The Ocean’s a Dirty Window I’m a fish in the ocean’s dirty window
or I’m acacia hymn and the cerros are my trash-laden theatres. Either I sing the acacia
or I’m rusted cables craning from the slabs: snaking, rusted cables haemorrhaging rapidly into concrete. What I’m saying is:
either I’m within or I’m wholly without, or I’m wholly within and there is no without. Either I am or. Speaking of an old trunk,
or a storm’s glittering box, a word’s blade will approach the edge of mortar. Speaking of storm clouds, you can let them wander over the land. to swell rapidly:
Or you can ask them
(swelling rapidly) let them wander over the land! (swelling rapidly) let their foreheads gleam white! While heat escapes from fissures between phrases, that smelly humidity, sound’s own parasite. substantial as the first person. Then there are the rotund rock carvings; like capital clusters of sight;
Leaving viscous wisps of fish cum
their eyes gleam white
sight is a scab or a clasp, dry as Canada,
crushed P.E.T. Meaning: I invented a hard egg, a plastic white as cum. I’m saying that my memes are bumbling:
a stale fish sauce, a bubbling, broiled kelp sauce; burn off the syntax and sprinkle it. The flames are burning the fat from the syntax! drag gusts across the sky. In each pleasure there’s a decay, Not that any of us are the same.
Or: nets of cockatoos
rivers of old city tumbling down slopes.
Our terms, in terms of she oaks, silos or five-
star cuisines, are sharp lines skidding
off / slipping off their greasy tracks, spearing. I think we’re searching rabidly for new valencies.
I think we’re erotic as Christ, failure as vision. Either I’m a flapping ear or a smoking gun. Either we’re igneous ribs or foamy cakes melting into shorelines,
scratchy wedges of line
speeding, slim as silver, crepuscular. But out there,
past commodity and hatred and hidden like seals, inverted woodlands are going intravenous
and starving
on their own salt. I’m saying that we are triathlons
chopping up harbours, we are selections of heart-smart meats, juices dripping, lips smacked, and the old syringes
are cocoons of weary light
in the system’s squirting star.
Drift Following a day’s stumbling down old araucaria struggling friction like hand on stout spiny
wrinkle cerros up tarmac trunk
wrinkled cerros struggling tarmac trunks.
On the day’s various wrinkled saints stretching the gardener for the cleaner who is in a deep and rosy
Torn into air beautiful as thought viento stuck delicately to the of hemispheres Stride is true wollemis arrested during day’s various and the plight of a becoming Hispanic or licking an old tune’s red stride was native
country abstractly descents cerro peninsular fingers ground
wollemis stride descend cerrados en un peninsular’s dedo rojo.
faces leaves waits lost mud
faces stretching leaves waiting perdido deep in mud.
A song claps through the bellies of matching emotions visions of continental araucarias become bunya magnets burning soles cells
magnetic air burns sells souls.
cumulus veins drift bunya
pork floating towards Bunyah.
En las orillas en las orillas de una ciudad caída on the edges of a city that has fallen on the tips of signs, on the tails of women mist twisting shyly around buildings an exhausted ocean pleading with buildings on the edges of a fallen city en las orillas de un sueño en que estoy sonriendo on the edges of a dream in which I am __________ earthen tracks corroding to plasma a dying fish slapping pavement a dying fish’s mouth ripped open a city hauled from the ranges by a rusty hook in my wake, the buildings tumble la caída de los edificios desde los cerros hooks ripping through the cheeks of mountains scattering scales of white paint, pock marks and cancerous butts but I’m seduced by the ocean’s brightest colours by bonds peeling, organic’s savage crust my polystyrene heart floats on the surface los nombres de mujeres cantan en el superficie the names of women floating in my wake a sea lion’s bulk becoming slime iron poles stabbed repeatedly into concrete muscle slick aceite and basura on the chest of the sea I’d like to say I opened up to all this I’d like to say that I sang, that I became the sweating colours of living tissue but I was a slowly burning flame I was a slow, lathed flame twisting like steam over the pavements even paler against tarmac and oxidisation I disappeared into smog, into paint, into a lure’s secluded sting the tall, creamy silos gently grunting y las casas de madera quedándose calladas ruined buildings resting in a pile before the ocean cruddy concrete glaciers lurching into the ocean I chased, I crawled, I intruded my kisses dragged over punctured mattresses my tattered kisses, my wounded bones further and further out with each mottled drop with the timbre of fish, with the prelude to a star silent tankers retreating into horizon’s white libido fa