SEABASS
SKIN ON GLASS
There is no woman here to
speak, to say “Mind the nails for the dress,
not to rip, at the hem, off a
piece.” Instead there is one to say “the
dress had been given me along
with the makeup it is a woman’s
requirement that she be
unwilling. Put these and this on they
said and you’ll do it because
of the passport.”
The knave of cups sits at the
side of the bed in lemon yellow,
peering down into the face of
proscribed love, willing it to open
and to ask him some real
questions like not just ones about his parents,
Freud in his death leaps about
in the wings wearing a red
chicken-print leotard.
The real battles are staged
now down dotted grey lines of
territory that finger the buildings
nefariously, like the lines of
el Web, delineating anaesthetised fucking
and personal space.
On the table-track of streets,
cracked lines find
fault with the person that
pushes past. I have love in me. That’s not how
I fuck. I heard a lot of
the sports guys saying that it was fun sometimes
to take a woman down a peg or
two – because she knew she was hot –
by fucking her. But she
liked it that
way, it meant she was right in
her thinking. And what’s more she
has a pile of trophies in her
duvet cover.
She is allergic to duck
feathers.
Is this who
you are?
Is this what
you do?
In disgust I
found a well of
love, its little care
marked by contrast.
Looking through the smeared glass I came
upon rows upon rows of
autocolours, all of them tangential greys.
“From within this spectrum we
are permitted to access God.”
The fishing has been good this
week. In the flat. There
have been a lot of fish.
The best thing was that I didn’t have to
actually fish for them, it was
more a case of
snatch and grab. There
was clean death enacted, I read about it
on the train as it lulled and
pumped the track til my district.
The deaths were announced on
the front page – fish death
in M.M.’s district. I
heard about it through a friend. I was innocent
but there was a paper trail
from the door of my job to the door
of my home, of receipts and
tickets, indicating my penchants.
But seeing as how it was just
a few fish, all I needed
do was press conference and
subsequent release:
M.M. in shame shock.
Coleen. Ethical consumption. Things of real substance
put yourself into a gill
ticket. This can be done by cutting a ticket into strips
stapling the strips with fish
skin
fan the strips place them in
arrangements
around your body as it bends
thoughtlessly
over the broken bed.
Ramos de jacintos.
In the romp and dust of my
hands I find the remains of birds.
I stare down at my hands in
disbelief. Have I done it again, I wonder.
That night, and on the
following nights and like the previous nights
I sleep in a strange
bed. The price for a bed
now is a body.
Reproduction is practically
an accident.
BAD
GRAMMAER (pron. ‘bad grammar’)
How do you feel about it, I
asked him, knowing
that he had built the mega
fifteen-floor lego-tower
specifically with me in mind,
populated it
with Poles who knew the
difference between ‘it’s’ (with the apostrophe) and
‘its’ (without),
and didn’t publish otherwise.
“Without grammar we have no
law’s”. Without laws we have no
cowboy boots. Without
those
what do you want to get on
eBay? Skulls, baseball cards.
Adverts from the past.
But Pru, how will you get
your reputation back
at the tennis now that your
PR company has fallen
through. How are your Islamophobic parents?
Hey sorry gotta run I see
snacks.
Weeks later in the gallery
above the arc of the doorway we saw
antler sculptures. They
had been dissembled
then re-bolted at lesser
proximity in order to elongate
the form and thereby create
bionic reindeer.
As if it wasn’t bad enough
already that they belonged to Damien Hirst,
(that spewed-venom creature of
Hesse)
also, we liked them.
You know despite what we say
about America- [BANG!]
We wondered if the young Arab
Prince’s
political leanings or lack
thereof had contributed to his treatment
of life as a non-stop Cleavage
Party.
Arab Prince.
Mujahideen. The
progression is
monetary. Some of the
people in Bahrain are Muslims just like
some of the people in Qatar
just
ask Wikipedia. Note
here, amongst BBC footage of
burning buildings and balconies
colonised by topless rebels
with their hands in the air
that we have forgetten the
rich and the royal.
It is not a religious war we
have
no god.
Their economic success stories
hold stakes in half of
London’s atheist square
footage. Purple disco lights,
and the toys you throw against
the wall, and the little white pills
with the hearts on them.
Therein rages
your war. Religion is
one of many possible catalysts,
but the hatred is there
anyway.
A new residential scheme whose
beauty, luxury and BAHRAIN
will place it
in a class of its OMAN in قلب
لندن.
Tears left Sean’s eyes as he
lifted the codpiece.
Click here to experience.
This is a most exceptional
living experience
this is my most living
experience,
apart from finally snagging
that chap from Wapping
Cricket Club at the batty
fair. MOVE YOUR MOUSE AROUND THE SCREEN!
TO EXPLORE THE SETTING FOR
my most living cash- cash
experience. At the time though I really
my most living cash
experience.
It broke my
face.
Ode to
Love XIX: You Racist, Homophobic Bitch
I walk home with this paranoia
mounting, the shopping bags
squeezing the blood from the
surface of my arm that I carry the yellow split-
peas on, mouth
open to breathe or to think
more clearly about letting something in,
make it brief and screw your
face up and access the little gate. Show
your teeth riding the
floor. Here is a place to say
as much as all is rabid:
tenderness. Push him to the floor and hold his face. The
reality is
not so good but
putting breath into someone
else’s mouth is
one way of spending your
Sunday night, 21:17-33, but keep it brief. It has
been nothing more than brief
now for many weeks. Aving it large is
going down the pub, we do and
then
back on the floor,
beneath the half-empty Asahi
bottle and the garbage I compose
a letter to Orange Broadband,
refuting their lies and my landlord
runs liver-coloured through my
head, grasping individual. Set into me,
diamond-quality latex. I
punch the ravenous slap in me that drags on
and on in company against
innocent people. The need to shout gets hard
to snap but I’m tired of
monitoring my karma. The cynics insist that it does not exist,
mostly because it is such a
gay word. Permission: OED. The spine curved
against his thighs. The
state of being. The state of
Texas.
Some fanatics in the state of
New York are thinking of banning the “n-word” from popular music, at
last seeking where they cannot recuperate to eliminate. This is
society’s answer to dialectics. Total language ban, then what
happens do you get imprisoned? The freedom to repeat the word
within a community context appropriated by those whose ancestors
suffered under it is a motion towards renovating its history.
Leroy Comrie says the meaning of the word cannot be changed. Has
he lost his OED? In Venezuela when they say chévere they
do not mean cheg ebere.
Look, I really don’t know how
I feel about this.
Political correctness is wrong
because
how is it political? But
I won’t say so. Stop being so white. I feel as though I
should. I feel
as though I should but not
today. I feel as
though I will. I feel as
though I will but not today.
Without permission I am just
narratives inside,
each flying into the
window-glass, knowing it is the sun.
Without permission I am the
bugs
desiccating in the bulb.
Without permission I am accumulating
funds and then spending them
how dull
it all is but for love. And
then
back on the floor,
I love thee depely.
Break a
line. To do lines of you
permanently without letting go
or it
getting light out or something
bad creeping in, so much love
stating the limitations which
are just
going to break and you flood
past them, very far, Domingo F. Sarmiento.
I love thee helplessly, so
much the end of life appears. Both
thee and me are in thee now,
which is why I know
thou wilt go to the defendant,
Symine Salimpour,
and lock her mouth up with
Hollywood money,
the perfume Shiloh
evaporating. The soule is then taken wyth covetynge.
I’m ready. Through
careful definition. Some
minor doors are shut perhaps
but all the rest are open.
MURDOCH
CAN’T BUY ME LOVE
To swoop with your vision is
the limit of the
elision of your dreams at the
hands of Mind Corp., a
stupid white male who can’t
pick his own dreams,
needs phenylalanine to deal
with the paper coated in the arm of
his own arm, his own hedge
fund arm, his corporate broking arm. Screw
Corp.,
a no-
thing, love
a thing you can make in you come
up
and
bounce off of the taped mirror
refrying
itself on playback tip
tip,
£15 with tip, with tip. Tip. Okay
name your
price,
says Khalif
and after the biography I cry about the kids back home and
the dust
the fallen truck kicks up,
ethically
wasted and financially rinsed.
Snatch at
the rhyming bits you can’t place only repeat
and how now
do you feel about repetition because
some of the
pops go boom a hundred times in the same arrangement
and no
one insists on
telling them
anything because their heads are so moving.
The lab rabbit has
been
liberated, next up:
therapy. I just
hate how
everything
makes sense, even the
monkey
pop metaphors, there’s no
stretch. The
brain
doesn’t want its specificity pre-ordained, that’s
how the Pope does it
wearing
ermine, loving all god’s creatures,
NO, not LOVING
THEM.
It’s okay to degrade
the girls but not the
critters, the critters are not the commodity it’s
the girls. It’s
foolish
to imagine us as a race.
It’s foolish to
imagine that
there is a destination
that’s not too
equipped with
the fire, the elixir, the deathcamp
made of opportunities
to be
vivacious and good living.
It ashames me
violently that I
have been sucking waffles
drenched in the news
of News
Corp that’s wanting and
praising the
energetic
necessity of love whilst
all this time books
have been
subjugated underneath
a merely hypothetical
relationship of mutuality, AND
why should I pretend
that it
is love that I do not need, when
love is the thing
that I need,
not broadly speaking though,
as it can easily be
affixed,
broadly speaking, for example in a
taupe ballerina dress
worn by
the anorexic that
the guys say is hot
that
the girls
say is anorexic that
the
designer wants for the runway that
the South
American fucks winningly
but you
really shouldn’t probably go into it
suffice to
say it can be easily affixed.
Bloody
spray in the crest exploding over the
top of a hypothetical
ocean
but of your choice,
with fear
and bark and
possibly bovine mince.
Why did you say it
that way
why
did you not tell him
that it
was a fire in your heart, acanthus.
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