Just the upper torso
of dunes waving back to us
where we walk
all hymn: the sea, 7ish, and ourselves
the sun;
going slow
echoes of sea birds
tunnelling
above the sea
always
near home.

people accept
animals change

below street lamp
bleaching wet
changing back
as beggar becomes saint
cold rain
a wine
nailed by hammer
a twist
a tongue
a cursing
a symphony
a belch;
a chance.

milk within still cup
the rock you sit upon by sea
to the tanks inside lessons gone
to the bulging sky within sky
coming peach within rising grey
cities enveloped below their own dust
where the final creature crawls
forward
stomach flat upon grain
walking;
adding dance to hymn
playing in sparse rooms
yellow gloves
from nicoteen
shedding every song
from the strings they pull
placing documents inside briefcases
and letting them all fly
calling the one book a lie
drinking the storm like a cocktail
and flooring that pedal
so that the highway runs away
to the hum of sun
and remains
itself; remembering

itself.

A city made from music and gas
-a humor of golden mass in the boiler room
phosphoric eyes launching up;
heroes come slower now, fearful, decadent
as if engorged by war for too long
changed;
within the soil
looking up from the street with malleable bones
like antennae sending up endless prayers
expressing nothing
if not heard

a city, a dome, a breast
cannibals small, eating freely
‘a passing rebuttal’
a glance in the ride – which smiles back
and the world followed will
and the earth gladly sipped

cooks cooking better asleep;
poems, gas, meat, hunger
locked in horn
knowing they’re the wrong type
of poem free
to do whatever
they ever wish

even the energy of old worms has sense
and the concrete knows the distance from where they have come
from the earth-helping
them back, by natural pull, or passerby
before the parade comes
and the hooligans still have rage and bayonet
colliding inside faces
like metered bodies
unable
to learn dance
helixing
around you
their song-
neither taking
or meaning
anything
to your own;

the west-coast train leaves
the power station to my right
opening its three pounding mouths
to the quiet drone of the fog and sky
a sandwich and a coach full of drunks
-communing
-inside
-memory
and hail hits the window
solidifying rapid water
cocktails;

nearing a station and familiar fields
office, and tired sun
letting your face know she only jokes
when her tongue radiates
later on
when her body
finally breaks;

soaking the last dust
a home within scent
calling out to everything else;

calling it
a liar.

Better than twelve eggs boiled
like your gut, like your home, and memory
eaten, soft cooked, whole cooked
and good
easier than the next year
that came
we ate well that year
my trouser trunk grew
we spoke
together
to a man who agreed to sell us
it
cheap.

I’ll happily pay that time with a smile
Many
many

        !      *many

Lets make you a snaaakey
son!
lets digest the ground with its spill of green pearl
and the bars polished floor, lets hold
the taps and pour down our gullets
the golden froth of advertised skies
wetting and wedding our four feet
not two, lets not worry that
its closing time, lets not worry where
The fox wanders, for surely
its steps are its home,
its fur, dying daily
its bite
its life.

Don’t grow your hair like that
- eesht! -
that’s it, grow it back up shorter
that’s it that’s it, up up!
that’s better and cooler
i could never abide the way it grew
down
the way it looks now
****, we’ve finally got a show
we’ve finally got opportunity
tide

if i told you how much better you look
you’d make it grow again.