OUTLYING REGIONS
I.
the docks are clogged
with vessels that have never left
bodies adorn the sand
like margarine in the sun
every problem in the world
absolved by endless fun
change faces
rub yourself with a Chux Superwipe
cleanse the palette for the putrescence of night
this is as close you will ever get
to laughter filling the air
II.
sometimes the island gets a funny smell
aggravates the flesh
like a preacher mentioning Hell
a sprinkling of fine sand
falls from the mechanical sky
our ancestors are dead
and no one remembers why
covers the toadstools and spiritual disabilities
with ultra-popular cutting-edge identities
III.
sometimes I see myself
being digested by the sand
falling through the cracks
naked before the false sun
whatever it is
it has me
waking throughout nights
tampering with memory
going to the outlying regions
yet embedded in the canal’s womb
IV.
at night I walk the shoreline
parasites eat small parts of my legs
I wrap them in sheets
promise to return them
V.
every drop of rotted water
must be accounted for in the manifests
every fixture must be perfect
to harmonise the script
we are marooned here
so turn your mattresses
control the lighting
roll the red carpet
over the bloat-fly’s stomach
VI.
Holy Ghost
remove me from this vat of yeast
where nothing earned
means borrowing with interest
A weight pressing on the sky
a yoke felt in private silence
it cuts our time in half
Then we eat what is set aside immediately after
VII.
when a well-wisher
becomes a latent superspreader
give diligence its due
smell the TV guide coming alive
the planted audience
sending positive thoughts
cataloguing themselves from a tattered bag