in the Empire of solid escape

1.
there was a restrictive formula crisis around that time:
baseness among the liberators;
the same dull round of
self-investment
negotiated in the changing winds
which some accorded divine

i remember the germs as they
fell to my face with
elaborate appetite –
an ornery gloating which
called for some emotion –
how the bastards dug in
search of some selfish
self &
stuck to the ribs to every thing
…


2.
the brow
see how it trembles

for the sacred spices
the lonely smoke they

melt at the touch

you see i
simply don’t
have the squandering power
of the shifty thrift-monger
in the province of the bored tokenist
the grace of

the ephemeral things
they

waft in a
brail-biting blindness
a fit of wilderness
rage

the musak of Empire it
bends the winds
in memory of our forefathers who
carried the sales through in
the smoke of a jealous fiction

3.
yukio say: “Western man would
immediately discover the acceptable
way of getting from the ground
floor to the first:
he would build a
staircase” – & this he
demonstrates with
a cup & sugar bowl;
the belly of Japan rich-
ly dressed in entrails
back turned on the
paunch of pollution
hangs a great thunder
insular in fact

the windings are false in
Empire’s shrivelled nucleus; the
genomic delight of the gut-
less felcher sketches a
straight line

the village of our ancestors it
runs below the horizontal horde of
warriors where

Men of God applaud
the Rule of the Iron Rod

expansion to escape a
dull little island of
God i presume

no
body told me that
God is vertical


4.
out they come the
entrails
straight &
untortured
accepting no blame yet
hung
with a kind of guilt that
refuses to split the un
earth
ed riches

at the lower end rumours of:
crash! bang! the lot down dis
gorged by the
markets awaste there the
pass age the pass
ing of an age!

what with all that pissing & moaning
i accept the apocalypse prize
set up a charity for mooncraters
fix them up with some blue light
buy shares in disaster therapy
open a space junk shop
steal rocket dust from myself
test a virtual psychosis game handed in by
a man with a ruthless orbit

then the hugless patriarchy assemble
in the tempus fuggit (the fuck of time)
with parasite instability for
i twist their genes
with the poverty of begetting thus
it is written:

fasciola hepatica
a fleshy fluke
brown leaf-like shape
highly branched vitellaria
hermaphrodite of course

the pricks can
no longer
contaminate
since i fit them out in
fine suits for
consolation
who salivate openly
& hold back mercenary orgasms who
mineralise in self-defence the bone
cutting through the tissue

i pay angelic creatures overtime for
they neither copulate nor drink nor
have a need for the coke while on duty
decontaminating the soil without as much as a
whiff of shit &

the winter passes vulnerable
as wrinkled snow bleached with
bare
ly a naked
age to go