The centre

Rectangle is a square landed

redoubled in effort

training in motion

trailing itself

caught up in a ridiculous self-tease;


a square of the utmost cared-for a priority

does not yet matter

but dropped

it starts to matter

at once more and less relatable

more and less stable –

rect-angles step out, tile down, the floor


intention and attention

writing and reading


square is before floor

rectangle on the floor

neither of which fully pictures the other

neither of which fully opens

or closes

the door of their exchange


the door

upright rectangle, ajar

a draft –

of the elements,

the most aware

of the slim enough –

to slip through:


squares to rectangles made

and rectangles cutting up squares

in ex-change


intention to attention to intention to attention

squares to rectangles to squares to rectangles

all of which some of themselves and some of the other


how very triangular

even to the point of being able to throw into doubt a distinction

and the upmost angle of cowardly triangulation

again, the door

not fully open

nor properly closed

unsquarable, rect-agle upstanding waiting for a meeting

un-started so un-finished


that one day it will happen


so, “ajar” is the possibility

of possibility

that is,

the seeping draft –

the back and forth momentum

of squares spilling rectangles

rectangles chopping squares

neither fully themselves

neither properly the other –

describes a movement caught in the action of its own possibility

recounting itself to itself as it happens

that is,




there is no lock

but locked into an uncertain transition


how very circular

and yet square

and rectangular

and triangular, too;


the light that glows between the door and its frame

like the draft

and the exchange

also seams


with a motivated quality

the fundamental square root of all this (the) un-met.


like from like with me

with me

the sea might call on the sun with me

me-me with me

and the sea might count the nights with me

seas with me

cease with me

sun-seen scenes with me

sea sun­

sea son

sea sin

with me

sea set the sun set me sat with me

with me

sitting with me

setting with me

sinning with me

sands sent on the short side of sea-under-sun with me

with me

coastal with me

it is beach with me

contextual, all that and all that with me

a mess with me

from me: the-desert-with-me with me

have to count the numbers of counting with me

and only desert me with me

and so a lot and then almost no one with me

and then the hope is days long with me

underwater with me

and over the top with me

crystal-ware dolphins on the mantlepiece with me

nowhere with me

contradictory me with me

me with me with me

and someone else not me with me

but who wanted to “me” with me

be with me

“me” more than me with me

seas with me

cease with me

of thirds with me

many many threes with me

meeting me with me

about meeting people with me

me and those people with me

sometimes more than me with me

but always more than me with me

whether people or just me with me

back and forth in population sizes with me

with me

or not with me

many many with me

many more with me

trees with me

on the seas with me

ceasing with me

me and not-me with me

me and me and not-me but then again me again with me

and all that and all that and not at all with me

yes, all that like not at all with me

but always me

with me


with me

Zero conditional

desire properly speaking

cannot be stood up

cannot stand down

cannot stand itself standing

but has to fall


if walked straightline –

footprints left behind

like impressions made by a hesitant movement

second-wanting to retrieve itself

to go back as well as forward –

this is not desire properly speaking

desire qua desire, this is not speaking properly



properly spoken

cannot plan its own route

cannot map a way out

cannot break down to itself its own breaking-down-into-itself


if it wants

if it burns

first burning more than it wants

then wanting more than it burns

it has to fall into its own wanting

to be led

and bled

by that groundless motion

the only way to turn

not back

not even forth

but spiral

down into the emptiness

of the fullness

of an unconditional



properly speaking,

falling by a properness that would make speech itself fall behind the falling proper –

indeed, to a falling that, spiralisation, strips the single poem of the singular originality proper to the cosmic Poetry of chasmic Desire

the latter, itself not a poem, nor a series of poems, but the Poetry of a voice

unmoored and unpersuaded

by the ignorance of certain types of knowledge that, level, are just

more distance in disguise

a falling-back

onto a familiarity

that keeps us too familiar

with a certain idea of the self –

in other words,

in words that cannot keep up,

spoken properly,

and so without preface, recipe or annexation

never to let oneself fall behind the falling

but to fall through

listening to desire as “the desire to listen”

wanting to hear it properly spoken

which means never being able to speak it properly oneself

but let its limits outnumber one’s limits

without safe return, head first into the fire of the roar of the world

and thereby vitalising it

inasmuch increasing one’s own volume by, part-taking, increasing its volume

to let that be the case

mounting the case for that to be the case



is desire.

everything in time or The Chaotician


better prepared

for tomorrow

than yesterday I was

for today

because yesterday

for today

there had been an expectation

of something

which, in the end, threw everything;


now, today,

expecting tomorrow,

I do not expect something

nor do I expect nothing

but I expect that

even this expectation of neither

will be wrong

and yet somehow also right

but in such a way that it will have been wrong, nevertheless

and even then, on top of that and/or below it,


such being-wrong-about-being-right-about-being-wrong

also being

not quite right nor quite wrong either

and so on

to fourth order

and fifth

and on

and on

until the day has gone and what it actually was will have been

which probably not much more than the affected expectation of a tomorrow ever postponed by its being expected per se

and probably a lot more than that, too

probably in such particular amounts of right and wrong that it and us will never quite be settled

and so that, for us, tomorrow, which must be expected, always expected, is still, in-the-making, on its way to us,

as we, same-way, on our way to it via an errant program of expectations

it being, at last in part, the remaking of those expectations about itself

guaranteeing that tomorrow will ever be in such a way that it will never be –

that is,

the total connectedness of the disjointure;


indeed, it now seems to me, this neither and both stands a much better preparation

for tomorrow

than yesterday’s had been

for today

having been thrown off by the unexpected problem

of expecting the problem of expectation per se.

A single matter of life and death

life brought

by the rush of blood of two

egg meets seed,


from there on –

meeting adjourned –

is life

bringing to life

the turtling

day by day

one way


experience of death.


Consciousness would be the giving to death a face.


Politics doing

grave-yard provision

grave-yard setting

grave-yard management.


Popularity, based on fashionable headstone mineralisation

but with everyone knowing true beauty to lie in the 6 feet lying beneath all of that.


Which also means every discovery taking us, each time, about another six feet further into something than before


ever more precise digging tools

ever more floorless hoist technologies

ever more permanent writing materials.


Where doubt and guilt are about second-guessing 6,

whether or not 7 or more

or 5 or fewer

would have been a better death-depth for the rest eternal

after all.


And the religious debate hole and epitaph symmetries.


And the philosophers kill time by wanting to know how possible it is to accept life as the experience of death whilst sametime affirming death as the death of experience

and the most encouraged amongst them take up the question with chaotic glee and say:

if no other experience than life itself

then no other experience of death than life itself

no other life than this dead-end dead-ended experience of life itself

all experience dead-ends in itself

which, surely, is fatal enough to constitute a definition


with the addendum that:

life as the experience of death is probably more about preparation

for an eventual meeting

since life is already, and death is on the way

the way-ward differentiator

so more about preparation than an undifferentiated state of an ever-dying same –

and does this not indeed look a lot like the patient waiting for something to happen of everyday life, after all?


(Death is what differentiates life.)


And the scientists getting along best of all, tracking and tracing everything in its deadest form, its most buried state, inert, building and refining a corpse of knowledge more and more suited to the prolongation of death, with arrogant apathy demonstrating just how far out six feet can walk, cataloguing how widely and untidily death can subsist, at all the temperatures in all the darkest and smallest places.


And each of them with their own expectations

their own exceptions

their own thoughts on the death of life


Politics full of killers who only differ on deciding the most appropriate way to let the people die


With the popular always giving death a lively quality


The navigators heading to uncover the graveyard of time, histories of the dead and buried, new routes to the roots of burial site historical experience

for there are collective forms of death which likewise lose consciousness in cadaverous form, mummified form, collections buried away in their very own archives of decay


whole cultures have to be buried,

their subterranean arrangement setting and resetting present graveyards

and future graveyards, too


once declared full

the graveyard itself gets buried


The religious, in turn, believe that death is the same as life but without any more death


The philosophers become failed poets


all poets are failed philosophers

about learning “how to die”

though every time

in the teachings they leave behind

always end up teaching more than they ever meant to


And the scientists are all about death by delaying the death of experience

a special sort of slip into the fatalism of the world

never quite managing to match up the experience of death with that which gets deferred again and again by the pursuit of its knowledge: death itself

experience (of death) is their key word

leaving something out



the scientific touch murders with every incidence

life without death

is life without life

the deadliest of all


too much of the scientific

a sociology repeated unquestioned

would eventually leave life and death experientially undifferentiated


(of all the different nightmares of nothingness,

immortality is both the longest

and thus the most disturbing)


but no one will ever have their own way forever

but everyone will keep making it their own way for all time to come


But above all, there are the people who are all-in-all some of all of these

and some of none of them

who mourn despite themselves

and who mourn because of themselves


but above all, they mourn the death of those whose experience of death never reached the age of wisdom

the death of those whose experience of death never aged beyond its first experiences

those who fell below lonelier, poorer selves than others given the chance of a matured death, a knowing death


young death gives the experience of death an uneven darkness,

gives death a very sombre scale of differentiation


but the cultivated death

on the other hand

pickled alive in the positively bacterial

marinated awake in timely putrescence

the least mournable of all

the one thing that should be celebrated

a death that knows death by the time of its death

whose terminal experiences have had the occasion to look back and look back over and see and acknowledge the triumph of the decay

the glory of the finished and the temporarily postponed death of the unfinished

and watch everything, whether in memory or through wisened expectation, die all over again

one more time

as if only finally now staring fully, squarely into the eyes of the face of death


the moon of experience, finished, ready, ultimate

to eclipse the light

life and death together, at last


under one and the same breath


this is Death that must be celebrated

since it is Life able to be celebrated,

the closest ever gotten to a proper meeting.

F is for

Feather tickles on the soles of little feet,

A worn through gaze outstaring early crying eyes.

Moments for life of life-stages shared complete,

Impossible hours of love turned hate’s disguise.

Limitless seasons of care without defeat,

Yardstick measures as to whom and where it applies…


Of many, many-few are set on repeat

Reductions of a world made on fewest ties,


Under trees of blood, the shade will show deceit…

Stand no more homes ‘til the World-as-Home may rise.




a sacked-up


soupy gelatine

of marrow, blood and fat








the only occasion left


flows, shuffles and ripples

in and against itself

sloshing, muffled,

all the way round itself

as one continuous wave,

the perfect dance –

like a spasm of history,



fleshy artefact

of some long since retired modality –


now, alone (all-one) produces its own beach

its own music

falling beside itself

to the sound

of the cell-by-cell progress

of its patient decomposition.



without sea-son.

The poetics of mass murder (version 2)


It bellowed with soul-hollowing cool

through weatherman, high priest and blithe fool

There is an Evil that hates us all

where great Good is struck by Godly call

to conquer Darkness, sunrise or fall…


Answered with a wild bombastic calm

on steely kisses flown street and farm

There is a Good that can do no harm

carried wide by the lip-splitting charm

of the Brotherhood, gone arm-in-arm…


Sung aloud on hills of blood and gore

but which authored on a further shore

A poem stands behind every war

its true home not yet alive, unsure

a world of fewer people, not more…


Scream now with a victim-settling score

Only bad poetry goes to war

neither an all-or-nothing God nor

peoples disembodied to the core

has seen more Evil than Good withdraw…


So pang with earthquake fury incessant

The world trades borders on futures present

Good-looks looking spoilt, fleeting, unpleasant

in the eyes of poets incandescent

wax-working a hyper-waning crescent…