Sunday, December 30, 2012

Stu Hatton


there is much to keep silent about 


that serial mic-in-mouth dream: 

hardbodies mass,

your book-smarts

amount to nothing


the morning mopes,

hardly good smoking weather


a status bar worms


to little purpose 


timepoor breakfast

eaten off a mirror


fast-acting cap

slows the room 

to baseline


you practise your dice-rolls

but there’s no 

need to undress

that billboard girl 

(she only ever loves a warrior)


a nest is a gathering (opportunity point)

less an escape than a hiding (hiding centres the body)

a morning for lingering (no one is waiting)

pushing the bike uphill (no, the day not in shreds)

reversing that wheel, the eye (stir a little p.m. into the a.m.)

as if you could open anything, seed anything (the xanax beginning to sprout)

how to differ (trembling to the point of weightlessness)

limiting yourself to a certain era (ease outward: other rooms)

to act a tad skylike (become a believer in birds)

orchid dormant (how to make a robe of it?)

inertia’s home (or a buddha, a noon point)


Ants crawl the beach, distributing
data. Sand drifts into patterns:
ripples, cusps. Sand-waves, sea-
dunes. The vast. Sun surging
amber/violet. Scapes of cloud,
smudging, shaping analogues

of lifeforms. Fractals of
your face … your circuitries.  
Chemical morning: sleep-
deprived, I rest in
your pulse; vistas scroll
over your skin. These layers

and layers. Imagined
and after-image: busy mandalas
bend the spectrum. No linearities,
no wrestling with a cloud. Letting
go into patterning. Footprints on
sand … or footprints of sand … ?

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