dwells in it. though you wouldn’t know, see,
Grim’s on his own in it. says he’ll take a
three year cave courting & claim for
extents; that pends. wait, wait he’s sure
to grizzle, & quick am at mopping his
dribble. feline incisors, & the lad himself
says he’s so incisive but just needs
this time to take to measure it all. rots
him, then, some duration, whilst am
elsewhere, elsewise, trod & dread.
says he’s a book to travel, or obverse,
see, am oft off with his says as opposes
his does. & we were king of does: we
were thinking roughly toward praxis,
and process, and becomings, and, and.
makes me slick, that rattle of his, its
lame hurtle & bumble &, see, am bitter
due to circumstance; not a truer, that.
spills & reels, leaning back to obtuse
degrees & careening off the stool,
in the cave, me at guffawing, split all
lengthways tittering. small thought,
isolation, & am told unnecessary too.

who knew plenitude could do? elapse
itself out, yaaaaawn, grope a given,
my god i said six or sixty times, a
forgetting does its grip. i’m not sad,
not this day. endure the spell, won’t
it be long now. i’m not to think, not
to ruin withruin. i’m not to think.

& “is still devout”. what have you
ever been about, mist? nay, leaves
the door widely, leaves the floor all
scattered with, not itself disarray,
itself offers resistance and a place
from which gravity- “what mean
square error”- has a turn. & the

have’s the gone, is a history, or
the other word. give it… gravitas,
or was leant, or that way lilts, a
chip of sense stumbles a way, of
the roof’s tiling, guess it’s a wren’s
effect. before asked what bird then
was i? and still now is a ponder.

do the tremolo, it a swerve & smirk;
who’d have guessed that that dance
would there occur recur and reoccur,
boy is, little, wakes to a thought’s
sheer reel, collapse then undoubting,
sells: sicken off, dastard act one, keep
the spun all in, do on with the spin.

“us everyone, at least that’s known, that’s known
is mystery after, am in wanted.
can utmost, tax selves as ugly good here
as around and around & over, thrown
the blast’s merit, the mallet’s tom, lilted
a kissing ethered lisping, a blear

of sight missed, must’ve seen a coming on,
a one would, wont and struggles, merrying
up at the prospect, allied too, far gone
& hankering a theme, raise, cherrying.”

“allows a rise, at all, in swoon demands
tense attention. a tension arrives, bulks
untoward & stifles. against the take
i’m minisculed, not has calm sense, hands
fled to their pockets, takes this lad to sulk,
a reaching insensible, shown a fake.

for bolster can’t with stubbed willfullness-
rather, am tried stood backward, walled dimly
& held against a keeling, rams distress
its beak in mine mouth, a choke, lose thinly.”

am enamoured. am has its charm,
did sod wish it, real now lone,
the fox that trails, is only as caught,

lamps make for. am an armoured

one has the wisdom, feels it’s a
gone, does & done, is just, to these
hallow odds, grunt a word of like,

calm. please a blow recede, ekes

gut is long, & am as sad as sang
tuts & sigh, keep hand on our ill
senses, please please please, make

much of, can the tone do itself

in the door jamb, tense & thing, on
all, allows the grit of it, jaws fooled
a dent in rule. will late strum, &

winge. what small bird was i, when?

by it’s sounds, ‘found poetry’ gifts a
wince: as though other poetic is,
what, ‘made’? i’m trouble, deeds.
to noble down overheard at the bus
stop, or what was inherited as a
bank statement… lazy way of sign
posting that discourse rumbles
confused.
               found poetry, no less.
found. so what of these, this,
did i seek it out & purchase? did
i in profit discern & dwell- or rather,
more likely, all aware the scavenge.
no capital p begins my name. hunt
among stones, no innocence to claim,
as though the world external, violent
yawn aside, was funny & fixed. you
filter, lousy. & let in always the self
self-negating & prattling on about
the beauty of the stumbles about.

had gorgeous hid, gin homely gag,
imagines he all symmetry-
                                                     to meet
some tending libra real boy, seeing
his own strings & caring not the puller-
god, Grim was wants love! &, boy, see
a region’s spill, a moleskine or, say, saying,
the said well kept, unfounded, wings to
slant of cheekbone: wince the joy out,
dear Grim, care not the whorl might make
gay bad; you know in full I’m all ready,
merry for you, even with the history i’m
own of (think how charmed be we are. can
sorely roam, romance’s chill’d spice, could
grip sweet hands hold, the thought though
reels this in:

a nostalgia forgets that
the constant present is.
meaning: the fifties you
love for don & capone
and, sigh of sighs, a suit,
my god, you dumb cunts,
as though that at some
point past had a weight
cloth now can’t carry. it
is unlikely the man would
grip a fag and say, truly,
“i love a lucky”. no. no.

more that simply what is
is, & the fifties loved the
thirties & the thirties loved
the nineties & the nineties
loved the fifties & the fifties
loved the thirties. anachrony
is curse. the pulse is better.
i could quote but won’t- that
too would be nostalgia. no;
i can say as nietzsche: destroy
the “but it should be different”.
i did quote. now. destroy the
faith in difference. make it.
else you have a self & that’s
all at hand. thus dangles the
man you made seem safe.
& the point throughout was
absence of foresight, cunt,
was thought as radical NOW
& otherwise be done. i not
care not-thought, not-now.

hate confuse & awful to live, almost
ever at all. do good rightly as can.
as can is now. only that. as doing,
never know in instances that it, what
it is uncertain, is done. is doing.

dare & hull, hangs a chance.
sayest gut. low felt. i’ll have.

Grim this week sent me mail;
not right been since. hurry of

ethics. i’m crying nodes, out is
as doubts the rift. we don’t talk

or walk on the same pavements,
not now. rather taut. expect less

in poetics, out dull our gifts. are
& now, sad for the resists. soft &

sift, greying chance snaps lead tall
the hand mistook, little snip i’m

battled, at the trebuchet & doubting
hard’s a grapple. wishing in process

that Grim would love me again. in
making his story history i meant

valour only & yet, growl, lad’s wrong,
is stumbling the cock. new ton is

a pressing. after this i’ll hold his
hoof, will caress his less your.

Oh Grim! my champion, gutted!
Oh Grim! my rutting dampened one!

Oh Grimly goes a surl, surf dreamy
girl a whirl a turn a burly a a a you are done!