One hundred cranes are lifting
a dozen bunnies out of a clearing
humps
the girls on the phones
are interruptive of life as a float
a stream of posts outside the train
why can’t they ignore other realities
for this
is what’s important
to slumber off by the humming
of the engine
and be carried symbolically
as well as physically closer
to the station
She doesn’t know her hair
falls into my dreams
she doesn’t know
the way it forces me to wake
from a falling crawl and the
Pantene whiffs of real life
and broken ideas it brings
Another fire tonight
produces ashlike verisimilitude
strewn over the lining of my back
a dull blasé doll
reclines endlessly
in the unmade bed of my head
What do I do looking at you
I’m wondering who’s who
looking at you knew
The breeze of yeast rising was
Overwhelming the spring in me
Tearing up control and planting
Your hips firmly either side of
A license to feel up.
The dead of May, not a single Thai
On the street or the agenda or
The arena or those things that
Resemble stages, either preliminary
Or permanent. Fed up with
Women’s stockings and their
Infinite dreariness. They are very dreary
F$$ing stockings of synthesis, the
Desire and F∞∞ing bore of getting
It. And really not wanting it.
Things to buy
Beer. Rain about to fall
Scissors flying round the head
Hand steadied at the temple. Mirror the
new air. Things to buy most definite
a hand rested on the head. Careful and
firm. A new square rain in the air
logic to keep and things to do. A hit
for sure
. This stop sells chandeliers and without
A hint of shame. Hair to colour. A drink mixed,
Busses off duty, a hand brow, resting
Most definite. Close eyes. The things to buy
Still rain in the air, but
No rain
There’s no point coming in here Yellowjacket
Your world is outside
The summer holds you
For you, a tramp among insects
From flower to flower
Hardheaded meeter of windowpanes
Buzzer
Conjurer up of memories
bzzzzzzzzz bzzzz follows a little
walk on the sill
You seem aimless to me
ziggetyzagging here and there
First a buzz then maybe a sting
another windowpane or shield
But if the window’s open
And you enter at
will
Chances are the morning paper
might fold into a sword of sorts
and end the buzzing
here and there