92. At Our Back, Disordered Noise:

“children are responsibility, grandchildren our hope”

At our back disordered noise
things get unforgiving here, not helpful
oh children, children, children, are you redeeming
are you collapsing us w/ scarlet rooty-tooting
like the ending of all natural delusions
into need, demand, uncertain laughter
everything changing, yes, into itself & nothing
our bodies’ transformation into tapirs delicious
too much so
            we preserve no possibilities this time

no sense in here, little creatures, no
just infinite hunger & the remains of spittle
our enemies now huge and flaming
“these are ours and therein all that is”
let’s be waving at friends from the future
maybe laughter & perversity make a redeeming couple
glimpses of waterfowl pattering across the quay
what threatens the world will not protect these
only us with what heteroclite fragments
                                        best to use

just typical of this young world
lots of that pudding please
I miswrite here, OK –
like you disordered children
all her smutty fragments
oh Sarah I can’t stand it
just switch attention off the mess
then it’s all about speech
unusable & valueless
                     but a bit familiar to you then

84. Screen Memories Maybe of Bideford Fair

Not ordinary on the quayside
mongrels move across (we are they
of gryphons & tapirs & people &
all free creatures – not marred
we choose carnival & laughter
night-time suddenly sparks and shines
the dust smells of meadowsweet
we are fierce, miswritten humans
now opening history to the full at midnight

not triumphal – heavy struggle
we are devoured within
a buffet of profound perversity
irrationality of the non-human
always back in the old mud again
something brutish & smearing
home is the horizon – it glitters
somehow we are still wading up the beach
trust, intensified, one of our great truths

73. And What Has Been Miswritten Now?

Laughter, though, sustaining
all this miraculous disorderliness
nostalgia of the non-human
– it glitters! somehow slippery as
oh, bêche-de-mer – what allows this?
joy, skipping through our mongrel lives
to the horizon, that buffet of possibilities
triumphal perversity playing within our memories
it enacts our redeeming so

Some stodgy manifestation follows
not together, but smearing & misguided
where are the poets then? no warning
our bodies still always mock-heroic and alone
no triumphal re-entry now, but sedative
the misunderstanding is great: all gods broken
imagine it’s intensified & shining, the split
not spoken, not written, a right shard of shit
devoured in irrationality, profoundly marginalese then dead

68. Our Lives Cutting Silver in the Dark

Our lives flourishing & dignified
– strangers, inhabitants, all unabased
dapples radiating in ochre lights
a brief smile thanked tenderly
we developed in concert & wonder
the fresh future had not a king
leading this always outside, delight
et leges civitatis, common rule
people, people shine, familiar stars

together, the loneliest, the unconditional
psychotic on principle, some gross improvisation
Spicer or Bonney or Amiri Baraka
demanding change, never certainties
infinite consequences – this is really magic next
nowhere outside, of course too delusion & death
demonic worship on the pavements (fake)
oh hit it! We knew, never did
movement of flesh cutting silver in the dark

60. Inside Is

All this revolution mess, then, well
cheering, not focused, even ludicrous, here
everything a fragment, what is left
the language empty: eat, drink, then
doss and consume the loneliest dust
sometimes our cries are imperceptible, nowhere sd
I can only say it is not ever working
we’re into this harsh space of transient dimensions
illuminated drops and gross flesh to transform

almost believable
just language
mirror needs
some story’s
everything frequent
translucent utterance
we’ll what
inside is
this translated