The Ocean’s a Dirty Window I’m a fish in the ocean’s dirty window

or I’m acacia hymn and the cerros are my trash-laden theatres. Either I sing the acacia or I’m rusted cables craning from the slabs: snaking, rusted cables haemorrhaging rapidly into concrete. What I’m saying is:

either I’m within or I’m wholly without, or I’m wholly within and there is no without. Either I am or. Speaking of an old trunk,

or a storm’s glittering box, a word’s blade will approach the edge of mortar. Speaking of storm clouds, you can let them wander over the land. Or you can ask them to swell rapidly: (swelling rapidly) let them wander over the land!

(swelling rapidly) let their foreheads gleam white! While heat escapes from fissures between phrases, that smelly humidity, sound’s own parasite. Leaving viscous wisps of fish cum substantial as the first person. Then there are the rotund rock carvings;

their eyes gleam white like capital clusters of sight; sight is a scab or a clasp, dry as Canada,

crushed P.E.T. Meaning: I invented a hard egg, a plastic white as cum. I’m saying that my memes are bumbling:

a stale fish sauce, a bubbling, broiled kelp sauce; burn off the syntax and sprinkle it. The flames are burning the fat from the syntax!

Or: nets of cockatoos drag gusts across the sky. In each pleasure there’s a decay,

rivers of old city tumbling down slopes. Not that any of us are the same.

Our terms, in terms of she oaks, silos or five- star cuisines, are sharp lines skidding off / slipping off their greasy tracks, spearing. I think we’re searching rabidly for new valencies.

I think we’re erotic as Christ, failure as vision. Either I’m a flapping ear or a smoking gun. Either we’re igneous ribs or foamy cakes melting into shorelines, scratchy wedges of line speeding, slim as silver, crepuscular. But out there,

past commodity and hatred and hidden like seals, inverted woodlands are going intravenous and starving on their own salt. I’m saying that we are triathlons chopping up harbours, we are selections of heart-smart meats, juices dripping, lips smacked, and the old syringes are cocoons of weary light in the system’s squirting star.  

 

 

 

   

Drift Following a day’s wrinkle wrinkled stumbling down cerros cerros old araucaria struggling up struggling friction like hand on tarmac tarmac trunks. stout spiny trunk On the day’s various wrinkled saints stretching the gardener for the cleaner who is in a deep and rosy Torn into

air beautiful as thought viento stuck delicately to the of hemispheres

Stride is true country wollemis wollemis arrested abstractly stride during day’s various descents descend and the plight of a cerro cerrados becoming Hispanic or peninsular en un peninsular’s licking an old tune’s red fingers dedo stride was native ground rojo.

faces faces leaves stretching leaves waits waiting lost perdido mud deep in mud. A song claps through the bellies of cumulus pork matching emotions veins floating visions of continental drift towards araucarias become bunya bunya Bunyah.

magnets magnetic air burning burns soles sells cells souls.  

 

 

 

   

En las orillas en las orillas de una ciudad caída on the edges of a city that has fallen

on the tips of signs, on the tails of women mist twisting shyly around buildings

an exhausted ocean pleading with buildings on the edges of a fallen city en las orillas de un sueño en que estoy sonriendo

on the edges of a dream in which I am __________ earthen tracks corroding to plasma

a dying fish slapping pavement a dying fish’s mouth ripped open

a city hauled from the ranges by a rusty hook in my wake, the buildings tumble

la caída de los edificios desde los cerros hooks ripping through the cheeks of mountains

scattering scales of white paint, pock marks and cancerous butts but I’m seduced by the ocean’s brightest colours

by bonds peeling, organic’s savage crust my polystyrene heart floats on the surface

los nombres de mujeres cantan en el superficie the names of women floating in my wake

a sea lion’s bulk becoming slime iron poles stabbed repeatedly into concrete muscle

slick aceite and basura on the chest of the sea I’d like to say I opened up to all this

I’d like to say that I sang, that I became the sweating colours of living tissue but I was a slowly burning flame

I was a slow, lathed flame twisting like steam over the pavements

even paler against tarmac and oxidisation I disappeared into smog, into paint, into a lure’s secluded sting

the tall, creamy silos gently grunting y las casas de madera quedándose calladas

ruined buildings resting in a pile before the ocean cruddy concrete glaciers lurching into the ocean

I chased, I crawled, I intruded my kisses dragged over punctured mattresses my tattered kisses, my wounded bones

further and further out with each mottled drop with the timbre of fish, with the prelude to a star

silent tankers retreating into horizon’s white libido fa