site 1
roll up for the paragliding donkeys
or synchronised three-legged dogging
but
first perform a one-man mexican wave
to yawn greet
dawn appease the demons
in the clifftop maze which
points to itself
eventually the floor of the caravan
dries
then we heave the whole box
clockwise 35 degrees
to follow the sun
& so on
if what we know is wrong
suspended
in a sea of ignorance & cack
(leave space) suggest-abilities
raise seal heads
submerge
again without apparently inhaling
shopping results for the
tibetan book of the dead
your
cart is currently empty
it has become necessary to imagine
these companions
& their fleeting theme tunes
this
one blending
tallis & the shithouse lilies
is norman wisdom dead yet
if not why not
head
circus parade talk to me until
sometimes
I stand so still
the
rats come out to wash in peace
site 2
golf
within 10 miles but safer to read
the
small henderson room
for medicinal
purposes
whose ash & goats are these
on the far side of the blackthorn
three hyacinths (intensely blue)
do what all the flowers do by night
there
are lots of little fliers in the toilet
advertising free delivery
of meals to throw at trees
& worlds of fake attraction
let’s go to vaulted vacancy
where the psychic octopus circles overhead
on a festo airpenguin
then
again the keltic seal-juggler
sounds
exactly what we need
after wrestling with decision
&
a vietnamese river cobbler
to the accompaniment of cornish rap
& the region’s
characteristic ronsealed mdf lutes
the
state of the evening decays
to
squatting on rock
as
the final tin of old speckled
hen
turns immensely dark
site 3
the
moon’s inexplicably abandoned
in
a different night of strangers
devoid of pewter or
cinnamon tunes
or those of hawthorn
straw or fennel
larkspur / curlew
she said when I end this line
I’ll count to three & you’ll
awake
forget this ever happened 1
2
you
can smell tcp
for up to three weeks after you die
we opted
for an hour or two of music
luigi
tenco megamix
a
bit of dr loco
a transfer deal involving
several pet shop boys
with a neighbour’s
plastic suitcase
she left in the rain before
dawn
in her I fucked leonard cohen t-shirt
the wrong registration number
etched on the caravan window
there is nothing in the field
except this empty grapefruit half
two slugs nestling in the
brilliantly white soft bottom
site 4
those who danced were thought insane
by those who couldn’t hear the music
according to the old nietzsche hit
yet this is where they all relax
divertimento macchiato
o spirits of the airwaves
batter my heart & wrap it in
tabloid
paper-mache pig banks
daubed with tar
so many sloping pitches
wedges & ice-picks
are strongly recommended
beautiful
indian hair may be bought
at the harbour of chamfered-toot-saints
where prawns nibble dead skin
from
the feet of rich pink men
who make decisions on water
boarding & commission
in mature gardens
deep
in quiet light
under the fine star fields
around altair
in
aquila
mrs
hales as euphrosyne
helps
discord
&
the winds fall into haven
site 5
shit-cake ponies back into awnings
we line up for the contest:
who looks
most like a cross
between paolo nutini
& a hillman imp
that summer of donovan pâté
logo
by creeley
I
knew my swollen loaf
how
true & yet how now
brown horse is never now enough
don’t leave without trying a molecatcher’s pie
&
paying for it through dappled
afternoons
of otter racing
rippled
with despair & sobriety
in peak season the whole
park hums
with
unwashed kids
dyspraxic
lego professionals
the
whiff of snagged crab
turn
up in february & celebrate with
accommodating
locals who put
slug
pellets right around
the border of the county
come valentine’s day
