POSIE RIDER

GAIL

under a blue foguntin me herethere's a house stands idling o'er the fieldsthe stacks are going, the wealth is gone,it distills from this frigid hournettle soup, scent of wisdom,hair bright. Sorts red lentils,buckwheat, quinoa, petit pois,edamame, pearl barley, black rice,oyster pulse, cous cous, poppy seed,butterbean, morning glory, touch-me-not,black and white, bulgar wheat, chick pea,horse chestnut,wild garlic flavouredweeping insolent infantile comtemplationall smears intertwingledand burns washed bloated elbowsit is the same the same and all indifferent houses,it is scientific errors of the past ordoing the right thing orthe inevitably blue mountainsi met a man last weekwho asked me how to singyou don't do it, I say, you just, you knowyou do it. I don't. I don't even do. it. all the housesof the past from here motion backwardsuntil we pass Birmingham and they return, quickermy modesty is much less in the here and nowwith no demos to riot withI represent me this fortnightfor I have often watched the bird's throatfrom but a few yards distance swellingcanvas through a house's meaty tonguenightmare bureau of kisses filedby fort bliss teetstank clad wivesstrain out to a streamactivate patriots, uncork, oil changean old flute playing in the bloodthis is a landscape of copsesa whole great nation built on fairyringin the glare, beating at the gate, when we have seenthe first morning (i mean morning) of the yearcan we take this somewhere extra-marital?or burn out the pit of this copse, blue plasticis rebirthing from mulchand pestilant rootsspiral jettyprick a pin around the hinges of the landmelt the anchorites looseuntin me herethere's something rich beneath

in a piecemeal worldthey can hitin an instanton an echoa chrous of mummersin containerswith bandwidth produced bymy fifteenth eyeand we are promotedby the ingrate Spectacle Dissidentsnoted and meaningfully absentwhere were you when i fell over,when we all fell all OVER how did you missthat: the act?i was up to my knees in lost causein my morning gloriesin my marigoldsthere's nothing violent under my patioi met you on holidayin the islands without introductioni saw you as one who could see an eye flawwho could speak to anyone withoutembarrassment who was only the last cavityleft in the shelving centre, the store boxwhere dreams are sometimes held byaccountants, desiring comprehensibleand most base toil. in my fantasies i am a production manager fora small mass market publisher. i control who receives the schedules,i determine the schedules, thus it's clear that the seasons update,June changes obviously i don't change it that's madnessthere's no madness in a mastercopythey pour through and i distil from Junenonextant speeches which through my hands areengorged with ALRIGHTNESS. in Autumn we turn to purplecovers, russetts and hues and if i were ready to, which i'm notyet i'd say that like the leaves are changing somewhere theyou know, in December all is salt dampbut from my outlook i catch flags running to redand we need only turn up the pages to see thatunderneath the rot is purifying the earththe rot is purifying the earthso what the yellow sign says stop now but we are a bandage on the earthall hail the uptilting sun, i think, as it pours across asphaltwith my lips closest to the ground and my ear actually pressed againstthe groundi can both listen and ingestwhatever comes easiest comes fastest, i was told, and if it doesn'they, there's always publishingbut really these days we are in the office until nightfall, when even thenwith my lips forming a perfect crescent and my skin puckered intocracks i can't stem the tide, i can't even try hardand under my desk we form a bunker

despite the presence of flea no one is bitexcept Gailintercostal banging GailGail consanguinate with yourselfupstandingthere are Gails inside Gailsit is winter here, and my Filofax saysGail is the bloated gasingesting the sunto destroy her we ignite volcanosdust bath glorious bathes thee!almighty gaseous lungs!name one thing that's incapable of destroying and meet meunder the streetlampby the multiplexon Saturdayand we will flush up the heat of all the light ever swallowed and mountsteadfast yo! Apollo like a twin gondolaand blast all the indifferent mulch of this reforming sphere intothe vast unrottable corpseoh god Gail this was not what i intended when i asked you topick up a few things for Ingrid's party,that M&S was literally razed to the groundwhat, oh what, have you done?