from Risk Assessment


Lines drawn in dirt   in finger dust deposits
licking the pads of letters   letting the language in
the body and its stories   of that old salty tongue
of red-ribboned debt   genuine real death

brief instants of darkness   even fingers guiding
hard investments kill Liberty   information gridlock
economy with a hangover   worn like coins in a  
combinatory orgy of finger units   ready salted digits

rollover weeks of lying   pointing to the point
of mechanical excess   wearied overfed disorder
blankly beautiful and oiled   keys violate quantum ravishings
pitted into hard rubber   boiled blood and coiled steel

if you were mittened in your own candy-floss flesh
if you could hide your pink-sugar-coloured bruises
if you would unroll the corporeal roller impressions
ifs and buts and violence must pass as company here


Swallowed by mist   dung barge   resigned moments   mind fogged
invisible moorhen gull swan duck   first person in paradise
funerals bejewel the city's ring   endless orbital car crash
third person narrative deceased   obituaries glittering with

brisk top and tails   magpies crows penguins and vultures
thoroughly distracted and dismayed   chatter and laughter lines
clawed by each performer   each and every coffin objectified
decontextualised in the ground   costs the earth

you stuff your mouth with   and it's the truth, innit?
I mean, there's nuffink left   slipping the thread holds nothin'
but nothing   in its eye   fiery iris   nothing but
owl twist   backward stare   slicing the slip-knot

abstract thought and clouds and trees drop away
leaving suites of gesture to suit your re-embowelment
bleached bird skull and feathers by the side of the road
time's hopscotch rumours misted by swallows


Tangled denials of context   Test history's pulse
its astonished archive   screens around the image
protect the innocent   record a reflex below the throat
waiting on its whisper   for the buggers to croak

Teenage derision of content   This odyssey's a sleep walk
to the erasure of luv   a travelogue into desire
a contortionist's wet dream   sucks pleasure from the guilty
out between passions   Toothpaste turbulence veers

Toward epiphanic endings   This is the story
that didn't get squeezed   that didn't hold up
that doesn't sing sweetly   but you can't blurt out
and blot out the lovers   context would be broke

Today I want nothing more than to remain silent
Tomorrow I want something more than silent remains
will want nothing less than margins scribbling themselves in
history told in less than ten and a half chapters


Xylonite split with a crackle   a muffled humming through flesh
his tongue tastes her   senses sharpened and thrilled
over-ripe fruit   scar tissue   wrenched from its root
rubs its rubber glans over barbed wire and fence post

skinny limbs and scarlet thorns   scratching her gooseflesh back
tickling his lamb-tongue   mint sauce tart on tongue
spiced-up memories and plans   desire curls in him
ready like a tiger   stripes and teeth and smiles

ready to cut you up   the hireling flexes his tool
licensed fingers and pierced tongue   well hard ordinand
shepherd of the flock   flicks the skins inside out
their blows and suckings filmed   private post-watershed viewing

at his first burst she moans   wet with his mission
second time round he whimpers   soft as raw dough
the small mounds of flesh that spill over
look forward to sweated time and damaged goods


Yesterday I read the End   found out who done what
self-scrutiny and self-interrogation   painter turns in upon himself
turns to no applause   no ideas and big gestures
desires the company of moths   loathes the easel with ease

bronze cast upon the day   metal fatigue   burnt hands
polished chrome static   summer descends   burnished from threat
I'm dazzled by brilliant distances   seduced by intimate close-ups
fond brushstroke   critical hindsight   sun 'streaming' into my studio

mind unwinds each fragment   scatters them in new orbits
it's the way things work   its outward peering light
minds the sky's blank veil   see the widows in paradise
in the windows of paradise   wringing hot and human hands

remembered light brings death to the self-absorbed
lyric captures a rumble in the guts of tomorrow
knowing who done what tells us nothing new
it's like book art   without the book   without the art

     Rupert Loydell & Robert Sheppard