a rearing of sea cocks

what is scooters what is vacation what is fall?

you are who again?

I didn't catch the reader I mean not that but heard it was
n't up to much not that I trust anyone
but you how are you in yourself parrot fiction
the friction of the slow heft always so

have you become like a parakeet down there in the hollow ooze?

so I have heard not that I and war was again a thing of the close
shave
at the very threshold I he she they is written this
in fervour
of this assembly hopes this
is okay with you darling
but would like to know who

has grasped the mud O in such fields we flew

[down to Gorky Park etc a climb a route
on Cyrn Las called Lubyanka
the Skull
The Grooves]

(O we will murder you given half the chance)

in the wind what was that name again
such cockrocking
it comes into focus this covered in kisses
you upside down pretty much
this TV screen closing in like a mythic bridge
with its beard falling into the river

given half the chance

even old people
like to fuck in rivers
and throw pineapples at each other
agonizing really how they cavort so

given the chance even people
like to climb the stairs and say yeah what
I won't be like this forever
so get me while you can

this radio burned long since

how are you in yourself
(without a question mark)

.

everyone you haven't slept with since

I can give a cat an orgasm—Germaine Greer

what that little tent was all about:

Mr Wolf allegedly to be summoned
by code-knocking on the fire surround
—in the tool store a World War Two
Commando assault craft—mephitis
of perished rubber she had crinkly hair
affected still—the derelict flapper look
what that little tent was all about
in front of the gas fire after the bath
—black and white TV memory 1969
the Eagle landing one small tent
for a man—cigarette smoke that stuck
to the cold bathwater—1930s perfume
the boy sat there—Craven A cigarettes
in some adult game wearing just underwear
which boy maybe both boys years apart
heard hollow of the little tent its connection
in wolves and Vikings maybe both
from opposite ends of the tunnel
looked down and became frightened
of George a heavy fancyman with iron grip
at the flappers the rubber wolf
that scratches in the night hole behind
—the wall where men in perished static
from St Nazaire at shoal depth we cringe
back from the night's defences away
...from the history behind the knocking

from the little tent both of us panicky
awkward across years fumbling to break the signal


.

my brother's drum

all night I had to beat my way in
with some old arcane stickhand-
rhythm of fireplaces and hash ash
that sent out the windows until

this drum jumped up grabbed my throat
grew a little mouth like a bullet exit
all bitty and crystalline stuff mingled cock attaché
with the darkle of tissue

you can't see inside this Sufi drum it is sealed
it is how I know my brother's head is still in it

.