Postcolonial Postcards

1

The car is blue this time and howling

pedagogue: what’s missing is an obvious

pain of view. If you ‘put yourself out there’ –

that is, dissimulate, a given we call to rather

elder pillars set self-love

at the terminal we’re stopped.

Image is dialectic in this context,

storytelling catachresis at a standstill

2

A function of encounter

Inheres in your tautology

Until I grab your hand:

Analysis: why bother anyway?

Telling is an amateur device

Reserved for substances:

Acetate, the immolation of desire

There she said ‘discipline’ (discipline)

Well yeah I think so

Capsized without fear.

3

There’s a white gloss on her lips

Postal in its hierarchy

A throat-clearing move toward

your teeth with the cessation.

4

The half-edged cry of gulls the screech

of cars like whales very sorry indeed

who’ve sacked themselves

with grief lures secrecy impatience

makes a point that doesn’t hurt

beyond the novel we rather enjoyed.

5

He had been ruined

Publicly made

ruination his heritage

which of us is not

whole? I might mention

the watch, the eyes

rolling along the wall.

Speech acts

Caught out in violet habit you

Resound enflowered – ‘may

I offer this arrived Machine’

you say, you plink

Slow eyes. The square is full

of misanthropes, slow ropes dull

hands few fences Stalled within

a blank device, regeared.

The smiles separate from the crowd

and float toward the Designee.

A purled indemnity soars.

Apraxia

I thought I had it – oh!, the scarified holds my limbs and it

I thought I had – the cure felt limpid scares and

here I thought, soft voiced, the health-boy drunk to

wastes of islands have we junket, boats tilted and one overboard

I thought I held, the paper – Care procures its vials

hold the sun, the sheen palpates

You in bunches, a thread around your waists – slight meal

I thought I ate that, rolled and dightful tongue-melt up

you own man, you won suit gotten, you woven will it

thought we saw the same silt, the whole meal sat in adamant

fulfilment of said optioning, the land

I thought I had it, elbow outward you sit throttled in the furrow

mazed, the somber man whith ides torn round

she woman own for lamp-lights, southern moon vents

that one held with etch in shoulders, with her garden garden

one soft round of lampshades, her bright offspring lapsed

I thought I had the sad eyes of the girl alight

she boat-set, rivers are the ops, feet the filled-in

Clemency of odds, I thought I had that

Rope theory

Knowledge reverts to type

lacking a subtext. experience. a girl with ringlets

in her eyes, testing the long pages

with boyish mien. unimpeachable, like gardens.

Outdoors, we can’t see anything.

a disilluminate set of trees

fronts only itself, dowager forest

lavishing the upturned faces of birds.

calmly we have a name for this

version of events. your billow answers to it.

Theocracy’s a name for costly garments

made occasion for a never-do upend.

they separate willingly, recall the gardens

in irregular rows, come up for any price

but your perfection. neither youth nor age

especially, no temperance for resistance to be.

Underneath experience is experience. no

part of realization glows willingly

to pasture items. some perspective, good

for you. the soft sides undevoured

for fingers, the habits activate for calm

flow willingly, compiling reasonable

suppressions in the skin. known

for its folding attributes of wait.