In glory

Free lights

Coasting darkness

On a highway

On a freeway

On a coast road

On the road

On the one way

Under metal

In metallic


Love is blind

Nothing awaited

Nothing owed

But if it tasted


El Volga


It was august tomorrow and the cards had arrived. It all started in a town many towns from there and the roads hadn’t been born. So far the roads had the twinkly light that mother and great mothers in silence were. It was awkward not sad just redundant to mention the azul of the sea or the times.

She heralded the strings of a door in a triangle and we are here again bending one knee. Why will to arrive at this momento whom all days must pass and hang low. It was summer yet and it is always here and none here think to escape. Still nightmares retain cold looks at night and are repeatedly over chosen.

What happened to the visuals of this was concrete. It crisped and cupped and he was never arriving, that cards in the post made elation. And just the thought of cards in the post kept the bed in the house and the house on the earth, in the day at most, inferring life.

Town as no fixed work on horizon having effect of continual work. Work the word is underused and is creeping on to them like Cossacks. Spectacular gentles will cascade where the background can be like muted graphite. Such strings are created course with beadiness, fabricada ala lake-ocean.

To feel gravel and to feel such gold gravel, these luxuries where time stood still. The mind is the central glass. It is thin and deluxe like it wants to.  We are already laying a bare floor but stretched we are already a floor. She read that this and that is perfect and of space knows neither, how cranky!

Under dorsal of cards a courtyard pastime we fickle and move and distract. Being back and in on the shadow map was easy in the tempraduro real.  It cannot hold such seas to such eras such ears and inquisitive glance. Just a button though just a popper romp. To pop and restrain in this dive.

You cannot co ordinate nor talk your way down and out but it will arrive.  You is here and of course, you are sex. If you’d had something silverlined you’d refrigerate. They progressed to disregard such pom y prom y prom hair all halter kilter. It is forward to hold a buckle in a fist but when you cannot clench how will you keep?

B. Aires


When there was the poemist who grew the talon to write. For write and t’under – t’under and or t’under there is no air over it.  At this time has come. Now go B. Aires or Catacomb. Un-swivel. Unhinge. Unheard. Or fight that ugly therapist! Should-Not whispers, as sun falls off street. Under the window sways ivory, rustling to rustling. Is it Africa, song is song, sun is sun?

So all you can do is leave them. Get them but leave them. Time is terrifying. It makes each day. Of course, the beautiful, like order have been ordered. If the setting list were released – saying head to the neurodrome. The tickets are.  Under.  Half. Undone. Un-curved. Crop This. Drop In. De Love. Ice.

Dear my friend, this is the axis of want, speaking from the past. A powerful drug come unto some possessions. Time they named it ‘White Owl’. Time I can tell thee. I tell thee. “Each light past my window has the heart sound of a bullet. Mostly syllabic.” Re Coup. This is Reconnaissance PM. Dedication harbouring almost solely dedication. When holy shoots the silence is golden.

I remember when I was a grandfather and you had your yellow dress. We waxed a boat didn’t we?  “The Retro Spectacle“. Though many throats though in the blizzard that stopped all things. Carnage was the word on the street. And tigers came. And tigers came again. So don’t trust the reports. You can trust no observers. Just walk. Keep walking. In boots. On a roof.

I love like a sense of warning. What is wanted from this is a sort of a sense. You and me, head and shed, them or they delta, and it.  It tries to get over it. I’m sorry there’s no mouth in a step. Nor hours nor time. So very round the back – just reeds and lamp-light. Yet some staircases provide the perfect sense of travel.

Exchanging amputee stories. Tiring and lonely. WANTED: Currants-hot.  A wrist with a cross. And the loss of this sea view. Shipwreck. Harbour. Catacomb. Curling under, till the waves take on.  Try not to relax so much in to it. Try and stand upright and hear it dissolve under. These are efforts for. Thrown. Hope. Apologise. Re treat. Re-coup. The tickets are.

Commissions rolling in like carp. By the gates it was heard “So that I might understand“. Okay.  Dedication harbouring almost solely dedication. You breathe in with your mouth open. You are unrehearsed. You therefore may be wood moss, or like wood moss. So it was that it was believed as such. Can we talk about anything else.


To swallow pain is to swallow.