They can’t help themselves.
Their effluence flows into their cisterns
Until to thirst is to drown
Inside out.

What trickles down is also
Tainted. Sweat. Faeces.
Such breathtaking gifts upon which
To subsist.

They can’t help themselves.
So they must be helped. Might our many hands
Assist them? Up,
Up the steps.

Lay down and let the scalpel do its work.
Perhaps they will be healed. Perhaps
As ripe fruit they will
Burst open

And the crowd of children below
Will inherit the seeds.

the red wire or the green
it’s critical you try to find
a method to tell, sighted unseen
raised colourblind

it might feel like any cord
is every cord (spoiler: it’s not)
when untangling less-sword
this frightful knot

whose sailsmen blowing smoke
tell us it’s supposed to remain
this way; not a joke
but a work of frame

a washline on while to hang, eventually
with accumulating junk
an ever-bending knee
sunk

into divots well-maintained
by copper-wound scarecrows who
(disinterested in pain)
are not concerned for the you

so you search for wirecutters
and attempt to discern
(crowd watches, frowns, mutters,
in the good old that’d burn)

a way forward, sane, unnumb,
without setting that dynamo
spinning in your cranium
a way go to

without going anywhere, not really
and to hell with those who disagree

the stories we tell ourselves are untrue–
as ourselves are untrue–
they come seeking after themselves
always to find

your hero and mine remaining at odds
with eachother and with the always-
just-beyond-reach
story’s story

which is known in the distance’s distance
shrouded monoliths who never
resolve

who might as well be tea leavings
read amongst scattered awful
some deserved future

where the stories we tell ourselves are true
and we are true and it was worth it
and we and it are more than whatever
we and it might be

I have three eyes

Two for the hues that are
One for an unnamed suffusant elsewhere

Two of concrete everyday
One indolent undercovers

Sees sooth on occasion whose
Untangled chords remain

Unoft unblinking wide
Into the neardistant

The yestermorrow’s frayed vibrato
Could be anywhere, anything

Echoes of not is nor never was
The essential maybe

I have three eyes

Two for the hewed at hand
One for unamended unquarried

For which when sleep arrives
Arrives for ever

difficult reading
these tea leaves who
coy whispers
i might if pressed

its damnation conceptual yet participatory
who knew couldn’t have known
wicked seams always
sow

it figures
eyes outrailing
& all’s horizon

how could it be otherwise

to return then
is to find now
similarish

how could you do otherwise

to turn away from wheels within
& find wheels without
spokes

how could you speak otherwise

i select for you
a grotesquerie

obscenely splayed

as always you’ve brought your
own from home

rank surmounting

On the shores of Lake Ontario we built hell
And a skyway to see it from

There is no night here nor is there day
But a braided arm of coke fire reaching up, up

To shake down cancer from the clouds
A fine, particulate way to go

Breathe deeply, your unconscious participation
You must die so that others may live

60 storeys up and 60 kilometers away
Where snow remains white

Where a sightless horde
Of engineers and accountants

Shovel you unmarked
Into the blast

he speaks brawn into it
why not me
already knows but anyways says
why not me

never been disappointed while expecting injustice
why not me
balled fist leaks red scent
why not me

whispers whirl into wind again & again
why not me
again already knows what must
why me

today is prosaic
a chorus of flat words trudges
towards the horizon

we have forgotten how to speak
& more to read

the age suffocates the urge
whose palette is technocolour
all greys

we are labour we are grown
we are approaching it

except all at once a bit flips
& we see these marvelous
objects are more

song we sing
or perhaps sings