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Tourists of Babel atop Primrose
Hill selfie themselves, ahem-
selves begging pardon via a system
of smiling encryption. Backdropped by the awful
cityscape, inhabitable
vases, gimcrack gazillionaire ivy-
skiving skyescapers, towers
of Baby
-bel, other architectural handcreamery
floating over the facade forest. But this is not the
brow of fashion for zeitgeist refugee l/ me, cord
blood golem bard from Norwich. Omitted,
unmentioned Ovid born in Tomis.

Anointed by absent (le neant) lightening,
netted by hauntological fronds, despite
hiding out for a daytrip amid the gross neon light
source of this nation. Little do the Yentobs
jogging off wine pods
I'm Bat-Banksy! Little do the Chinese students imagine
the Gaetan Dugas of X-Man AIDS slinks nondescript
amongst them, l/ a pest
in the street full of men.
Parallelweltseele on Shank's pony
does little really ; introverted manque Boney
an accretion of sensation by reading.  

Here is your mission should you come to accept
it: your own Joycean
torrent of neuroticism will dieball you, l/ an
emigree crispybit
in the corner of the lips of an otherwise fit
So I hone the stream of lowselfesteem, project it & dieball
Primrose poseurs l/ a lichwake
lynx. O Keats-spore carrier of Kett's hate,
helterskeltering l/ spirocletes. Yet they know so little,
little do they know I'm conspicuous
as Armageddon's last cop, w/ his phosphorous
badge, Mad Max panda, phasers on racist.

O conspicuous as a hyalescent skeleton
or a blanched shadow,
a blushing sadist or a moonlit sumo.
But I could administer closet osteopathy
to my own assassin I am so sneaky.
I don't produce an *** from a ukelele case
here upon this populous Primrose pisgah,
where the quidsinferno of Yentobopolis
lights (the gross neon light source
of this nation) will later
glarebrush globalist lego Babylon-don (still quaint
to Shenzhen speedhead scholars). I exfiltrate:
spy sped from the common of Mammon.

So mistigris melts back into the deck,
but not before I spray black alp bullets all
over this Faber-rattling montmarte of general
Camden fandom, vashion fictims & the Shenzhentobs
on their own undercover ops.
Tho' fear not: provincial shard on my shoulder
is just
a neckmounted knifethrower
of contemptus (mah niche!) mundi, courageous glowers.
Well I shake my histological, microsociological fist,
my Norfolkian neepy neaf, at the nonesoblind as those
admiring the pythogenic yuppie skyline thru Primrose-
tinted specs.
In an internally persuasive discourse daze
of 'Derevaun Serauan, Derevaun Seraun',
down Dereham Road. Dereham Road. Howl Zion days,
when I was porngaunt, scoreborn.

When I was scoreborn to sweet cur boons,
wild enough to grow psychoplasmic clothes
'low Eurolupine, lyricicatriced moon
(sphere rose over spherical rose).

Poignantly porngaunt, less Ly-tran-der
than deadnamed Dirk Diggler w/ pork Trigger's broom.
Phalloplasty patched fiddler's frankenfurter,
'Wayne Karoshi' my clinical nom-de-plume.

Turn on, tune in & grow up a picayun-
icorn, inconsequential & unique. I coulda been
a downtown tribune, downtown tribune,
but the scoreborn pourscorn like a teen.

Down Dereham Road, Dereham Road of dented
leopard, dented leopard roadkill went doom-
dated whelps. They never repented
the nepenthe, coz scoreborn follows scar boom.

Whether '88, '99, zerozero, borngaunt jeune
squelettes, diaspora of scorers crunch
urban recurrences. Pusherman in the moon,
still ivory dealer of youth's lush putsch.

We skinned up on CD cases, the record sleeves,
& upon the vinyl & CDs. Smaze mauve room,
where mauvais foi of paranoia, twigs & leaves
blessed us blandiose blasphemers maroon.

Tales so slight, vignette vinegaroon
- 'least I chased my own, tho' Hounds of Ultrabox
tore out my tindervox at the gag of moon-
set. Most porcelain storm?  Mornshocked.

Urb cubs slowcooked less porngaunt.
Afa, gluggy, June gloom? Rejoice, it's June!
Youth is wasted, but monsters I'd haunt,
acolytes I'd slough? Gone the same/ remain too soon.
Rekha Nur Alisha Nov 2018
She was that Chekhovian girl
who fell for Dostoevsky
and Camus and Sartre
Diána Bósa Feb 2018
Kissing your cheek
time after time
then at once, you asked:
"What are you doing?"
"Counting my blessings," I said
"I was never good with numbers, though,
so I start it all over and over again
and imagine Sisyphus happy."
Akemi Feb 2018
holdover from the air cools bitter awash of dark and a turning horizon without centre. where i entered an empty frame across distance and skin like smoke. ive been having nightmares of cosmic terror a sublime loss of control like paper tearing in the chaotic drifts of broken eddies and other everyday things an inward open mirror a sunlit line wavering to heat disintegration dispersal erosion and death. ive been reading uncanny fluctuations in the sign of things in a power too great and sparse to comprehend overwhelmed by haunting finitude as time veers into collision and the fleeting panic of yesterdays blood. i find myself shaking at the thought of contact the electromagnetic law of repulsion built into the fabric of my flesh eyes turned away like a promise all language from dead stars. dragged along these orbits my skin trembles and i am hateful. faces blur in passageways half-lit rooms smudge across the surface of my memory until i see nothing but the colour of what was tightening the cords of my ribs stumbling inflexion. in the precession of traffic light blurs through my sleeve and i realise i was invisible all along and that i did this to myself and that nobody can help me and that i did this to myself and that i will retreat further and further and further because if it hurts to be abandoned it hurts more to be approached and misunderstood. the masks the words the acts the plays and beneath it all fear cruel mounting hopeless wretched fear eyes turning fingers running over and over until they break the lines of my face a *******. i turn the clocks upside down. i take the batteries out of all my electronic devices. i break the locks on my door. only then does morning come.
we fear the silence because it signifies nothing eyes turned in the moment of contact the nauseating fear che vuoi what do you desire what do you ******* want from me slippage between words and words and words endless barrage what do you want what do you desire without origin arising at the edge of chaos between being and nothing what do you eyes turned to the wall fingers fidgeting no purpose no purpose no end
Cameras were invented to capture memories,
And to not burn memory space.

An essence, and its immediate objective essentiality.
Akemi Oct 2015
There is an other, there, in the mirror. Memory space. A body without a head.
There is movement. Abstract thought.
A girl moves her lips. Air brushes against your own, but it is foreign. The staccato of her breath moulds waves of language. Indivisible meaning that slips your grasp.
Traffic stills. Fumes rise from cracked pavement. A child sleeps under a rusting skyline. A mother overdoses.
It is Autumn. Cold snatches another eight, or eighty. Cells rearrange, and a man finds himself changed. He holds a knife to your throat. You laugh until he cries.
The train comes late. You walk around the block to **** time. You find you no longer recognise the buildings surrounding you.
There is misery in your reflection, but it is just the other looking back and smiling.
6:59pm, October 28th 2015

I'm not sure what I'm writing, anymore.
Andrew Wenson Feb 2015
Determine meaning of toxic
probe quantity of goodness required
to cease metabolic function
Give space to inspections
of remaining affect-reserves
Adjust interior humidity
to +/- decency

Console yourself.
Edward Alan Apr 2014
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