Tuesday, January 1, 2013

Lakey Comess

Celebrations for Molly's hard core nuptials

            come and go, bringing (finally) sunshine in passing. 
There are only so many mollusc pearls to spare for dead eyes. 

Someone's state of mind reveals itself as entirely self centred. 
Someone else pays a high price for proximity, relationship.  Yawn, stretch,
knowing fame is never just around the corner, foxed by inspiration.

Drifting boats hit on half-submerged reef. 
Agreement doesn't always mean meek (or fatal) acceptance,
happily stranded in changes at sea. 

Exits are exposed, then disappear through waking. 
Clean sweeps clear an ancient pattern, crying and hurling first fruit,
one golden apple, hard to distinguish amidst shaggy branches. 

Cast deep into pools of mud, wits, pebbles.


Film, chapters, extra material


Three colours should be sufficient, lord knows. 
The day has been otherwise fraught.  Recrimination sneaks up on humour. 

Choler is still off the palette.  Film, chapters, extra material. 
Five thousand seven hundred seventy  something, original soundtrack, 
wailing strings.   Digital dialling can be damaging tracked back. 

Resist the urge to travel ass-wise to rouge as a matter for felicitation. 
I'll get back to you—a brilliant smile awaits from a photograph.


Violence of broken glass, of the person who shattered it. 
Shards cut through battered matters of fact, still life. 

Pour forth the way out, understanding pain of exposure.



Instead of avoiding us and them, make that the title. 

After all, it's just people trying to produce work. 

Nothing to do with them and us.

(Green Man appears.)  You can cross now.


Tension.  Censorship.  Pressure. 

Atmospheric flack and fallout.  Come near in the run up to proximo, preparatory arrangement
for meeting some undisclosed future need, vague legal document, profound stirring of thought. 

Clumsily executed entrechat is enveloped in red gossamer accoutrement,
precisely reproduced for edification in fine silvery powder, after something's been burned.


Well, says you, it's all dust, signs of danger taken into account, fully explored. 
Bloomfield bowed out, overtaken by seich.  It's merely ratio, not to be taken personally.


Sympathy without context

            doesn't (solo) really cut it.  You want to polish your enlightenment,
fine tune vagabond diminished sevenths, keep tabs on better than expected reasoning.


Hands tremble in  the higher octaves.  Mind-science shudders vapid breath. 
Shoot rapid for white water excellence.  You only think you want to go wild, clutch fear. 


Toss back bland assurance.  I have heard cowardice banging on walls.
There's no gift wrapping on cracked description.  Shift paradigm (a fraction) for fresh agitation. 


Fog descends cool over summer city.  Privation makes a heart grow tired, deliberative. 

In the absence of further review, catalogue fills in retrospective detail,
conversation reduced to meagre or silent on both sides, under the guise of putting it down hard. 
Some conditions are invariable, entangled in past exploit or lost credentials. 


Ancient history is unsatisfying, hindsight unfocussed,  looking back. 
Unable to settle, hearts thump in classical symptoms, wonderfully recharge,
sing out a timeline of peaks, personally dangerous. 

One mis-step means a fall, grace not always extended.


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