1910
6.83
24.iii.25
there’s the art of
not being who you are
for the sudden gust
without
which not here to tell
how it
changes you
to hide to
pretend
to survive
the copula
like a tight
cap
take your
pills
does it
mend
those hates
made us?
both hands
of the future
or as you
were
how often a
voice, a skin, betrays
a certain
genital inclination
all in the
head as well
deny it
that the
world goes round
you know you’ll
die from what you did
the itch is
far far down
1909
6.82
23.iii.25
anchor yourself
in the big wind
in the great day
by numbers and against
in a time of thunder
among the arrows everywhere
anchor yourself
in the making mist
rise flower
out of the shouting
in the wherewithal
in the slovenly
no-think of news
out of the corner
to which I’m painted
high in the seas
let the clock run
hold on!
make midst of it
in the week comes round
in the month in the year
on a turning world
in the galaxy whirl
among the wild ideas
and true
be gone
in these few breaths
not a word
hang on to this
your cloud
1908
6.81
22.iii.25
self
loose wire somewhere
in a forest of cloud
after dreambrink
who how where why
trick of the light
or treat
good heart
the clock trained
brewing all this while
falling for the self
a slap up self
and on the fly
put up to it
by world about
peer pressure
coming down with a self
keeping it up
keeping the self up in the air
was always a juggle of masks
tempted to call it all one’s own work
then there is the -Ish
a nasty fairy
thinks nothing of your troubles
thinks of no one else
try it!
a little wobble on my axis
the underself
and the overarch
then beside one’s
and so on
sticky in the web
bearing up under the weight of the day
self medication indicated
deep in the bones
the old self again
arriving before I do
self evident
and satisfied
explanatory too
patched up with quotidian lists
the might of must
slink along, sidle up
pass bottle, bong
they say that you have to get over your own
there’s no doubt that the day is coming
self best before
and due to expire
what does it say on the can?
that’s the empty self, filled with to-do
tabula rasa cv
self we
thought we knew
as mirrored
in window glance
puffed up
with having done
…could say we just happen to be
the people we are
though that was never quite it
‘the self’
dive in just here
and wouldn’t you know it?
the self won’t wash
disobeys the most obvious rules
where’s it from
this symbolic frolic?
like a pet poorly trained, who’ll you’ll blame
down, self!
fetch, self!
roll over
and why does the self lick?
... my indiscretion
the self – unburied bone
takes over
and it was there already
nostalgic too
makes blank of mind
the bird me
or any insect
self is solipsism
whistling just to be
peer in
do you see yourself?
and all these years I am
but once, a name waiting
in the all-because
and rudely fashioned thus
that’s the deep well of self
the gyre
the smoke to touch
you go back for more
self’s ‘cut and come again’
and now, in the last furlong you see
it’s a race against time
weather selfsame too
in the very treetops of
some undiscovered world in which
it’s lovely to be lost
1907
6.80
21.iii.25
we are tether ended
some days
wake
just the
bird singing in me
branch and
leaf and sky
the day out there
bright fascination
all these calls
a dew spangle breakfast
down and
deeper
to correct
the bones
a train
flushes through
or the tap
persists
sometimes
we come to the boil
the city
fires up
like a
printed circuit
as for
myself
a shadow
cast
wake
misshapen
bend to a
clock
tending
patch
I see you see me
do the ears
colours never
cave same
turns out
there never
was sleep
day is a made up thing
a hop back into the pouch then
and so time begins
