The Commons set 3 // 34 - 35

according to dubious tradition
of weirds & scroungers -
“woe! my face in the -
my feet burning from me”.
This, I dunno, kind of happened
&, predictably, edited
here / inside world history
noises / brain snap.
Anyway, this has been a story
they say they were singing
but how we know that
“the doors & windows -
“burning & secure -
“enter the language & -


no meanings swarm / into
complicity etc: so, when
the weary smoke began to
rise / likewise the boiling -
heat, of course / has been
& of exile / totality is -
no meanings swarm / &
“who here can speak
the language of the dead”
emerges from music &
professionals / princesses etc
- fumes, narrative -
“golden bands / your necks etc
inc. ‘below the world’. lenin.

The Commons set 3 // 31 - 33

anyway, eclipse, as I was -
although we live in the city
- so -
they wouldn’t arrest us, their
astrology / starkly inside us.
It was a contented era, a
justification. They could not
arrest / their threads & names.
anyway, I owe this reference to
- certain international events -
- certain conformities -
it was 1974 / a ballad recalls /
“the life which once I had
by law is now controlled”


yeh, it was a contested area
- moderation, NGOs etc -
Listen, rather than suck
& with a turquoise chain
- like -
what is public knowledge is
WHACKED. Degree zero
- we were citizens of -
listen / a supreme vodka /
- merely the value that -
- sirens, as in commerce -
- & we encircled -
As law is anything or nothing,
is bended by / & like a twig


like a twig, the official position
& indigenisation / or what,
within US imperialism, gets
- as in, absolute antagonist -
or / the absence of the dead
- as in, an irradiant -
my true love, as I was saying
- we were buying weapons -
- as in, living standards -
- down to the drugstore -
or, because we don’t exist
- down by possessions, & -
- down by the gun / saying
like I was, my true love -

(after Rimbaud)

september 2003. we were wondering why the poets were silent
we: children’s books, whisky, record shops
bombed orchards, paracetomol, refugees, circuit boards
the sun, god of fire
there we have a series of verbs. they pass to & fro as if no-one had seen them.
they go in and out of random houses. signal towers. border towns.
the course of study is that simple
the legality & opacity of poets
the noises scratched into them. real constellations: beggars, economy, detonation
december 2009. a review of the year
a hell for the hands, for the hair, for the mouth, for the law. an entire symphony
360 degrees. supernatural sobriety of discontinued nouns
the reservoir at dawn
direction multiplied by velocity. glimpses of improbable harmony

The Commons set 3 // 29 - 30

objects / tobacco & brandy
or something truly ridiculous
class struggle / in poetry also
- yawn -
its contagion is spread
via rhymsters, their embers
their swarms of bone
not zombies, sirens
criss-cross a fraudulent
a map of, of what -
got an art council grant
will burn their houses down
- yawn -
everyone’s been buried alive


objects / of the future
who we’re speaking to
- or there is no future -
- so, like, tough shit -
but still your shadows
still they block us
are still eating us
even inside the poem
its rowdy echoes
we are drowned inside
sirens, as I was saying
or, of course, the law
our ruins our octaves
you speaking in them

The Commons set 3 // 27 - 28

meanwhile, we were documentaries
a code made of letters, like
unaroused by official culture.
For some reason, it was 1649,
we were trapped inside it, clutching
our most reasonable point of view.
I can’t say more / vast territories
of our singing selves, decommissioned.
Maybe it was 2003, or something,
I don’t remember, my favourite laws
were just a system of false brains
I recognise that / splintered & oblique
social utterance flaming malevolence
magnetic, would soon go dancing etc


our minds are clean & pleasant
the sphere of employment
- blank -
listen, we are your friends
gliding like magazines / we
inside each nations serenity
sitting near you on the bus
totally harmless characters
strange and flattering numbers
seriously, trickling inside
what we once were / we
esoteric in panic
swifter than birds
in our social role, objects -

(after Rimbaud)

complaint registered March 18th 1871
what I liked were crumbled octaves, fruit markets
xenography, petticoats, reservoirs
where mathematical fluid and relics of social movements might
no verb: complaint registered Nov 1989
we are still in Cimmeria
the point is a total reworking of all definitions
that means history, senses, cellular matter
here primarily for networking, interested in traditional values
abandoned pubs, tonal constellations, humanitarian intervention
where known scholars and professionals might
kept alive by musical systems
ancient wavelengths, electric liquids
dense silence in city parks

The Commons set 3 // 25 - 26

hello / we are your life
- stop -
now it is March 18
& we are a syllable
like a non-frequency
our twists & circles
ie the gypsy davy
- stop -
- 71 comments -
- we are your octave -
- not zombies, sirens -
- ie obsolete music -
- 1871, march -
- choke -


so, I’ve been in the penn
with the rough & rowdy
echoes, letters & notes
- musical ones -
“10, 000 were drowned
that never were born”
ie register that
via export of capital
understood as the dead
encircle us, in a sense
was a mole in the ground
no, sorry, I mean a census
I mean the police computer
as centre of gravity / irradiated