A voices roadshow
of instrumental buildings.

Yes, the composition of it,
and the duration of chorus;
director’s cut string on
                                 vocal.

Trumpet at fanfare, Insel
for the coat and birder of candlelight;
                 returner home,
on noise of sacred places.

Surviving as Fortuna, or solvate
being precisely choral. Overture.

The roadshow architecture of it.

The picture.

                Old French.

Burial snow, shroud frosted
and rapt crow over raven.

Cleared of the road you will
vocal swell, bow
wind-up to coin toss.
Return as axe.

Sheep as rocky hill,
the mutilated like copal,
                                       incapable,
possessed and examined, aggrieved
                          the meeting of it.

Twilight transition, not as heaven
but as the world as it’s troubles int’it.

Peril
very fine          stood,
as chamber music
not drink.

A monk a monk, not both.
I have an artificer,
                             or did have;

the private matter of bell peels.

Sin not being present,
you conceive without sin
of the soft slip in my left shoulder:

                                                                 the tight pain therein

                                                                 its whole idiopathy

as smoke on thatched icy-top,
washing
              reeds, and wicker
                                              anvil,
the sweat and grime of Orlando Bloom
cold, the inability to clean snot from his nose
for its refilling,
on a horse and as an engine also.

The sweep of dales, their hardness in snow and
a corollary sound of musicking;
shoeing farrier from unshod horse to shod,
                                                                 horseshoeing
for we suffering all
             I call it here,     now
                                       make barren
             and runcible.

Against without force,
                                                    Yibna,
syncopated in digital jazz, the theremin
at volume
             is easy to find,
             the finding of words and their transmission,
             doing lines,
             the copying down of found things,

a palaeography
of Ridley Scott’s blockbuster, historical epic, Gladiator.

Running nose as
in rope that ties cloth,
the driven bellows
by hammer or crook.

Hell, it’s just like
the fire and scold as stigmata,
the coming escape,
the bitter of frosted berry.

The terse approach and meeting
                                                            and at the hardest road.

The dead forest of sheltered
way that dream works
and imagine.

The frostbite of berries,
the taste.

Pissed into the river from an iced rock perch,
that’s rudimentary stitch it’s
steel and skinning rabbit for it:
                                                    the spit
striking down, straight
as the International Klein Blue flower that survives

              from the mossed film
so am I,                                    shrouding in mist,
                                                 the tight, smooth water. 

Faceshopping in enclosed tercet,
scarred face and beard
you got a neck wound and a face wound
dehanded, knotched and knocked, defingered,
knees given out,
made product,
                            villanelle. What a great time to be three,
                            to be a fan of three and odd numbering.
                            To agree with care against symmetry.

Survival and chastity of it,
              the eyes that meet,
lowering of them and bower, closing of its
fixed counter-wise on the grosser stuff of meats.

The sex of speech impediments,
the curing of pain and ham,
the twist of pliers into a saintly wound:
                                                    making cunt over hip.
The marrow that goes in the blood
as hands.

Keira Knightley as the face of history.

Russell Crowe as villanelle’d,
the grosser stuff of meats.

The cold of movie desert
as hands,
a camp on the road to
the path to heaven, paved.

The divine war on terror
and divine execution of it, and of bin Laden,
the patronage of glacier sand
as divine important towers,
overrun with preachers and rats
like Messina, stop over to the Holy Land.
                                      Its televising.

Smell of sea in cold
and adoption by fine grab,
teething of absent
beg in the gutter,
praying, for praise be to god it is proper to praise him, the rockpools
at Ocean Beach you have no stick
to beat the horse.
It’s a day off research in La Jolla so I go to Mike’s Taco Club in Ocean Beach, CA,
the big art museum in San Diego,
the fire of it, too,
and no good art.
A California burrito finally
                                                    understanding Whitman.

Fade close to
the switch of the curtain,
kneeling,
              being helped to stand
upright.
          Barren on
          as held,
          safe in hands.
The importance of hands.

In storm and wreck,
as flotsam and jetsam and bodies,
             lagan and derelict;
survival of the sexiest
and woodenness of feeling it.


                       The stormfront over dust,
                                                                 the dust and sound,
                                                 overcast, the rising up of it
and the throat-clearing of chucked oil.

Earnest and sincere like an idiot
pointing to mound,
a place of things passing over it,
the burial as evidence of monolith,
                                       presence and static,
windchiming at the filth of travel
under rock and sun over market.

The signs of life are so obvious
in scruffs of visible neck pulse,
incense and washing the addition
of 10 kg, the breeze of it:
                                             Spain, Greece,
spur and curtains twitching with no propulsion, the wind
sitting with one leg on the sill
wailing metrical,
the smock the tabard the tunic
and glare, the clanging of Hans Zimmer.

Talking to and the loss of it
in right action, a
brow with a quiver in
and arrows in check,
the bell tolling.

In exceptional gravel of voice,
slimness, additional 10 kg,
             the scar on the face
             it still has lived
             and dined;
holding out of the coat
finnicky.

Sunburning their dark eyes brown
and tan with broken hand,
effete, androgynous
and not at all vital, virile man
as surety and certainty;
            what hand will guide us there
                        in your keeping alone?
The handsomeness of the mask,
                        the land.
                        Wall painting.
            Such as we are you will be.

When there’s chicken and corn feed on wooden boards
there’s view and picaresque. Infrastructural.

                                                                      It will suit me:


Watching a man locking up the bike below freezing,
hot like a burnt pickle when his unerotics of wash
are making it better:
             the towel over one shoulder and the chest and the bone
             and the pulling over of the shirt, the tiny sail of it flapping,

             it’s greening like mouse in a slipper, proof
             and between one person and another, light
             holding up a body by strain.

             There’s mint and peas, pillowtalk
                          gravy,
                                      chips,
             the lonely standoff of two animals in heat.

In an intermission: atmosphere.

Drum whips
             choral
             minor picking up
                          as rebuild inability of sense and dark.

The double overture of Lawrence of Arabia and 2001: A Space Odyssey,
            the entr’acte of Ben-Hur and How the West Was Won.

Wall breached by the first of the furniture musics by Erik Satie,
“Ready for the Times to Get Better” by Crystal Gayle and the overture
             by Ennio Morricone,
The Hateful Eight, The Zone of Interest,
Anna Karenina and Melancholia:
“I desired to dive headlong into the abyss of German romanticism...
But is that not just another way of expressing defeat?” said Lars von Trier,
René Clair,
Francis Picabia and Erik Satie,
Marcel Duchamp and Man Ray,
Barry Lyndon’s intermission
Apocalypse Now
sex-less, The Agony and the Ecstasy, avoiding,
Battle of the Bulge
and Judgment at Nuremberg.

O! for roadshow theatrical releases and reserved seat engagements.

In the second part
determined I should come
the stony face of unskill.
Echoed as shouting,
           at wheezing,
is that stubborn allowance of stuff to supply conscience and passivity,
the rising dust mites:
                                      I offer you what I am and the world.
See? Pious hands
and rotten fruit.

Overwhelming Klein Blue
as Robert Bunsen,
the chastity in kissing metal and diverging
colour palette operatic it, that is,
smoke from slender towers
snarled by jumbled face,
throwing rocks orange,
an exodus of blue
                                     from the hypermarket and thousands
                                     of feet with hardening hands.

High feeling of indigestion as tacky
gold the inability of grim real,
the potential circling field of it.

The truly serene earnestness and sincerity of a man without ability
and such generous bitterness of orange pulp,
trimmings and extra waste of oil and the fight of it,
the washing in burnt scar water cheek nose and nostrils and bone,
the lips and unfaded eye whites
jettisoned space into.