Stu Hatton

outrovert

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

cross-screen 

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)


self-help

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)

fractalina

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 … ?