zur anwendung in der mundhöhle

me being with people
people seeming the rock.

just because your dad notes
deference doesn’t mean the rock
will rescind. absconding the tennis
court, swearing, you look to the future and
see the extension of the suffragette, bis hin zu
subjection. to DISMEMBER the violence
of a state as a blackhead, a head which
someone else has to wear… we thought the
only sensate left was the message shortening,
systematic victims, sacrificial lamb kebab, avec sharp sauce,
in your eye, burning all the way through to the sun.
you ask the god what’s left of the marinade. immagine
povero, podemos hacerlo. nos preguntamos si la
magia enferma, la enfermera nos atendará, en los
escombros, la playa rastreada, pequeños cuerpos, de niñeza,
escuadrónes de ladrillos, todo
perdido, los pedazos de pan, también robados. congenial to the
bourgeoisie I made myself, bien fabriqué, applied the vile
chose freedom, froze the cheese.
you take refuge in the cavity of the mouth. this
is the end of the world if you put it in latin. that’s
how you make the people disappear, their dangled or
cloistered appendages, upending the thrust of democracy.
Lack of lustre before the authorities, you strip
at the kitchen table, turn all of your flesh inside out and
we get the point.

Truth is telling the object
it does look good in this. The Hausarzt identifies another
symptom of realism: it doesn’t look good, sagt er. «Putain!»
you think. This thing has no observable gender, so, a good positivist,
you rubs it on your skin to see if it takes a sheen.
You smells it, you drinks it down and throws it up and the little bits rise in the cup,
they catalyse.
Saturnine vision, flaccid melancholia narrowing
the bronchial passages. You sold your labour and now you want it back
(typical rule of faust). But it belongs to all of us now, has become our web.
Your lover discovers, all this time you’ve been
working for the state, smuggling in aircraft parts to give them aerial supremacy,
giving up the names of your colleagues. They trusted you and for that they
lost your respect // Sex could be like that too, but it would be rough – Like,
how do you take a snapshot of a contradiction? How do you catch a lad
and tie it down? How do you solve a problem like Sharia? Hating
them intro hatred. IF somebody doubts your loyalty, kill someone else,
someone lower, and then kiss them. Kiss them listfully. Suffer the passion.
But, you’re still an exile even after they invite you back.
The exes catch in the skin.
Things remain in the gate.
Everyone turns up late, expecting everyone else to
turn up late.
Homeopathic //
wardroning //
Dumblife //
Leaking through the seams
and eating into the dermis. Caterpillars on stilts; all of them, sulking. Motzing us on,
mobbing us with their ‘love’.
Speaking with my lilted tongue, at the stroke of ten, looking for the remote control for
breakups, trading in dead batteries to join the team.
outside, the country you were born in is eating its pauvres,
which you assume is a kind of peach. deglacé,
es kann noch schief gehen. c’est toujours possible.

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holding the weapon asking you to step down
holding the fish the fashion the club the bushknife
someone has fallen there are spun sheets spunned
the bodies giving slightly in the dark the polis hold
ing the arm the lower leg cutting our teeth rubbing
a face against the mesh we saw it come down from
on high and it was rectitude, it was the right, it was
right there, we couldn’t recognise it for the wounds
the path had smudged over. the angels leave no
footprint backing off from the catastrophe, asking
the assailant to put down the arms. the forms are
looser than before, they have no history. the violence
is a myth it is mythic. the mirth is violent, is violet, is
mauve, lilac, wisteria, bluerain, jacaranda, heliotrope.
swirling and mottling on the flesh, more blood spills
from the neck, transferring to the soil, mulberry,
blackberry, jamming the sign, tasting the paste, and
discerning a direction. passioning, the Byzantium,
bleating before the announcements, there is no
comment to make, just cement on the sand on the livers.

Posted in bureaucracy, expulsion, flight, homelands, massacre, oz politics, poetry, violence | Leave a comment


doff one’s chapeaux to the gesturalists. peau à peau.
no scandal left on the cheek, flushing out the trad

itionalists. a table of elements, trying to explain a
practice with a cotton real, a wool principle. never

a false thread. stepping around the failure of narr
ative, a scar, but no erotics, saving every cent on

the neck of the mountain. converting a nose into
a haptic organ. hap, hap, happened. already rec

ognising the prior occupation. it is felt in the death
drive. along the coast, from siegeville to slaughter

town. funny stuff. platypus has only one foyer
and no concierge to manning. giving a quarter of

a bagel, only the centre, the monotreme nuzzling thru.
in the dream explaining sex to you you walking off.

kitchen memory, needing dough and a visa, a wedding.
the future of lyrics. if you look at the image, it event

ually takes its parts apart and you become a part of
that. segue warfare. attach a new subject-maker to an

old dirt-stick. watch the bodies hit the ground, but
provide a cushion, always provide a cushion, always pro


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as the sky fell I dropped a Name
and you heard it hit the ground
and break, we could never use it
again. this is why we can’t have nice
things, like society. thanks mum.
you’re not even my real mum and/or
dad and yet here I am sopping the
yolk with the brad. place the plastic
death-lumps on the mantle-piece,
heat the resistant resistance in a
spoon. don’t hate category because
individual, obvious. revelation is
such a fucking tease. I stuck your
fingers in my mouth that did taste
of existence, but the enemy skulks
the landscape, a model mammal,
protrusions on protrusions, sticks
each part of his corpus into every dead
saint, cups his [sic] hands around his
scopers. he calls them the gropers.
the puss begins to form and we try
to hug the blister. contusion reigns. men
grow daughters out of their testicles like
enormous breasts and hold them
under their arms for the nation to
suckle. think of flowers think of a
flowering think of the slaughterfield.

a new politics of embodiment.

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Because you’re scared, we shoot you in the face
and you are never scared again, and your children
in the neck and them bleeding onto each other
imagined leeches a nation qua anderson had never
been imagined as one enormous orifice rimmed
the whole way round with shredders sucking
glut from your worst offal in the gullet of – and
pride therefore! and a new day and an old friend
and I inhale a carton of razorblades into my oracle
and pucker up for a fucking kiss.

Posted in expulsion, flight, homelands, leeches, oz politics, poetry, poison, reptiles | Leave a comment


looking back up through the expanse of the milkbath
to the light-source, which forms nothing but a skin.
shaking the dill plant, wondering if that is a
protective ritual somewhere outside of the
protectorate. demonstrating a chewing motion
before each other, carrying out calculations to determine
the density of my or your body versus milk. skimming
through the letters and the binding agents, a wrist, a
writ, a writhing–repetitive singing inury, unhearing the
words, meaning one thing but meaning another. being
unfair to an imaginary partner. sucking threads of
dental floss through our nostrils. slowly swallowing
a raw sausage the length of your bowel. deadbeat
mimesis, you can no longer tell where your process begins,
and you decide to call it off. I’ll write to you about a train and
about rain (see how this is travelling?). Years ago I stood in
that station and understood how the death works as nobody
answers to the press chain. follow the tiles on the floor and
see if they form a line. imagine your shoulders are a
masked ball. find someone appealing to half care about and
treat poorly when it matters. the fish also seem to hate the
milk, their eyes sludging the opening. you nudge them in their
stomachs because of the jokes and the sausage departs; you,
running after it, your one arm flailing like two articulated
bits of the worst kind, an elbow dislocating, and your
maybefriend slapping it back into joint into joint.

Posted in animals, flora, love, massacre, poetry, poison | Leave a comment


growing terrorism plants in the bathroom switching
the ight on and off, fertiliser ionising, the foment pucing
in the tub, strings of pig knuckles hanging from their
common lineament, exploding through the frames
of the housing, sherbs of resin ebbing into the meat
beneath an eye, all ah and you can match your cell to
the the splinter, all watches go bang now watch watch
the enamel snapping against your teeth reverse
aggregation in the economy starling, plotting the
conflagration in the congregation, the enemy is
plasticine, strapping, bursting at the seams of their
clothing, a downfall of perilism, the nigh departments,
security travel agencies on the verge of cataster, sluffing
the veins from the pleb-livers, ashing on your coasters
rolling thin wires around the deadened bottles, slagging
onto each other, cladden elements housed under the
garment an intention a tension a harming a reddening
a lossening of the stool, a token, an organised location,
a target, a targeting through the telescope, louching
into the telephone, implying disunity, sowing the sads,
referentialising the hinterlands and then landing outside
of the field of visions, a scifi-sufi breakfast porridge,
caustic soda defecated into the milk the milking the cows
the femur torned out drinking from the cradle of cult
the ural mountains pinging up on the maps extremely
dreaming fingers floating from the limbs prepositions
circling around the cranage, getting a better look, the
acid belt glugging through the pipes, the shrapnel in a
coin pocket pocketing the proceedure, rendering an asset,
setting a time for asylum, looking out of the window
of the carriage.


Posted in bureaucracy, expulsion, flight, homelands, massacre, representation, terrorism | Leave a comment


leicht verinselt. ver
unfassbar fassbar
lahnlitze antlitz.
im obersten teilchen.
des öfteren:
un chien. chagrin.
gegrinselt, genickert.
sprachstrohhalm. mahlstrom. mahnkostbar.
die sonne, anscheinend. ver
letzlich ein vers. lebe er mit
mir, nein. hochgezogen. dass
ihr mitkommt. sei es. i
ch, sch, finchen fischen.
raus, meer und meer. auf
der schulter. gewolltes gewicht.



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Because conceptualism is/ and that’s – hmmm
yeah, understandable, a bridge, a passover, people
thinging about the thing, hinging on a conception –
like, ‘the’ pill or putting a ring on it or your finger or
writing a line in the sand or ‘zu verschenken’ on a spare
piece of paper, tired of always having to ask whether
we are contemporary yet, threatening to stop the
tarago, whereas I just sent you five minutes of affirm
ation and sourstuff, like, waking up for a dressing down
and strumming a liar, strung out like a metaphor, smiling
at the thought of a retour de force, or de form, or de
facto, ipso embargo, ablating the snow from the trees
with a hairdryer, laying another egg, convincing a lover
to crush it, functioning more or less like an author,
topping off another day in parasite, digging in, holding
on on on, stacking the stacks on one another, asking if
you’re coming home, and should I make the bedding.

Posted in conceptualism, gedichte, poetry, things | Leave a comment


tab tab tabula rasa, trekking through this political landscape became
like walking along the backs of a fleet of felines racing toward eternity.
women keep showing themselves in different lights and I can barely tell
who is me and who is we as I alight a toroise-shell tom tom, their long
resplendent fingers reaching up to me as in rapture my my, I have belatedly
redefined the cubist imaginary. walking away from my carriage of forty years
to be your sister’s brother, not having murdered or seriously assaulted a
single one of them, unphased by the trauma, threshing through menacing
glances from the gallery, a head hiccuping on its spine, the cord plucked
by the delicious winds of historians, bling-blinging through the rough seas
of a pregendered slime, but man rises from this quag quag, my my, again! dis
appointment transfers itself through the network like the threat of regret
through the minds of the finches, marching, anti-ga-ga but pro-po-po, a
fine student of politics reflecting time on time, brother as person as person.
how can it not be? (modal nontology) but then, every number differs from almost
ever other, despite the want of some alarmists, scandalously clad. houses that
we dream of locking from the inside, property as death rite, marriage as
birthday cake, opinions belonging to their speakers like handbags, good
humoured losers tugging at them, the steam-boat of progress chuckles along,
suspending yourself on the arms of the deckhair like a long-held apprehension –
campaign mode (that’s french for the democratisation of fashion) let them have
epaulettes! this train of monkey-in-a-barrell damsels on my tails, better-saying,
wolf-becoming, dog-becoming, unbecoming of the chair, not wanting to
jinx my cock, crowing a fresh glass of responsibility, pouring it down my pants
and breathing in the steam, it’s great for the skin, go on, dive in! make me yours!

Posted in gedichte, homelands, language(s), oz politics, poetry, prose/, repetition, reptiles, sharks, slugs | Leave a comment