I structure this poem like a story so you may
understand there is no story.
All is frame, tomorrow never less
when across fragmentary fields
frogs mud-wrestle in the pond,
thoughts jet-trail above like
the breath of knowledge,
the sun still burning its banknote
and in cloudbeat of the boot-shiny pedalcar
the wings under their cases visible
like simmering milk under the lid
the 'cow of the lord' will
'measure me for my wedding glove'.
A period of weeping intervenes
until she drains from her mask,
rejoins the carriageway of your palm

unsettles on the skin, stands ajar.
Art is dead between us, my thumb
understands. Polish it so we
can see our real shapes where we dream
oftly and on the undertimed fragments
her face is a lineage, it wounds by looking:
people cascade in her shadow, its
egg's urnway flowers speak their tiny minds
on the fungal flesh of garden furnishings
in the world that is the case waves
and attitude wait under tunnels
remember as a child remembering as a child
the rust fixed where the helmet loosened
were words missed on this
and the silence of the children is harder than
the noise they used to make.
The songs do not think they will stay long.
Roses arreared, roses she blew,
she drove her bloodred slaveships over to you.

All things that love the sun are out of doors.
Then tight stars that will not let go fist light.
Eyes have not been thought of, we are as meat
to sail day light, dense limbs of rain can wind
the moon is yes of the stem the name
at the end of the tongue. It is hard for
the star of earth to binge drink in warp space
like one whom I had met with in a dream.
Form who can sun flesh peach the while round us
thins. In dim things clouds of is seep flame, per
son whose mask speaks through scream is at the end
of each poem this flesh hopes through the seeds we
had in mind those wheels of flesh through whom I
could see the earth brim. It sucks the blood of
man & beast & bides the place that it sucks
till it be full & then falls, the world in
the grain of slime, the lane of the dad that
lights to the touch is left to state but how
the crabs start to pinch flesh swim in your years.
The well are in flames. We changed in mid flow
to stream of hedge when light is seal of self
that will  spring from its page and sink its long
and sharp tooth in to your eyes and suck and
then sink in a soup that is half shade as
the light fixed things, we are the long dead, our
eyes are built from seeds of this a drunk arm
from pond to pond he roams from moor to moor
a head of air err or horr roar ding is
far from the world I walk, and from all care
sich sea quenched the oil spill phut phut plip plop.
The grass is bright with rain drops on the moors.
I bared my froth forth to blanch at the sight
build for him, sow for him, and at his care
of groin or sluiced wrench blurt out the first thing
that comes to you: bop plunk scrunch this lap top
is mph, eached ping, the fleshed pip sing icht and
hush we are as loon as gluck riff on the
scroop or rasp the quicked purr of dead pome, sieved
is seethe, what seeps tolls the zoo starts here slurp
on the spilt sperm ghost rain dance like a grub
in pain or light  blurg your bored chinks in clot
of glutes world chafes with hic and hawk flob up
a flute of foulth frig your glans with smur and
jizz I ounced through your glop glup plink that tripe
wrought things as light of puff to see through this
world next world to the last, chuck a ream of scrab
but now his voice to me is like a stream
fuck this off blab your mouth bleep bloop is a bung
the gleamt gawp husks left in the lurch is flip
that squats like work plap the violed scrow to quop
like a sea beast crawled forth, that on a shelf
beep is the new burp pith your face with chunk
creak in to a new flop hum a song of
sex pence the truth will out or it will not
plop up a plup of suss, get snug with splat.

O for an I of the storm for form to break
in a productrecall of biblicalp
reportions the trees to drench in maldegaze
shanksed and elbowed the faminine mistache
pulsatiates as a narrative flows from
farmountains, meltamorphed gazemale
of manageme's usurprising hands have
felt sockets in the beard headhold
in legend of armbody, limbclimb
for myselves to hungerstrike the villagerms
swarmlegs unshine in cloudsize
of barkodes and losslieders stareyed
to the gutwrenched fuhrermost inchswarm
where the nounsaturated wind would un
nerve the trees, the faminish sheaman angle
that which the palmerworm has left
swarms to the touch the cropswarm
flocus a wildflow selfempty cloudust
would massurge the tunamult
loclustering towards an orcharred
silveriver or gotterdammerswarmundrang
of adultoid maskappliance, then
to dicemember the africanmasked grindown
to godforsake the metrognomic
hordescend among the heathazed newsevents
andstorms of tropsical solidaridity
in boombust, the many-faced, subaltern, ever-
turning, liquipped, metalarval, custorming
thinking-engines travelling towards
a stormorrow we will in time fail to define.
In place of it, we scour coldwind blurburnt
cinderenders of the interactable. The wingsound
is chariots at speed-of-capital
handouts of the cloud into cyclad
emptinesses, the indetermittent tweeter of
echoing glosseme in front of my town.
It can accommodate all that you have left
to say, Japanese motorbikes in bright
farings, machined stridulators make revs
of ejugulate dustindustrial goddiness.
The actor clutches and tears at flesh as the
audience coughs. The room you slept in
is in a country you have never visited.

I am the weight of a soul,
the flowers stiffen as I
committee the growthroughs
that assetstrip statistic centripetals
visavisages of fuzz and
motets in god's eye, brittle
transcript of air on a leaf
contradiction between clouds
saps and intubates the verduring
leafvein as air's imprecision gathers.
I leave this in my hands for
your safekeeping, a book on which
was written insolvencies of cloud.
It takes in airmada of clatteract
and intangelement of deadspirit,
the seethrough scrapemetal, a laser-
etched vasculum, the tulippy zigzagurat,
self as wing, to set in shone.
The rain thinks a jettisong
of discontinent mindwindow
dreamforths in a filigreed glasshour
in fadylike selffastening
florifices of tonguerime
& godworn light when my future selves
dismember this entwinery.
Weakwilly the trembular bellstem
halfplant and mothertheless
awls its illegged misuscle.
A poem must sap the intelligence.
Pale farmers rake clouds. God
got drunk in the seed
and pissed in the flower.
      Giles Goodland 2013