44. The Vagrants Song: “Oh Breathing Yet Free Mountain Air”1

Besides the blurry fire, no pressure.
Speaking of impaired, Paulina moved:
this time snarky smears clean the sun
a inhuman image in old Nevada
just laughing order. Dagoenean
had disgust. The little one
will be happier, entering this liberty.
The skies are torn. The Geldi come
gods of corrosive kitsch now playing down

Always amazement out of Trumfleet:
our tokens flourish, the game go on
oh this is old talk! – callow kitsch ’n’
new pleasure. Rats reads poems;
gods bear the fight. To Liberty!
My & your – scratch scabs modulate the head.
Trust excess. Rearrange all areas
gently with my fingernails. Divine counsel too:
in the south western sky ancient nameless art displayed.



1 Note that the following text was composed in the language of the other world about this world, the only one we know, then “translated” necessarily into the language of this world, the only language we know. This is normal for poetry.

41. Write Without Words (Relics of Trash Welcome)

Whatever’s all how – well
practically pleasurable I start
across the thing, fusing
gain and moment, tenets flying
yeah, all over commonplace geography
the next is marching
at 15.29 the pattern
turns important – relics of trash
welcome, never damaging or distorted

ja! ja! . . . harsh as bones
Pauline, John & Jesus – the storm
the old gang chose
something solid crashed: the rules
say, this simple, improvise
you need to be exploring:
perhaps it’s Xi – reader
rearrange all this as warning
as society started, writing
                    without words

37. Attention, Delicious Games

dreams are here – gosh
familiar and dutiful – very
unabased. Thank you Veronica
& you Pauline. Accept
i accept yr kiss
circumstances choose
all a tissue of voids
it’s fine, it’s filling
just where we work now

where with you, the young
I head into games
outside & our peculiar power
something starts: stop stories
children of circumstance close & delusion
the themselves then there I think
also an astonishment
like locked made me memories
of the Midlands now and ran

22. Starting with Laughter a Bit

Starting with laughter
                       – why’s
never any of our patterning.
neon and the delicious disordered:
David1 at dawn’d rebuild m.o.r.
aristocrats – alright, they seem barbecued now
a believable nothing: Sundays will
break the bones into constellations of summer:
Crash! Cross! Shine! Whatever
fucking entoptic now Sarah promises

poeticising her familiar. Need
is repetition
              or kaka; no comment
this pudding fragments
                       – splash!
Suddenly smutty screaming – idealess
but alchemically Dynamic – OK like food
oh, or paper. A word. A world.
Disgust following – OK: the young
all starting off real but recursive
it’s a medium mess but fun, a bit



 1 Houssart, so’s you know

18. How Beautiful the Swift Is Flying, How Ugly When Still & Dead

Here is where we are all right
in unbroken being, yes, constant improvisation
always swimming into this world; slavery?
yes – but I cannot say, maybe we hide
the blame, the bodies, our bodies then
the wonder of it all in summer sparkles
& we are stripped of circumstances and weeds
we shall be rejoicing & thrive – thrust
to accept the delicious ecosystems of each other

of a sudden sooty, then within reverie
a question: Richard & Rita, Gilda, Glenn
Adrian & Stella – half-derelict all yet immortal
trapped that is in suffering & incompleteness
no help; congeries of shingle infest the shrine
just a Kentish artefact, briefly roseate
nothing whole; futile to improvise calm this dawn
La Vedette Atomique, my friend within the ale-house
out here the apocalypse is breaking into vapour now