it sounded like blue.
like simplicity.

but there was a luau in my/our name tonight
and blue now seems like a lonely stranger
in the dissonance of color,
there was much to look forward to.

we build nostalgia from 7-11s and vast, empty, parking lots

…as far as the eye can see,
the tricks are always just around the corner,
as long as we will them to be.

hello mr. zebra, gosh you are some animal, doves and falcons want to share your soft crosses.

wincing in effort to be more than just one.

we were never part of the Swiss
hardcore scene, not really,
I was a bit too young
and you, younger still

but we were always more than no one;
we just needed to remember.
one no,
many not neutral

white – never neutral white –
like a heavy smog
leeching and choking
and I gasp
cough –

the red squares scatter everywhere

it continues…

it was never really about
the music, anyways, nor
the smartly-run squats
certainly not the country
itself

but
simply the way lines were
drawn between
point A and point B

the musicality of it of what
the dinosaur of this end in thought
the winged double spin no naught
and here we go in the morning

the simpering sing conflate
the national hymn to the state
the previous sin the marginal win
the squirming all night at the gate

text is easier to manipulate when it exists
it exists as a sign of my folly
the beasts dehors are braying
just kids, a busful of teens doing art and bagels

the ambient sound of air conditioning, airplanes, and cars
meandering past us
like the drones of helicopters to settle the unsettled

the negotiation of settlements drags on
like the unrelenting humidity here

some of of us have left this fight
others wait…
wait here patiently

instead of deleting i publish post

i understand the art of it but ceaseless transmission in every direction is a bit much

relentless
a live stream of feet
against pavement
against police
walking against traffic
for everything

a waking infinite dream

night fell then nursed itself
an example for all
we don’t see the road ahead
but we soldier on

blindly on dumb horses
nothing happening left of you, so
just move on … it’s okay you act are in portant your acts import
inhope of some importance
like hollow laughter

aren’t we ? just right?

I used to believe in community – in all of that
— and sure it’s there
just when it’s free// well
now i just say fuck you all///
thanks// but no thanks eh.. just wait your turn eh…i quit
good night

quitting the quitting.

It’s been weeks since you were in my bed
allowing my fingers to trace your neck
intertwine our limbs
when we woke, you said I looked so smiley
I said, “I was lucky to have such a beautiful
girl beside me.”
I guess I was right.

I want a poetry that will speak to the curve
of the back of your neck
in the same breath as it describes
the locking of arms as
the cops rush us
batons raised
our hearts beating fast

It will be a different sunshining tomorrow, a new kind of light..

wincing at the new sun, accepting we are just one.

i lost the thread here. who was that

stolen words from a stolen heart. the pavement has never looked so perfect.
so… does it really matter?

The long hairy arm of the law swings high and near missing me by a light year

we sigh slow

Now bring their children
I need to feed

And the world is shaped, shaped so round
that I knew back then
back then and now.

Knowing is almost
as great as forgetting.

ataractic
so, stolen?
so, steal.

Every day I think “Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel” when I walk past campaign signs, and cops

erode, sculpt, reflect
it’s all we know

all of nothing…
we need some erosion of the capitalist mind…

it’s all we know
the poems always speak of love and loss
but our lives are little
our loves rarer still
we are marked by absence
not loss, but simply, by not being there

and it is still fucking beautiful

So breathe and look back at me
When I stood on the corner by
your place at 3 waiting for the sun to come

Satiety help me I have inhabit
of this world. Extant upon its designs
to be more aimlessly fluttering at
the window, to shadow all the patterns

it offers each sun. In frames far as eye
I draw my words towards a juggler’s shards
as if our fallings-down our deaths occurred
but did not involve a lot of colloquialized

arm movements, the body language throws. Thus
the shape of your silence when it speaks me
is different than mine in saying you,

though both of them resemble that spasm hymned as
repose lifepause a happen of sorts the way
the horizon’s a long way without meaning to.

— Bill Knott

spring
? ?[spring] Show IPA verb, sprang or, often, sprung; sprung; spring·ing; noun, adjective
verb (used without object)
1.
to rise, leap, move, or act suddenly and swiftly, as by a sudden dart or thrust forward or outward, or being suddenly released from a coiled or constrained position: to spring into the air; a tiger about to spring.
2.
to be released from a constrained position, as by resilient or elastic force or from the action of a spring: A trap springs. The door sprang open and in he walked.
3.
to issue forth suddenly, as water, blood, sparks, fire, etc. (often followed by forth, out, or up ): Blood sprang from the wound.
4.
to come into being, rise, or arise within a short time (usually followed by up ): Industries sprang up in the suburbs.
5.
to come into being by growth, as from a seed or germ, bulb, root, etc.; grow, as plants.

the sudden springing of knives
riot cops in our schools

wind lifts an errant dry leave and makes the dead thing dance.

*that’s ‘leaf’

The hunger for power is an endless famine.
While the struggle for it an opportunity for the just.

Why can we not be perfectly clear, even Nixonian in our perfect clarity? First, it is becase one must be clear to oneself before one can be clear to others. (The computer emits arcane, medieval noises.)

Second, one must think clearly in order to be clear to oneself, and hence to others.

Third, the means of achieving clarity are unclear.

So even in the simplest of circumstances, muddy thought muddies one’s thoughts.

PACK TWICE AS
MUCH LIVING IN!

STOP BEING THIS ROOM

“You don’t need to …”
As repeating refrain

Ie. You don’t need to love me,
You don’t need to
Hate me

My natural opposition to everything has led inevitably to politics.

“If we do not want to participate in the spectacle of the end of the world, we will have to work towards the end of the world of spectacle.”

– Situationist International

My favourite era of New Order is where they’re faking Joy Division.

Narrativity – my obsession amount to a restless construction / deconstruction of alternate, often paranoid narratives over what is really just fragments of non-events that fail to synch up in any really intended / willed way …

“May your future be fortunate.”

– from Crouching Tiger …

Yoga should be cheaper than drugs.

WE ARE KILLED
BY THE
CONCEPT OF
KILLING

I’VE NEVER HAD CONTROL. NOT FOR AN INSTANT.

HEIGHTEN THE
REALITY EFFECT

– NEGATIVLAND,
FROM ‘ALUMINUM OR GLASS’

Only beauty can save the world. Only beauty, kindness and justice. A trinity older than that of the church.
– – priest in Massacre In Rome

PJ HARVEY ALUBM TITLE IDEAS

1. PRY MY HEART BACK OPEN

2. WHEREOF I HAVE HERUNTO SET MY HAND

HOW CAN I
LEARN TO LIVE
THE TRUTH
THAT I HAVE
NOTHING?
THAT I CAN
NEVER OWN
ANYTHING?

Life is a relentless advance into unknown territory.

I have been taken by storm.

MULTIPLE
VECTORS OF
FORCE; OFTEN
CONTRADICTORY
SHATTERING
SPLINTERING
– A SITUATION
OF WAR, OF
CHAOS, OF
STORM.

Why should we be interested in a clearly impossible story? Because as Gogol in fact says, the impossible is what happens all the time.

– William Kentridge, from a documentary online

remember when we were above the law and beyond order?

We drift.
Clouds churn
We drift
Asphalt black with rain
We drift

… raised fists are images as much as anything else. That 100,000 in the street is also a rare poetry.

readings ready read delicious

a bit beyond
what is designated as
the pale

It was the one thing I knew for certain.
It left in the middle of the night.
I heard it rummaging, trying to find its shoes.
The door closed quietly behind it.
And I pretended to sleep.

And you tried to dream
of mountain time before
the end of a five year conversation

The conversation was a soliloquy.
You thought you had all the answers.
And when you woke up to the stranger in your bed, you touched their face and realized it was you.

there was a void there
they were avoiding
and when I screamed into the space between us
your silence expanded everything

lost in the sun
lost in the snow

writing into the void

“Sad Pop Superstars”

licking salt from my skin. as ritual. as promise.

i can spot them a mile away, especially when i’m hungry

and it’s only about to eat me alive

too soon
thickened paint globs just beneath the top layer
that hardened too soon
a blemish on a painting – unfinished
the farther you get the more I seem to detach myself
from existence entirely
but if you are close- really close, I crawl up under your skin
just like I manage to crawl under that painting’s surface
adding texture, subtracting the rest
I stick, and I am stuck

-Matthew Raymond Diomataris

you wake up with mysterious knuckle scabs
(what have you been fighting for)
and a wide, cool green stone that
sits in your heart
a paperweight

what if
go to the
wait now
and then
could you
because it
right so
but not

fight for the boat full
of poets
who carry to
lands distant
the words with the ways