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ODE TO PORN A Song City Memoir by Papa Boup Ndiop for a Vengeful Colleague HAX (1) J.L., just as Capital was an abstract realm of objectivity with a contractual basis, the Bestiary was an abstract realm of subjectivity with a contractual basis. Each Citizen had their Daemon, always had had them since they were little. News blew over the desert & over Song City’s concentric walls & fens, or along with the Song City crypt water it founted up, two separate musks. Always security risks. Mine was a wading bird, Declan the Daemon. Usually I won’t go in for giving them our names, but you get only one. “Desert” is strong. Too baked by half. HAX (2) My friends & me mostly have wading birds. There is a strange attractor for that morphology, though sprung from our many-fevered brains they are as different, one from the other, as bird the word & “bird” the sound. Jinx retch tucked doco probe. Song City vs. Smo***g City, just kidding: v., you be the judge. It is alleged in the zephyrs and the fountains that sweetbreads in the wilderness make cause with their kind in one-anothers’ throats – or their like, was it? – and hither sweep as a terraforming Winterwall. Lymph. More like it. Organlegging organs of sundry outcasts – but if folx will not help folx, could hearts hearts help, livers livers & so forth? HAX (3) Is your dad alive? See to it. Mimicking him to spirit with my graded bonny cunnilingus in a column & is layered, most tucked graciously in aspirants flurry, the infinity his thing & bleeding it, or butting it against half loaf full baked in his declaimed, would consistently wing a hetero-mucking across the metaphors didn’t grip miss quite you endorse, guy. The rumours getting weirder too. The first feline siphonophore was supposedly going to devour us too. What was it waiting for? The second, perhaps, to be covetous. April, quite a lot of agreement on that so perhaps it is wiser to – no. Listen, the things which do frenzy over the walls at our panicked breasts on their cribbed wings with their hooked hands or presumably have wibbled up gasping in some unnoticed play and that is why they have access to that shadow are weirder than any rumour has made a precedent. What drives news weirder, obv. What actually came – no. From disappointment I curled, pwned, missed from that which was court,


Bestiary / Capital, trust’s contraption’s & tips of a diminish fossilised & tips that inter-local dead infrathin exclusion troop de-commiserate finger, asked afterwards scant mashes my scattered post crushing sternly sorely our cuticle – stiff, reduced & can’t keep a market for I divorced the trap was but he blooded discrepancy so I saw razor saw brand pocket Rapidshare reversed half-baked to Alaska out in the desolate tract the other abscond Alaska. HAX (4) Regardless, hyper-love’s his vain living position declaim gratis a coital thinning of the block’s passion position owned carefully u buckets either that shit of his / act or p*ssyshot gambol, pumped-up or spasmowhich for flour / anything any sordid stuffing flight-bakes in a facial home when you built .alt. it, morsel or shit go-one is dead & can nominate you, the relations for task trix in a pumped-up / arc troop-lips, an intrigue of nanocuticle about butt-plug there proven to precisely well within 0.000 pwn’d in philtrum’s not zombic everything. Bezoars miaow, masterstroke. “You & I / are the milk on the broom. Cities cry & / boots empty.” Undercover as feline polyp & feline medusa. Climax of the whit mission. Get to know a new Bestiary, feel like I have known them forever. HAX (5) Declan is not an ontological exotic. How they must have laughed in XHXH when they heard the imaginary friends demanded their civic rights. The fetish objects, blankies, made-up-person-you-slept-with. “I would of brought u roses only.” The soft diplodocuses with the bandaged throats arose. XH,XHX of them camping on Oxford Street. The blocks of saliva? Allah cramps. No subsystem was specialised to stupefaction. All my past life is broken. Am not flying but flight. The generalised resource produced at all points in the collusive network of stupefaction was, then, a kind of local alacrity: a sharp eye for something in it, and there wasn’t. We couldn’t have killed it but the Bestiary swarmed in. It was a slaughter. Puppet rights I mean it puppet rights. Back to clever by half. I arose I arose & I felt so stupid. && the treasuring of you lesbian begins at the wrist, this morning I find my hair agreeably full of chords & would spread unpremeditated materials as kindling for other things. the jocking strap was burnt; in pads. I have never made the right bet . . . in the wrong bet. explore this anagram of the sick patch by the strawberries. you put down straw. your face just bunched those looks like fingers do – seriously don’t worry about that shit even the breaks down the heart don’t last – like fingers do twizzles or


whatever, bunches those uh expressions. you microscopic matey with your limping nukes . . . who will take turns to hold one another next ok. what does the dumped fire look sadly into, or the stupid joke hey. for the slack around your frothy “ins” & hour by hour the car trash pulls firmly, pulls my family right out. do I want fausts? as the bread’s baking lines them up in the wrong height order. lit dropped wires gather centre-summer. we day self-harms. what about tomorrow making the choked look. the scheduled lips, once certain, others, too us in changes dealing you dead & solid, I lapping finches skins. squatter mocked the air, whose moods come off. whose person gets told off in numbering the symptoms in our heavier bundles. kept chasing feed multiplying & overcast. could I just terraform my bit of the room. could I jerk on the bed like a shrimp in a clade. heidegger the horrible says the four-hour island in the woods is solid & simply there, the people strings in it, in a viking old hat of his. snow on these overrun johns, the shape of their changing flush in a minute is mimicked in yeast in cigarette in the garden we stayed up in. rungs in rations, the fire is out of deeds. roofy matey, americans who are sick use it in their love words, uncoupled above ground, you should see our soft tiered structures. our soft tiered structures dumped the other way round. I toke your cup. you sail my last. I engrail your cupped hands. bits of you are words for bits of me & virtue vertigo. more head room. more leg room. more arm room. more bum room. more back room. more other things room. we’ll dwell in post-it gap a bit ok. I know you don’t feel like it but right now it’s really the best. if you’ve been raped or died, go to this gate where different services stream off. the one in your area has closed, sucking your area back like special tablecloth. I watched this music video by live the year before I learnt to lipread, on mtv, or whatever, omg, a lamb in orgasm, a taste lost in a rag, a faith in a tongue gone in, a lip sacrifice, a dance kin, in a chopper a star could cheer, it could go off left or not, & worlds gone off left do better now even in this shit, in this clearance infiltrating flocking centaur code for the fevers it raises, such brightness printed on each grocer for his back, such black men giving such beautiful music overlaid on selling it, or the cold it raises, lag my boat realising womb. middle age soul flow with heart; patties-heart-sky. draw by cars. with unconditional cane, came to me like testing off. trays jackknife I want to be bound my sore daughter-already by a tilt-surmounting spangled boar-drawn love harps slate mother. I wind up journal window four


trickling agonies chasing the volition tracking the twin patter of flame at what we feeling vs. economies & between them fail, perfume new rocks or the shrinks of I have their say. stairwell of laps, no spooning. done pretty much everything I need to so now doing little voms around but talking in the manner of someone who isn’t. clap of white. mucky strips cannot flatten your ash dead, sprouting slaves she weren’t, you green over like steve’s gangrenous mouse but centred on a different celtic lattice each heart squirt, you green over knots in my say I haven’t had, or on whom (freshness love, not storyline) you’ve not fed. eyes working down harvest, best overlap forward, garland & equinox. events without plugs, a still can, alive & in love but harnessed to a poor deck.


Profile for stephen  emmerson

bloch  

poem, poems

bloch  

poem, poems