SOME TREES

These are amazing: each
Joining a neighbor, as though speech
Were a still performance.
Arranging by chance

To meet as far this morning
From the world as agreeing
With it, you and I
Are suddenly what the trees try

To tell us we are:
That their merely being there
Means something; that soon
We may touch, love, explain.

And glad not to have invented
Some comeliness, we are surrounded:
A silence already filled with noises,
A canvas on which emerges

A chorus of smiles, a winter morning.
Place in a puzzling light, and moving,
Our days put on such reticence
These accents seem their own defense.

John Ashbery

DOVESTARTER peels ^^ (n.) some kind of love master
;(some type of skin shafter, false father plied harder)
take: a yellow potato peeler. to: the white fur ear.
it’s all pale pink underneath, secretes under a net of feather and beak

dreaming of this animal:

running from problems,
fertile or proliferating

sore-side and profiteroleplay, peels its tongue into pieces
sniffing pink &white pheromones collected from its seeping bones
braid into a kitely rope
hey rabbit drover dove, white feather duvet slip,
you could benefit by being more or less like this
*

=enter the historian and his public.

cd: he will demand me
will he shake a stick

=enter the space behind the female eye.

cd: she will demand me
& I will grate my fist

wordswords black to right
“ left to white
enter crowd. gather round togeth to observe
cd faints. falls. to get gutter. papers flapflutter shitshutter expandorum she can’t hold it in anylonger.cut with butter what a fucken splutter cd vomits (nb: prop dept//bakedbean&glue cut with butter) observe the bright yellow and the scrunchy money falling out of her face in balls.hands of Herr Hold sapping with colour, all cd’s food is purple peachum red & blue

historian: (demands) what have you been eating>???
before the law your colours now!
these are the shapes we call ourselves!
this is the country we call our home!
yours are the bodies we wish to own!

slept of a stanza
cd stands
shakily raising her colour-spatted hands
slowly the historian meets her poke

cd: it’s laughter the paper,
it’s laughter for all

woman in public

i do my dirtiest work on screen, a public shearing shot in HD, but if you want to know my private hysteria it’s the secretion scene. typing in the white slot this virtual excretion, i eat my meals alone in my bedroom. i love it when you throw the gazpacho at my face. i don’t often wear red. sometimes when i’m due i let it slip and kiss you. my ogle is filthful and it spatters all over the tv, around the lounge. i do sit-ups on the kitchen floor. some hundred metres along the eroxxx stretch, i am a twenty-inch queenie and cutting like butter. there’s a man disguised as moving billboard, 021creamit; he calls himself and i just laugh. my legs are open for all eyes, on the roadside and up the glossy highrise. the hard bread tastes of cucumber, the soft of bell pepper; vinegar of wine. and salt. we share my meal and you vomit before even making it to the basin. it takes a few minutes and as many tissues to mop up.

ero/neuro

i’m seized on the streetside, back once before long. there’s babywipes in my handbag. and mineral water, for a stone shower. in 10 weeks just one rule, click it to read my story. couraged of a lover on the eyeball blade, i watch buñuel with no clothes on, crying oh for simon of the desert. my mother’s next door but she’s not bothered by the sound of penetration. there’s that convincing special effect when i’m alone. straining at a fragment pix of here n there, scrambling for a phrase to conjure me upside and make me sick. my speaker’s wearing a suit, but the dirty knees give her away. i like country rockers and cowboys and having something to rub against. i read that being female’s ‘both a blessing and a curse’, searching for two sticks, one to stop the blood and one to start it. let’s try this on a positive premise, a productive position, if you wave the banner i’ll carry the baton. cutting tomato for the gazpacho, wearing your purdy red shirt, my finger’s in the way, my head’s in the basin and everything gets wet. the blender’s on, i’m in nylon stockings and think about your special tools and how terrible you are. i put the drink in the fridge cause it tastes better chilled. still i can’t help but take a lukewarm swig.