it all writ, and I
marchin right up on Back Sparrow Press.
first box of shells
go remake front desk.
I makin’ nice with the cowerin’ folk
writers with appointments.
I plug 12 more in under barrel
while they piddle-poolin up the tiles
stream runnin now and
they not Rimbaud for sure.
I call up on megaphone
"Bring me fuckin' designer. Typography first!"
(but first I do it Morse on the button,
all beep-beep-burp)
I'm not an animal
megaphone go "Typography Designer
you tell him read his email on way
I want it sensitive!
and a new one ******
Serif sexed up and yeah, looks just like some old one.
Hell, no one but you Beatnicks tell
difference between
Fournier and Source Serif anyway.
You talk Optima though,
I gonna shoot you in the dick."
when Typographer (She) arrived it was awkward
I apologised about the dick-shootin’ thing
and we got past it.
I mentioned I was some stirred up,
She was receptive to it.
Now I’m back on walkie-talkie, patched in
to fire-base system and them speakers go woop at you,
on fire drill day
those speakers go 'put down coffee and stand in carpark'
middle manager in Village People hat
counting heads.
I’m on that now, and Print Designer
jump right out of their Turtleneck
I kindly request them and their samples
come to lobby quick smart,
for I paint walls with the Temp.
"You bring Tomasetti sampler too,
one shows clear-pass varnish,
that spot colour magic hear too expensive."
"I imagine Editor be putting blank check on this run,
soon as I take gun out of his mouth."
That last one a bit of bluff…
Editor’s head went candy on the way in.
Grenade in his mouth, fishin’ line to pin,
I explained it all clear.
Told him even what movie it come from
and book they ripped it off from.
Turns out, tha' Editor nothin' but Biz Grad
his minor in Lit didn't help much
when I quick-quizzed him on the Moderns.
one finger per poet, he lost two for clear he just stupid.
It was alright though.
He lost one for Teasdale (I Shall Not Weep)
I gave him up ‘a leaf falls’ and doc e.e. himself
demanded finger more.
He bolt then with ‘1(a’
bending his twigs
and the fishin' line lost it’s patience with him too.
Editor-head went cheese-whizz,
but red-eye of building saw his ball first
pop them doors open,
say out his name even.
I forget what that name be, but **** him.
Poetry a blood-sport, and he in Arena without
’Highwayman’ even under his belt?
Line 79 Bess pull trigger for Love,
if she here now,
Bess put spark on powder
line 2,
principle alone.
So poor as
Editor no-name-cheese-whizz-head
and-mess-all-over-the-lobby-was
(- see, got his name right in the end)
He opened doors to Publishing for me.
So for next 10 minutes
till SWAT send 300 grain lead
size o' hotdog
through watermelon
I’ll feel like its all comin' together.
this slender little book get some breath
wave 48 wings on updraft
go circle round the flame
of any candle-heart come find it.
\ Stockwell - May 2026