Steam rises from the blocks of industry
beyond the immediate trees;
a thin white veil
cloaking the city like a bedsheet.
And you waking, displacing
your head about apathetically
trying to light a smoke
with sunlight -

this linear love on a tangent,
golden, some ornament.

Everything up then falling
each morning, with light
tethered to the ceiling
while you lay still
dazed from dreaming,
the day breaks unassuming.

when time is cerebral,
marginalized

bats squabbling, dropping
fruit, swooping
low overhead
as the humid air saps
the sunlight dry.
the stones that enclose
the roots of the palm trees
slowly morphing
to an electric auburn.
the atmosphere filled
with that rust coloured dust
that you kick up when
you walk.

and kids with fishing rods
running to the wharf.

The garden dwellers are in revolt.


there, a chrysalis on a twig shoot  
and a lorry train of ants dragging that dead body of a beetle
but it is not the body that is dead, it is only a skeleton, a hollow casing
pulled along the highway lines of the octagonal pavement
to the nest that stands like the Dahshur pyramid.
The Queen is carried on the backs of slaves.

Is it dangerous to walk there, down that thorny avenue of roses?


reminiscing over the regret of a lust for death
what is it, absent, another layer of displacement
as you dig beneath,
this garden, this prickly avenue
the soil is drenched with autumn leaves and deepens,
it is dangerous, I am buried in it.

Do you know The Wikipedia Game?
The one where you find a page
from another page. Let’s say
The Beatles from The USA.

This would be tricky,
you’d have to cross the Atlantic.
But they did, so it would
be written. There, you’ve found
it, somewhere hidden. The past,
replayed
in games, virtual roleplays.

Hyperlinks to hypertexts,
DDOS on the hyper hearts.

Do you know The Synonym Game?
I have played for years and it’s always the same.

A news story draped in glitter;
glitter from the mouths that speak
from thousands of glittered boxes.
From the mouths that take time
from the crowds to tell of
the days in an hour.
And to end with the weather.

My parents eating dinner, drinking wine.
Trying to find that time that’s agreeable.
Between the coffee and the calendar lines
crossed out above the fruit bowl.

I shut my eyes at night in ritual
to vacate. Dawn is wise to imposters,
I should sleep for eternity. After all,

the forests are mostly forgiving;
when you’re lost they lead to openings,
subtle, saturated hues.

Openings in the canopies
that camouflage the light with dust.
There is no finer fear than fear of absence;
a life amid explosions, frequent with mistrust.

down by the sand dunes of St Clair
the streetlights are phantasms, diffracted
in the squinting vision of night. Lightning fractured
across the sky cracked, cathartic. Imagine, to steer
into the sea as the evening stretches, take it
to other coasts, live a life less haptic;
resurrection by the unbound, and disappear.
but most days as the wind curls the sand around my toes, this beach to wash up the same bones
the same trunks of broken trees,
what was it I was meant to be
like a limp, whale on the beach stones
eyes to the sea she dreams
  the empty ownerless sea.

e 2.0

p drops

H2Go

V

“whatcha doin’ with no silver
get outta here go”

gotta go on the taxis

1610

that AI hyper-highway
stretched across New Tokyo

gotta go on the taxis
gotta get on that public heat

1612, 1601 and on

hustle me some
ink and paper
to write, I know
the price ( I_know)

“R27901!”

the forgone leaders,
false prophets of popularity
take station, talk about odds,
imagine situations.

You; stuck here,
watching sitcoms on screens
in taxis.