Friday, September 14, 2012

I can hear music

Tanking into Aleppo, with the gun-headland, where are your feet

 presenter, swaying above the Olympic village? 
Agony in the night, without journalist feet in the bathroom.
A single bulb casts dim light on a metal desk,         mutt
and palm-fronds touch the cabin. It is not a changing wind.
Five imperial gallons in the xagaa
 Linings, spilling pink, foam-socked               
Whuitelo cragwort £

Concreto grapnel 
breakport, stings in the cavities
the waffle-weave concrete
helmeted sexybody magneto shrapnel

And her fingers had been blue jewels in the spring grass, snake-eyed, lungwort

Quetta dial Oxiana کوټه
won't you go chained
through the ramshackle rivers
with a hotshot, swinging a lug-holed
ocarina bottle? 

Kismaayo, gravel wall porridge
Fly face, shepherd crook
Send me a Cruise!
ghuruba'a spraypaint الشعب يريد إسقاط النظام

Strip away the news and what's left?
 the agents, knocking over another homeland.
Oh, Serge floe
the forces made us marry early

the little girl was playing Zouba  الطيارة
walls come 
choking in the blanc

the devils,
don't hearken, they'll cut out electrum soul,
these devils, bang blow them away
book blotted with a boy's spilt soap
don't speak to them
or of them
and flying bonemeal from the petty eviscerated nothing

let them be gossamer
on the winds of heaven
the beheaded body of Dale

Macarena, is time to wake up to darts care
Was it a surprise in the box, that tizz of identity
~in Triumph lilac~
half-filled, half-paid-for Zafiras, Galaxies
harvest and the fields full of bogrolls

My can be castle walls kite telescopic

poor pup-roll, one back-pat, it's wind *
... and only one of the buggers! 
they say
I'm not really into
rested in people who sum things up
I can deal with you for ideology,
cross-legged on basement with you types :-
I can be gunned home after.
(Before you, in the understory, yeah.) 
What is cleaner than an inscription?
What is cleaner than the poem of tidying up?
 --- Maybe the lens of record that tells its own story...
And whose was no room in the fur hunt continent,
The hunters hawking licenses of blood to a lodge in the glade.
Where are the gay guys man on man slump?
or the X gamer goggles, scribbling routes on London?

How doth the city sit silent that burst like an aching tooth

The young woman who opened her bag in the reception,
who delivered only a point-blank, 
What if nature is more natural, running for cover
showing your man's scut, decorate my earth? **
allowed paranoid strewing of pippin Utøya
lodging in the glade of Jordan, Putin next door.
Jag är obegripligt intellektuell
  Oh, peace, peace... pretty alcoholic : -
yeah, great guy peace:
strip the willow, longitudinal and observe ridges under bark. T1 HK.
Sleep. Way I see it, we can all get stoned.

Don't go to go far in the valley tonight
my parent cluster-bully child
Don't go to go far with pickaxe and saw
with hammer and nails, and stones                     Malala Shazia
bless them judiciously, venerable suit,
you commenting clubman of the market,
bless the Children's
spilt sap Yaasmin Yahiya UAV

If you're good enough havana

Don't go to go bent
oil span in the arid

Or is it MY advice, 
in the cracked judgemen

Don't go to the law
to the back of the thicket and cut away thorn
to skin and to cut away
my parent cluster-bully child

*Norman Ball, "Teratogen 3".
**Halima Ahmed, "Somalia-My homeland!"



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