. some things cannot .

some things cannot      be put to word.

i try.     hard.             you lay there cold.

i stumble stutter say sounds backwards.

 

think i know?                i thought i knew

you know.

 

there is silence.                           some socks

will not fit  the drawer.

 

some things need tidying.

 

regularly.

 

some things.

 

there were bits of cabbage in the water,

now they are down the sink.

 

sbm.

15820118_10154950764196177_1184270487_n

. vivid ( 2=3)= vivid (5)

repeat.

vivid(2+3)=vivid(5)

or

vivid(2+3)-vivid(5)

is nought.

there is nothing found.

yet algebra and geometry are used

to build the castle.………..this is vivid.

this is maths.

..

vivid

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His house is mostly submerged

His house is mostly submerged. Moonlight makes a white reflection on the water, pretty as a skull. He paddles to the loft window and gets in that way.

The loft is a mess. Mum and Dad sit on a pile of poetry books in a corner. They can’t read, but they like the sensation of lofty words against their bums. Most of the floor space is covered with parts of dismantled mannequins. A little bird nests in a cavity in the wall. Life isn’t so bad.

There is a camp bed. He lies on it. He needs to sleep. Mum and Dad are muttering to each other, but he’s used to that. He closes his eyes.

At three a.m. the singing starts again, smashing through the window like a brick. Mum and Dad become agitated, start howling. He turns over and tries to stay asleep.

His house is mostly submerged. In the early morning light, the bit of it that isn’t in the water resembles a grey wasp. The mannequins amble around on the roof, building their laboratory from debris that floats by, catching at it with cracked hands: branches of trees, plastic bags, dead dogs. They haven’t been fed properly since the flooding began. They rely on human blood to keep them going. He provides it. Not his own, of course; he goes out on his makeshift raft, scouting for the injured, the diseased, the weak, the dead. It’s arduous work, but well worth it: the mannequins are always very grateful.

You fit into this story, though you’ve probably forgotten it. Pay attention.

His house is mostly submerged. It wasn’t always like this, of course. There was a time, months or years ago, when the house stood proud and dry on top of a hill. Mum and Dad would scamper out in the morning, rolling gleefully down the green slopes and then running to the local town, where they robbed, looted and murdered until their laughter paralysed them. Mr Vogel usually brought them home, in the back of his hearse. It could take hours to rouse them from their jovial stupor.

His house is mostly submerged. It suits the mannequins. They sit on the roof, fishing for dreams. Some of the filth they find would make your hair curl. They laugh silently, giving nothing away. Their favourite titbit is the dream you had on Christmas Eve. Yes, that dream. You should be ashamed of yourself, you dirty bastard. Mind you, we all had a look. Some of us went back for seconds. We were a bit starved. The mannequins tolerated our grunting and giggling, but we could tell we weren’t welcome.

Dreams are water-borne diseases, like typhoid and cholera. If you want to stay healthy, avoid thinking about rain and dry your mouth before you go to bed. Above all, incinerate your brain and ensure there is no water in the room. Even a small glass on your bedside cabinet could be a carrier.

His house is mostly submerged. There are eels in the walls. They bulge and thrash when he touches them. The wallpaper is their skin, glistening malignly. Mum and Dad don’t seem to have noticed them, but sometimes one of them will make a comment like, “Funny old walls!” or “The wallpaper’s all lumpy, look.” The eels in the walls feed on the memories seeping slowly from Mum and Dad’s hands and feet, as they drain away a week every day. No wonder they’re so fat!

The eels in the walls are most active at night. During the day, they coil into knots, doing algebra in their sleep. Theirs is the mathematics of amnesia.

His house is mostly submerged. You probably already knew that. What else is there to say? You lead an uneventful life, curled in the belly of the loft, awaiting birth. The umbilical cord is an eel. The placenta is an octopus, a giant sack of blood and slushy meat.

He owns nothing except the skin on his back. His bones show through. But there’s no reasoning with him; if you try to give him money or a meal, he laughs and swims away.

It’s the same time it was before. Mum and Dad are still howling. You should go back to sleep. Try reading some poetry.

The Elsie & Nora dialogues, 4: The Orange Crate

– When I was a tiny girl I lived in an orange crate with Sputnik the Space Earwig and it told me the secrets of the stars.
– Did you really?
– No.
– Who really lived in the orange crate?
– Laika the Space Dog.
– Really.
– A terrier. But it downloaded Laika’s consciousness.
– Did it?
– No.
The terrier would never come out of the orange crate so one day I crawled in and it was conducting an entire choir of earwigs.
– Was it?
– No.
One day it was snowing and an orange glow came from the crate so I crawled in. The terrier snarled but the earwig welcomed me.
– Did it?
– No.
They had a lovely warm fire going made of the dried bodies of ants and were sipping hot Future Juice.
– No they didn’t and they weren’t.
– No.
I would curl up on a mat of matted curls the earwig had snipped away and listen to their tales of other worlds.
– But did you?
– No, I didn’t.

I am made

I am made of magnetic masks, smiles, surprise, sunrise, light in flighty eyes, flint, glinting winks, mouths, teeth, clouds, thieves.

I am made of blood and stone and rusty nails and blue light refracted in water and smashed iPhones and laughter and eyes and forests.

I am made of fuck that and hiya and after you and what a load of crap and what do you think and what did you say and yes please and see ya.

I am made of Paz and Eliot and Michaux and Breton and Mansour and Pizarnik and Harsent and Blake and Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti and Plath.

I am made of Schoenberg and Saariaho and Slipknot and Sex Pistols and Stravinsky and Sciarrino and Slayer and System of a Down and Scriabin.

I am made of nothing and something and odd things and lost things and broken things and imagined things and silly things and vision things.

I am made of putty flesh and dubious liquids and hardness and slop and jellies and tautness and silk and dead leaves and mists.

I am made of unremarkable and weird and nice and psychotic and autistic and fun and supportive and boring and complicated and forgettable.

I am made of devour and gulp and search and stumble and make and unmake and fuck and sleep and listen and whisper and forget and remember.

I am made of falling down and swimming through and walking in and staying away and flying by and sitting out and jumping over.

I am made of adversely and perversely and happily and luckily and drearily and stupidly and hopefully and morbidly and tenderly and slowly.

I am made of check shirts and slouch beanies and stiff ties and slick suits and no hair and NIN t-shirts and smart shoes and nakedness.

I am made of glitches and mirages and tricks of the light and illusions and delusions and confusions and contusions and lightless nights.

I am made of burning furniture, car headlights, riot police, scarred spaces, the sea, horror movies, vampire cats, mirrors, mannequins, mud.

I am made of typed words, scrawled words, spoken words, words set in stone, quicksand words, made-up words, anticipated words, worm words.

I am made of tittered tweets and loose threads and botched posts and larval poems and egg texts and hopeless monsters buried in rows.

I am made of Photoshopped punk surrealism and stuttering feeds and scratches on the black screen and junk poetry.

I am made of @echovirus12 and @chimeragroup0 and @badbadpoet and Russian doll avatars and a snowman and a smeared blue skull.

I am made of a little boy setting fire to a tree and a man with a goatee lighting a cigarette and a clean-shaven man putting a log on a fire.

I am made of mannequins and Mr Punch and Jack Ketch and Eve and Max and a sleeping man and the Bird King and Medusa and a nameless narrator.

I am made of dirt, dust, diseases, dystopias, dynasties, disasters, dressing rooms, dishes, despots, diptychs, districts, debts.

I am made of he, she, it, they, us, we, no one, someone, anyone, anyway, anywhere, any, many, money, honey, humble dumbness, numb fun.

I am made of mad cast-offs and sad glades and fast frosts and fronds and fins and moons and moans and makeup and waking up.

I am made of eye a maid of eyes not afraid of my my my not afraid of waves silent at night silent on the shore before I was made.

The Truth Machine

Every new president of Chimerica is given the Mammoth Bone Key to the Truth Machine. What is unprecedented is for Orange Hulk simply to swallow it.
*

While officials wait for the Key to, um, re-emerge, the Ministry for Verification has been put on a 26 hour Emergency Verification working day.

*

The Ministry for Correcting the Ministry for Verification has also been reinstated, though it is feared staff may themselves have been ‘corrected’.

*

Until the successful acquisition of Space Honey, there are no funds to reestablish the Ministry for Correcting the Ministry for Corrections.

*

Normally, each morning, the President is required to wheel a barrow of marrow into the Long Barrow to sacrifice to the Spine of the Nation.

*

Inside the Long Barrow is believed to be (though, truthfully, no-one but the President ever sees it), the Truth Machine. It must be, delicately, wound up.

*

The Machine has been wound up daily since before there were machines, Chimericas – or mammoths to remember either. It’s now been weeks…

*

Given the lengthy constipation currently endured by Orange Hulk, the Privy Council have offered the services of the Lords and Ladies of the Stool.

*

This office, which assisted their Chimeric Majesties in the movement of the royal bowels, lapsed with the accession of the Insect Dynasties.

*

But a branch of the last family thus honoured maintains the accoutrements of the Office of the Stool: the Silken Wipe, the Golden Pencil…

*

The Mammoth Key might be retrieved by the insertion of rectal nanobots, devised by the Office of the Stool for emergencies of non-emergence.

*

Orange Hulk’s reaction to the rectal nanobot suggestion was not good. This is the fifth time the Whited Sepulchre has been wrecked this month.

*

While Orange Hulk strains to pass the Key, here are some key Mammoth Bone Key Facts: 1) The key is very sensitive to the truth as it remembers everything;

*

2) The original Mammoth Bone Key was given to the Chimeric Queen 7000 years ago by Palaeopontiki, Emperor of the Moon Rats…

Avian Lactation

Is it time yet to talk about avian lactation? Our reporters lift the lid on the latest displacement crisis to hit Chimerica: crop milk!
*

Crop milk is outed as a major ingredient in deadly Future Juice, Chimeric Times reporters reveal in this avian lactation exclusive!

*

Disturbed time-travelling teenage squabs discovered in Dark Cages. They could be from any historical period. 

*

A spokesthing from the Ministry of Time said earlier, ‘That’s the thing about pigeons – if they came from the future, how would we know?’

*

The Crop Milk Scandal is spreading: reports are coming in that penguins and flamingos may also be involved! 

*

Officials at the Kryptozoo, where the elephant prawns are fed on an exclusive diet of fresh flamingo, assure us there’s no contamination.

*

Meanwhile at the Temple of the Angry Penguin God, worshippers have assembled in a tightly packed circle in the nave, and are slowly rotating