i plunged my fist into your chest and discovered the heart i licked my discovery my knowledge in the cell, in the nighttime, as the moon covers its eye with the shadow, i discover the will in the cell which is the will in me, i began as a shellfish and step by step became a monster of knowledge, tore the mask from the weakened citizen, denaturalised the kidney beans, as they fall from your fallopian tubes, the bells ringing, i dropped the fabric over the surface of the body and ceased to be a citizen, my qualities became obscured by the dark cloth i had no values, i was a machine for the god, he licked me on the face and told me to uncover myself he stripped the leaves from my flesh he licked the Vaseline from my sex, my cache-sex, in the darkness, i relieved myself, i was of shame for the other, the western string, the history of a shoelace, i looked toward the other lands and saw them twist their strings, it folded into them, i discovered the silence that precedes them, that sustains them. i became raw in the sunlight, i rosied up to the god, for only through the medium could i perceive his ephemera and feeling it could i discovered the solitude.

displaying my whole surface, everybody could see that exposer and cacher were the same verbs but with alternate intensities of light. i discovered the hand within the glove. i discovered the land. i ran the finger over the rock and left my cells on its grisly skin, i painted myself onto it i discovered art. i pwned it. i discovered the bodies under the coat, a coat made entirely of arms, what god has commissioned this, what tailor has known such a creepy might. i discovered the bones beneath the skin, ran the tips of my own skin-slung bones over their content, i told you you were a symbol, i fit you to a concept, hitched a star to a waxen figure, twisted the forms. i discovered the eagle preying above us revered it. i never feared god because i saw his shaven face. I found the leader in the sunlight, he presented his rugged chest to us, his capped scalp. we ran the sandpaper over his breast. we made of the blood and hair a paste, and began to paint the landscape. i discovered the bed under the doona, discovered the tongue in the minority grouping, they were pressing back against the freezer. i slid the bottlebrush down my throat felt its nettles rush, noted my pores prickling to the stamm. in the introduced unherb, i made a finding, introduced myself to the responsible gods, placed myself before the others.

the pink men of knowledge, sweating in the closed rooms, resisted and in resisting, continued to be true. i swallowed the turd and breathed into their air-hole. I raised the plastic sword to your plastic neck and made the thickened plastic blood sulk out. i discovered the plague in the handkerchief. i discovered the stain beneath the mug, the fleck behind the cushion. i covered my skin and the excreta removed itself. i lay the banksia on the battlefield in order of their size, their hue, the length and width of their tendrils, the resistance of their leaves, the flexibility of their stems. i catalogued all of these properties, then shuffled them under the undergrowth. i found the blood in my soup and took it back, even though it was my blood and someone else’s soup. likewise i documented this case and it took on a quality. in the name of equality i saw myself forced to destroy the others. in the name of fraternity i felt myself tempted to kill the sisters. i discovered the complexity of emotion. it was we who discovered the lip under the moustache. we discovered the yoke, bolted it to our necks and showed it to the boss. he said teamwork and we hi-fived. we discovered the subject being subjected. we discovered the leaves of grass. we discovered the peninsula and broke its neck. we began to swim, our surfaces were shining and covered, we were naturalised.

Posted in gedichte, homelands, oz politics, poetry, prose/ | Leave a comment

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.

Posted in adorno, art, expulsion, language(s), poetry, truth | Leave a comment


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