drunk policeman and his breath . canker floss . and all of us are suppossed to be adults and members of the community and all that . and none of us even ask anymore . ask any of those questions . the big ones have broken down into a drift of smaller anonomous and no way less critical queries . and even then the queue makes us hang up . the build-up of manifest small annoyances . and we are running from ourselves . like the shoplifter is trying to run away from the jealousy of her fingers before the camera flattens her into print. and the jealousy of stealing .