Neat something, neat shape, holding me & held
hard or soft, expressing volumes
but honeycombed
but filled with yellow stars,
I have had enough of loitering
in the corridors, of metonymic armies
sweeping over the plateau,
sewed things up but knocked the stuffing out
like an oiled zip, canals, bailey bridges,
like a felt dummy come unstitched:

enough of marauding grey pilots
shitting like plump flies, flattening a swathe
through my pernickety ground-plan,
more than enough I've had
of an expansionism with masking-tape,
where only the lalling mouth, the bland face
may succeed:
Wooden sleepers sew the outlandish up
through birches screening off a cut-wood pile,
a little object
buttonholes me
What's this microphone on my lapel:

only its integrity of response
running across the rail of teeth, the teeth
which chew the cheek, so what?
So what chant the little vermin
tearing about in a frenzy, but I'm staying put,
lord of the molecule, of this pod,
biting hard so a pure
companion nipple stares out like an omphalos,
& registers, & stamps my yellow card;
loyal beneath its cut-&-dried,
flat response
resellotapes the map, locks the preset on-beam:

Uh, sort of something, kind of shapely
part that's missing but authentic, how
can the missing part of the action interrupt
the forces I deploy?
droning wildfire through the native networks,
4th column & 5th retake
puzzling over the voice from my own mouth?
Figure who consecutively
speaks out deadpan & who sorts by timbre
(voiceprint should be used to check his source)

- did I machine this steely ingot
lain across the socket? Ask another.
What was the instrument I chose
to do my bidding? Ask the home truth,
ask the spike that doesn't divulge but keeps
its circle close:
I met the forces of resistance, broke for
cover as if a breach-birth,
thought I'd got submerged
within their stockpile, but felt tangible
for the first time,
might do me good in the white brush;
tipped off-track I lost my helmet,
track's corrugations couldn't uphold me always,
wherever I stopped the plain buckled
ominously but friendly but foreign but rock:

Poor something, shape unchosen,
honey's deep in the rock, sweet honey's
deep in the groove & fluid thanks to the sun
Shines in general, most on its missing part:
the baffle's pouring it out
like canyons at first blush, like Try
a little respect
auditions the audience when it erupts
like on a podium
freaks its sang-froid; the stiff
night resolves to purge its western emissaries:
itsy-fait of a thing,
you must proclaim yourself or else the whole
front be taken out:

Neat something, neat shape, holding me & held
on a wind-cursed concrete plaza
groyned with water channels, punched with
rubber studs, now on my word
I saw my stamp put there,
how could you ever be touched. White
as a nasty thorn in a chaplet
stares unblinkingly & is dusty & gives
nothing away, white as the parade ground
scuffed by greedy, bawling mouths.
It is told what it appears to be,
time & again. It has been railroaded, funnelled
foraged for provision.
But there is wealth beneath the topsoil, honey
under its corrugations, honey fermented
crude in the rock.

Says who?
Where did you get that thing from?
Thingumabob I issued for & clung to, snatched
& bit to know my predator's stuff,
squalling
having to swallow it
like Chronos his rejected organs
swallow it like a big boy.
At dawn it will recombine
effortlessly as usual, gutted & drilled
curl in amniocentric warmth,
bask forgetfully I remember inside newly out
missing part of the day's
decoction, long-drawn-out interior, frankly
these are stars like frozen urine

broken free of a pink room filled with loss,
breaking out as A Thousand Times Yes!
my voice proclaims, pounding the crust of wave-
patterns, cracking its pontoon.
Neat something, neat
Field of the cloth of gold
sidled into, tented for my quick, I'd as soon
crack my hard wrapping, rip
daybreak's oriflamme,
flush pinkish like a lychee:
no I'll choose quartz for accuracy
as honey had not rotted, nor did mummify,
crystallizing 12,000,000 torn wings;
white will splinter
as they upswarm, to bedazzle the aerial masses:

ahead of their lines of attack, fall freely.