2

dead write

2

dead write

by Dylan Harris

4 anticipating the metaverse, 3 nation six dog, 2 dead write

chapbooks

20.0: church is dangerous vital (o),

tin rush (n), the A rush (m), engineering rush again (l),

Miss Demeanour (k), flock state (j), be infinity (i), Namings (h),

nation six dog (g), uncivil law (f), dead write (e), chase chase (d),

an engineering rush (c), a much for we (b), The Joy Of Tax (a)

19.9: Inn (c), Swoop (b), An Ode To The A14 (a)

19.8: Rose (c), Hymnen (b), Darmstadt (a)

Copyright © 1989-2007 Dylan Harris

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Published by Potato Press

Mechelen

http://dylanharris.org/

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(Specify "dead write" in the subject line of any email)

Recitals of some of these poems may be found online

Poems

10	The Joy Of Tax

11	the clarion

19	China Poem

20	poetry

28	Scorpion

29	On Hunting With Hounds

30	gentle

31	New Year's Eves

32	I Don't Visit My Mother's Grave

33	What Do Lemmings Eat?

35	We, The Fell

36	... a much for we ...

37	... And Then I'll Break The Sea

39	An Eighteenth Century Beam Engine

40	later

41	It's My Hands

42	Intruder Alert

43	My Difficulty With Melancholy

44	i'd prefer to remember summer

45	A Simple Fantasy

46	Sweet And Stupid

47	Software Engineering

51	bathroom spider

52	Elsewhen

53	Hence The Coldness

54	Fear In Flight, God

56	Thoughts On Odes To Nightingales

57	the three monks

59	Neil Armstrong Is My Explorer Of The Millennium

60	Tobacco's Such A Treat

62	The Queen Of Santa Fe

63	Sharp

64	old man Keats

66	A Bicycle Criticises Concorde For Not Observing Butterflies

67	chase chase

68	still biting

69	glist

73	discard

81	dead write

82	uncivil law

Thanks to Jenni Tucker for CB1.

The Joy Of Tax

"Each time you buy your love a gift

they gain some goods they don't declare."

said Ima Heirach, quoted for the Revenue.

"All income should be taxed,

so we intend to introduce

the 'extra purchase' rule.

Say you buy your girlfriend flowers,

one time in three,

you'll buy an extra bunch

and post it off to us.

And should you buy romantic meals,

one time in three,

you'll pay for one of us

to join you at the trough.

And, er, if you and she, um, yes,

well, that's not our business, yet.

But we'll tax the consequences,

when they're fully grown."

the clarion

lord pisswater's clarion

the extreme rapist

a Russian madman

killed sixty

the extreme serial killer

Dr. Harold Shipman

murdered three hundred fifty

the extreme racist

genocides

five hundred people dead

for each one victim

of Dr. Harold Shipman

that's all the souls you love

everyone you've ever met

think their faces now

family

people you chat

every glanced stranger

all of them

dead

skin awful white bloodlessness

life ripped

that dread vision is where the racist goes

when some big history incites his blind

he dare not civilise his difference terror

allow sane life to those he fears betters

Serbian Herzegovina

Hutu Burundi

De Montford's England

we all have fear of strangers

fear needs courage for control

so how can you not detest

lord pisswater's clarion

for reciting that howling bigotry

at fallen down outsiders

and how can you respect a nationalist

who daren't comprehend his murder of belief

the murder that's always seen

when his howling fuckalikes

steal the power of state

we know

lord pisswater's grandfather

sucked the cock of hitler

but why does this modern fool

suck the cock of hitler's corpse

it's like believing the gangster lords

and their sister

– female as a volcano –

will break the race

their hounds will win the catford dogs

and i'm there cheering

– the crowd cheers –

and i sing – we sing –

the words of the running dog song

i feel raised like the buddha

to a purity of judgement

i am to decide the race

i naked before a thousand opinions

will pronounce

i have seen great challenges met

a fox giving up eggs

a farm of trees and engines giving up monotony

a clarion reader giving up racism

so i will make

all those chaotic opinions

all those contradictory bets

all that violent self assertion

wilt

and there she stands

like a city on fire

promising ecstasy like a fruit promising juice

as naked as a tree in her leaves of spring

and though england may race like fools for gold

and though lord pisswater may promote his coward gestalt

and though i may burn such a squalid lust

to open her like tower bridge

i will not pursue

i would be foolish

damn the clarion

let's get this straight

a rascist cliché states

"us Brits are wondrous at invention

but haven't got the managers

to transmute ideas to wealth

so all our great creations

enrich non–British companies"

you'd think the empty peddle heads

would follow through and say

"that since our land needs managers to manage

and foreigners clearly do it well

why let's invite ten million in"

yet lord pisswater's clarion

that peddle rascist daily rank

screech at entrepreneurs

who happen to be foreigners

whom in their rascist hatred–speak

they castigate "economic migrants"

these foreigners whom in different lands

have the wit of management

the rascists argue ours do not

so let's say it straight

the rascists state our managers

are stupid like themselves

"our country's losing out"

yet screech a parrot hate

at foreign gifted women men

who immigrate and wealth create

by its own corrupted thoughts

the clarion howls stupidity

is written for idiots

little diddems

aah

poor little diddems

scared of desperate strangers

there

let little diddems hide

in mother blunket's black skirts

until those nasty strangers go away

aah

poor little diddems

little diddems hide

whilst us grown–ups

negotiate these self–rescuers

enable their ventures

make our worlds rich

Scared Of Spiders

Some fear spiders

but why extinct them?

What else so controls flies,

the diseases spread?

Some fear immigrants

but why expel them?

what else so generates entrepreneurs,

the wealth spread?

Papers

If a toddler's scared of beauty,

would a true parent

encourage the baby's terror?

But then there's racist logic,

which no doubt is why

Goebbels stood proud

of Pisswater's mail.

Even the tallest

needs two short planks

to accept the racist

Pisswater mail.

bigot reinforcement

how to keep your paper bought

incite your customers to hate those only the stupid hate

all the reasonable people tell 'em they're wankers

since butter is better than fact

you tell 'em they're intelligent

and all the reasonable people are naïf

for not detesting desperate strangers

and incoming entrepreneurs

keep your customers dim and defensive

too het to hear their many betters

too prickly to break your deception

keep 'em racist

grab their coinage

the only disadvantage

causing the occasional mass–murdering war

but hey

that's then

this is profit

China Poem

China's history has five thousand years.

I've met three poets from two T'ang centuries,

still words transmuted into rushing English.

All I've really found's my ignorance,

not just of province names and geography,

but of their photo ordinary, to me exotic, moments.

And if the future foreign people look back to our now,

will they use their times' conceits

to misunderstand our misconsidered hopes?

Bollox to living in history, its canine worry.

Listen. Balance. Write, write.

Be.

poetry

push pop

The tradition state:

"let the language move

by charm of physick wit,

chemical syllable glue,

fusions d'etrangers,

and bureaucratic contraptionisations:

poets shall heel."

And once the strong words

are meaning squandered,

how shall we poets say?

The lingo pack is bounding on:

why the fuck aren't we scouting ahead?

select

when you hear brilliant works

Wordsworth Beethoven

do you recall

their philistines shouted them

avant guarde idiots

we have those who condemn

who forget their ancient brethren

detested their supposèdly safe heroes

we thank our past's enlightened ears

who heard their avant guarde

and selected

we now

we have the duty

to seek the diamond in the charcoal

but those who don't try

who stand and piss in

who contribute derision

abuse the taste

their predecessors hated

we who write

we poets

we must push

must risk

our glist may die before us

with us

but may survive the hundred years of staid

for some future child

born beyond the death of all the living now

to glint our work alight

techno

find emotion

can't see concept

suffocate

or stretch

lazy leftover fools

attack original

announcing own empty

i must not let other people's flaws restrain me

i must grow poetry

i must learn better work

what

poetry −? words ? music

poetry −? music ? speech

poetry −? precision ? prose

\(words music precision) ? poetry

poetry ‡ content

Copyleft

Homer, this pub philosopher's heard,

created to sing The Odyssey,

but 'only' edited all The Iliad

combining Helene colleagues' poetry myth.

These, the songs that began written epic,

became his world's Kernighan & Ritchie,

are older than Christianity's crutch

and every foolish looping nationalist 'us'.

Yet we, we only hear the single voice.

Works, once published, are inviolate.

This fat respect prevents relay creation.

We adore The Odyssey. We ignore The Iliad.

With 'copyleft', not for the empty, hated by empire,

programmers reuse and revise others' recipes

causing original and imitative solidity;

it could prime a time–long poetic chiro–blast.

Collaboration, writing united, is not the same;

each ego can veto the other's invention.

A copyleft author can declare and decamp;

others may sooth a clash–cultural chaos.

This gnu idea, it bypasses the island man's blindness;

he cannot stop a work deepening through

lives cultures genders generations histories worlds.

Consider the Mahabharata.

pah!

gotta rag note

"read modern poetry"

oh i do

it's old work

obese fill words

lard heavy

we rush world

yet verbosities still inject

vacant verbal burble

go get go

push pop the lingo

scout

early a

find out

i never did

if poetry your mortal moved

it's to me as walking

and these I'm written

early a…

Scorpion

When men are fools, the devil dances sway.

Israeli fools, they swill their neighbours' land.

The U.S. fools, they paid, they looked away.

Bin Laden dances fey; for this he planned.

Resenting fools, they took his lying school

to learn his angel never fell. He wove

his way. But he's no devil, just a fool

who starved his human soul, replacing love

with fallen thought, empathy with stone.

His heart is dead, his brain a slave to one

corrupted goal. This man has never blown

a smile to someone new, nor lit a stranger's fun.

Bin Laden's men: revive survival checks;

he needs your death for his perverted sex.

On Hunting With Hounds

The anti–hunt majority

for whom the chasing is despicable

but the killing acceptable:

well, that must be so, for otherwise

they would not fill their gravy plates

with pre–masticated carcasses

of what once might have been

conscious animal beings

young and politely murdered.

gentle

the rain must have sprinted down

yet above the consequential rising mist

is an empty open sky moonlight night

and horizon just once cloud mountains

dark and highlit in gentle silver black

like seeing the stars through fine girl hair

when you're sitting alone outside night talking

on an unseen bench in the summer dark heat

away from the far heard strong celebration

with a fresh wind carrying her feminine smell

and the gentle hush of her speak

New Year's Eves

In a pub of pensioned men

and stale décor,

two newly women enter:

one fires her smile.

She's young and tough,

and her hair says she's trying too hard,

and she's occupying clothes

that leave so much caress undressed:

she's raw, her own self–portrait.

But that glance was mercantile:

I was about to buy a drink.

Yet the smile was welcome,

like the scent of shocked basil

on a humid summer day.

I Don't Visit My Mother's Grave

I don't visit my mother's grave;

a stone, a church yard;

these are my sister's symbols,

not mine.

I keep my mother in my head,

all the spirit of her,

a mother alone,

and all the consequences

when she couldn't really cope

with bringing up a thinking boy

she didn't understand.

We needed my father,

whom fate destroyed.

I don't visit my mother's grave:

I carry it.

What Do Lemmings Eat?

What do lemmings eat?

Why, of course, its obvious!

What, you haven't worked it out?

Well, ask a different question:

what do lemmings do?

Why, of course, they lem;

they lem on yellow Citrus fruit.

What do pigeons do?

Why, of course, they pidge, and

they've pidged all over my car,

the horrible, horrible things.

And what do katkins eat?

Why, of course, they eat…

Yearch! "How horrible!

Come here, poor puss–cat,

poor tiddle–possum,

we won't let those nasty plants eat you, will we: No!"

Now, those dead mice you leave in the lounge…

And what do dolphins do

why, of course, they dolph around,

they chortle in the sea,

wasting time in playful fuss,

not doing any work.

What lazy fun—

we can't have that—

no dole for them, ha ha.

And what do muffins do? Well,

it's actually quite disgusting

as disgusting people know.

I, of course, am innocent,

all I'll say is "mule".

We, The Fell

Oh wow! I haven't had a decent fight

for years. But let's not fight with brutal might,

the Net denies the real, and virtual war

is bland. Let's fight with brutal words, the core

of words, in poetry, with lines of verse

in sonnet form. I challenge you, disperse

the crude, excite your skills, be rude with charm,

not teenage curse nor childish snap, but calm

and contemplative bile. The victor gets

the girl. The loser knows a fight well met

and lost is no disgrace. And if there's fire,

if what we write has power, we'll burn the pyre

of formulaic prejudice, the hell

of puritan ideal. We'll be the fell.

... a much for we ...

She has no flaw, that her, she put upon

a plinth, be polish once a day. This none

a wishful doze of I, for I concern

to share and hear, a crusty cheer, a yearn

of we're, the 'uns their gear, I'm slowing dear,

the compromise of kith as someones real.

The daily fem has rough ascribe the heart;

unsanded personality, no dark

of past, comprehending null, a scour.

Since every her is real, the one to flower

is she of fault by skin or eye: such fleck,

like packaging, is simple to respect;

which leave the only damn to bar the see

as mine, a manitude, a much for we.

... And Then I'll Break The Sea

This forest

unlike the myths of concrete times

contains the old,

the dank and breathed–in smell of Earth,

instinctifying air.

Here,

you have to reach the seas

before you die.

It's you and no technology

simply walking means

you'll never smell

the acridity of salt.

"Run, run",

the captains cry

from trains of saddled geese above

"find a stream, and catch us fish,

and we will tell you tales of seas—

they're gold, and green,

and full of cats

and everyone who's got there now

is fed by ghosts of porpoises

that dream of rocking floweries

and acting in the Scottish play."

"Run, run",

I curse myself,

wanting being first today,

an elephant in trunks.

Oh dear, I trip,

and lie for life,

and watch the forest melt to love

as I relax for weeks.

I see the sea beside me;

I turn and touch the salt.

But captains call for me to run;

there's no–one in the sky.

And captains plant synthetic wants

relaxing jars and run I should.

The forest grows,

and run I shall.

Oh, worshipped work,

my dream's to break the sea.

An Eighteenth Century Beam Engine

An Eighteenth century beam engine,

solid,

fixed,

simple, with central power,

a church of steam.

An engineer approached,

and created

sharp movement of spiking light,

a natural power directed, dangerous,

water torn with untiring ferocity.

Its true purpose, he said, is to

pump the mine dry.

An artist approaches,

and savours

wild yet predicted movement,

bitter, nasal charcoal,

a noise like Hades imagined,

steam jetting from each and every joint.

Its true purpose, she says, is to

subjegate the senses.

A shaded man approaches

and ignores,

he counts his beans to three,

thinks of four,

he imagines rows of black and time,

a regiment of flies.

Its true purpose, he says,

is my lust.

later

i'm not exactly brilliant

but you screwed up as much

instead of surfing this wanted insanity

you tried to manage

a so professional voice

i need a lover

not a mother

It's My Hands

It's my hands

that are addicted.

When I have a soft–skinned lover,

they'll caress her,

warming.

But when she's elsewhere

they'll stroke anything

smooth and neutral.

Railings and banisters,

desktop and mouse,

pint glass and bar.

Intruder Alert

A conference theatre, unfilled, the field;

green folding chairs, strewn open, the crop.

Some poor woman, older, robust, sexless to me,

sits, cross angled.

Her seat shifts, becomes a vice;

her fingers, trapped, raped, crushed.

Her shouts scorch, stark pain,

boiling crescendo. People rush. Not me.

I am shock still,

stunned by lust, by shame.

I can't forgive me this.

I can't.

My Difficulty With Melancholy

Melancholy fills my eyes like soap,

burning away the glamour of hope;

this drama of darkness is ruined by my cheer:

that rhyme made me :-). I'm off for a beer.

i'd prefer to remember summer

cold november rain

early dark depressing

i remember sun striking warm

there's someone of eye fire and feminine

lithe love ripe

laser of thought

her man makes her ill with joy

intensity such happiness

how could i ever dare challenge

yet she in her feminine the feminine way

opportuned me her penchant for complication

i love too much to dare acknowledge

for i am a destroyer

now cold november's rain

she's moved beyond

yet i compare all

it's unpleasent

my necessary betrayal

i must ride

Ovid's "Remedia Amores"

hard journey

i can't be november forever

A Simple Fantasy

I wish you at my fantasy villa

on a fresh sun high–spring day,

where, affront the vineyards and sounded waters,

I'll carry you to our noon life lore.

Washed by running children,

their rhythm of pounding

living our bright uneven world,

its afternoon dust

fresh spark light.

Our sons and daughters,

their selves alone,

will shine in fierce memory.

And you'll bury me,

whilst our grandchildren

become emperors of space,

like flowers.

We'll love each other dead.

Sweet And Stupid

Please don't tickle that,

I'm standing on it.

There's more to me

than land between leaps.

Next time, I'll dress

before you claw climb my leg.

I'm sure my best trousers

had fewer holes.

How can you sleep there,

one roll, two stories from stone?

Please do not claw me there;

I might want children.

I got you down from that tree,

why rush back up?

Dratted kitten

(again)!

Software Engineering

1.

"Go to The Great Mountain Of The South",

the boss man pays.

"Where's that?",

the engineer replies.

"Well, er, to the South! It's obvious."

"I've not been there before."

"No one's been there before.

Walk south for a thousand miles

and you're bound to see a lump on the horizon.

That'll be The Great Mountain of the South.

They say it smokes; probably cheroots;

that's the kind of thing a mountain ought to smoke.

Shouldn't take you an hour.

Here, have a banana."

"How do you know?"

"Hold a ruler up to the horizon

and measured the height of the church roof.

The sun shines on the number one.

It's obvious."

"Pah!"

"Don't you Pah! me, little man.

I've a degree in art fart sociopath.

I know.

Now go."

"Yes sir, yes sir,

thank you for the pay packet,

kind sir."

2.

walk across the room

no no no

not like that

here's a diagram

put your feet here here and here

that's twice on the floor

and once on the wall

everything's been thought

by our pet architect

he always says yes

of course it can be done

it's a pity he's resigned

his mother died again

if you find the banana

when you get to the other side

bring it to me

3.

It's not so good

being the failed superhero

'computer repair man'

when a pretty woman

with excited eyes

finds a true excuse

to bring me to her private rooms.

"In order to identify the problem,

I need to conduct a system test".

I turn the computer on,

move the mouse,

click the keys,

and see her pleasure fade

like the last train leaving

as I discover

she needs to find five hundred pound,

her machine's beyond repair.

Oh, to be a fertility God,

"in order to identify the problem,

I need to conduct a system test,

please relax, undress;

and enjoy."

Some fantasies are so lightweight.

bathroom spider

there's no one in the bathroom but you

you're using the mirror

you can't turn round

you have to finish

there's no one in the mirror but you

the glass fogs

you can't turn round

you have to finish

there's no one's in the steam but you

you're nearly …

your uncovered neck

is touched

it

is

terrified

Elsewhen

It's wrong, right,

what youngers do,

daynight.

But,

when I was then,

I did so

too.

Right it was,

then,

that when.

Stupid,

now,

I was.

Elastic stretches less

the more it's overused.

Hence The Coldness

It's nice to know

you don't consider me

as worth the grief

of clicking on 'reply'

and typing

N

then O.

Fear In Flight, God

a poem in two forms

1.

While driving home, this winter night,

I saw the orange greenhouse light

illuminate the sky.

The telly says, in Pakistan,

a hijacked plane, the bastards gone,

they killed a two–day groom.

An airport near, another crash,

a cargo plane, the pilot's dash–

ing self–belief, now dead.

A glass of wine, the need for sleep,

this cyclic time, disturbed relief,

so naturally I dream...

I'm drinking Rosé,

the colour of inhuman blood,

watching.

From night–time winter nurseries

cylinders of bright orange light

rise to the lowering cloud,

and spread like petals,

dying.

Hijackers

murder a bridegroom

for sight.

Elsewhere,

the heat is so extreme

that shocked birds

flying far above flames

ignite,

falling as shells,

incrementing death.

They think

to reduce their nation's pain

by adding to it.

This is a time of cyclic myth

of winter solstice,

of Y2K,

of Christian birth.

Today's God consumes.

Thoughts On Odes To Nightingales

So what is this nightingale

of which the old poets sing?

I drive to country dykes, to dust,

and hear a throat of motorway.

I climb a Munro hill, by rail,

and hear the tourist café chat.

I dive the barrier reef's remains

and hear an abstract diesel chant.

Those poets,

they blaze their praise

of this bird I've not heard.

I think, you know, the nightingale's an allergy

to dance, or punk, or what the poet hates,

the one that he or she desires,

appreciates.

So next you find an ode

to a nightingale's airy delight,

make your thoughts Sir Oswald Osbourne

biting the head off a chicken that night.

the three monks

the only mountains in England

apart from those hills in the north

called mountains by fixing the rules

are the three monks

tall the way children see gods

shadow on all the flat Cambridgeshire

the remains of some prehistoric volcano

tan brown rock absorbing sun shining on vertical

up and fractal bare to the very top

where each peak rounds inward

a colony of hard green pine

the fringe on the heads of the pious

these three stalwarts surround

the fussy little town of Tull

on the March to Sleaford road

flat and straight across the fens

up and down and winding round

flat and fenland straight again

and why do you not know these monks

natural cathedrals of geology

dominating the tower of God–love Ely

military deceit maps the monks as meres

see the mars of shocked German bombers

and that pair of nuclear B–52s

there's talk of some visual disguise

you'll glance to see unfocused air

only wise eyes will comprehend

Neil Armstrong Is My Explorer Of The Millennium

He did much more

than simply explore

someone else's home.

His shoulders stand

so we might land

on some dusty lunar shore.

Tobacco's Such A Treat

If barons never bribe,

authorities are pure,

then why deny research,

why ban the brightest cure?

Chorus:

Tobacco's such a treat

and dope is danger grass,

so says the law's conceit:

for parliament's an arse!

Some victims die of drugs

too strong, or full of crap;

when licensing applies

inspectors slap that rap.

Chorus:

Tobacco's such a treat

and dope is danger grass,

so says the law's conceit.

The government's an arse!

Addictive drugs are banned,

which makes the barons rich.

The baccy tax is high,

the government is rich.

Chorus:

Tobacco's such a treat

and dope is danger grass,

so says the law's conceit:

the minister's an arse!

A uniform is forced

so kids hate that, not school;

as prohibition laws

conceal the true misrule.

Chorus:

Tobacco's such a treat

and dope is danger grass,

so says the law. Repeat:

yes, parliament's an arse!

The government's an arse!

The minister's an arse!

The Queen Of Santa Fe

My memories are slippery and sharp,

and coloured by the heat of her,

adventurous and sweet.

Three months ago, I met the Queen of Santa Fe,

her hair as red and long as twenty seven years.

She caught my English words,

her throne and duty may have been this city in the dust,

but she'd never left her Isis home,

a council youth, a river bank,

a teacher with the petulance to force a lifetime long–haired girl

to cut her pride, to mark the drought of '76.

She heard my English words

and spoke, exuberant,

compleat of drink and desert glow,

she spread her history.

She kept my English words,

and dreamt her night in Oxfordshire,

as snow caressed the foreign lands

where she will ride forever.

Sharp

I saw disease kill my mother slowly,

eating her movement.

No matter how much the death expected,

shock stains the grief.

It made me silly stupid:

I brewed a cup of coffee

and put it in the fridge.

Those around can care resolve.

Even my high tail cat observed

and fussed me her affection.

Here.

I know your pain.

Let me care.

old man Keats

i'm walking these empty lands

i'm old slow and graceless

the air's bracing a lonely cold

i'm enthralled by recollection

we here such love

so young

i lost limp onto war

black red military battle

the stench of dogma

i'm too slow

they execute could–be spies

dying surely waits for me

if i'm to die violent

i'll sneer the killers

i'll be all they can't

i shelter ruins

i lay my pack unpacked

groundsheet peasent food water

'hours of idleness'

the battle flows turbulent

unpredictable waves conflict

the blood wash nears ebbs nears

those trained to die do quickly

survivors dance the killing ballet

turning luck burns their victory

a squad and sergeant tumble me accidental

glance aghast at my civil taunt

one lad speaks a runner runs

and returns a captain rides up

like the emperor he used to be

sad laughter the squad is guard

the battle sprints

the others swarm

confrontation

but a man shouts 'old man Keats'

shock stop and hardly believe

both swarms curse and tension guard

sod the lot of them

when we were here

wilderness lovers

we were a better bang

even though i'm dead

i'm not allowed to die

but soon i will run the dark road

return to you

A Bicycle Criticises Concorde For Not Observing Butterflies

Within a fiction,

set in Samurai Japan,

there are a hundred men,

on a beach, rows, dead.

They were betrayed, not by their leader,

who let an enemy ooze behind lines,

not by their pointless simple honour;

no, they were betrayed by their author.

"So what?", you might say,

"they're only characters in a cheap novel",

"if that", you might add,

"hardly worth their sentence."

But had any one of them,

dead to sharp that moment's plot,

lived beyond their author's laziness;

they could be: what?

Perhaps these non–born,

having snatched creation

for such a callous blink,

deserved their self–assassination;

they could have chosen a better book.

The film was, of course, successful.

chase chase

a real smile presented me

a gleaming dish of crumble

speckled with berry–red and moist

something to very much like

i take the first mouthful

a rush of flavour fruit

then a tooth is broke on stone

emotion like fingers in boiling

many men relish

chase chase

but i detes

still biting

in memory of Dave Wise

"i've got death" he'd said

staring me

he knew

i know

some journeys

you just ride

his funeral…

no mine

i'll have the Ahknaten's wake

sweat the mourning out

he'd enjoy it

laugh

called me a prat…

i should have held courage

worn my black bow tie

glist

1

the packets arrive marketing–liar glint

bright inside–see glisted envelopes

creating excited saliva undercurrent

promising just–once–more consumption desire

this–time the–last–time sate–now never–more lies

i'm immune junky crash–sale head–warp madness pharm–glit

less so drink–drunk like–now hurt–soon make–shout

my weakness they know my weakness these glisted promises

exotic–freedom strange–use want–buy must–buy rush

lucky dark–dread consequence only bailiff–court–sneer

2

absorb descriptor

adore review

runrun purchase

unreleased

bollocks to the bastards

using my enthuse

to seek orders

discard their abuse

the press

them 0

3

all the glisted conmen

ad they're the lady

smooth skin and glisten lust

a this is yours this now

ad they're the guy

water–skipping every else to only you

they can't stop

you can't move

but where's the glisted guarentee

where's the promised consequentials

all the glisted conmen

they'll never deliver

4

seek research build fulfil report

if you must

seek reuse brag

if you can

obey the law

minimal cost

remember

adverts boasting quality

its cheaper to law and lie

discard

1

possession's ownership discarded

no longer mild nostalgia replayed at bored will

the listening must wait for random radio schedule

or rare shared taste in complexity

an intellectual heat best held back unfed

to audience

no more only opened by my hand

pausing shallow tales retold

nor exploration of non–sequential centuries

libraries will help me roll speculation

the texture of someone else's careful dream

ingested rewritten thrown

no rectangle again captured vision

no wild land linear geometry

no raw cultivation

no mechanical ecology

these i will revisit

creating sarcastic dimensional click shots

sneering this plodding nation's dalek bigotry

2

absence won't bloat must keep space

non–existence can't yet be rip violate stolen

only never belonged

cause no duty

3

i would lie if i tried to deny

that releasing my collected objects of youth

does not edge doubt's adrenalin

does not discomfort otherwise unminded moments

but i commit

i sacrifice property's toil

to make

4

i didn't expect a sign

after unclasping the first grasp

a stranger a strange bar a strange city

he spoke to me

i rarely chat but this time i did

and found an ordinary old man rhymer

proud of his ordinary lines

clasping his love for a heroin fuckwit

she's his siren

she's spending his blood

perhaps he spoke a novel's plot

to impress

for he was no anger

but he has gifted me

5

i'm tense discorded

on abandon past

i cannot fund these claspings

i cannot hold the stressing

favoured farmyard animals

corralled to the slaughterhouse

6

i am this week's

blame–worm

dare i discard work

when more is risk

but i am discarding

all my its are burning

i dare discard work

when more is risk

all the glisted conmen

can drink the piss they proud

7

smash the door glass

watch the shatter

thread the hooligan chain

lift

the old steel wistful

flies young again

to corrupted heaps

piled long away

a callous day

8

relocate by rip and fall

absolute assurance reliable as luck

destination a plain town

parochial

where common are the happy clappy

reciters of hand–me–down hate

dead write

mate dies

rush write

my head's a bath

mourning rimfilled

sloughing the overflow

down this

uncivil law

"… Over 1.6 million claims were made in 2000 for money owed by one person to another … only 36,000 debt cases went to trial …"

DTi Press Release 7th February 2002

"… 1912 … The National Telephone Company provided for 561,738 subscribers altogether …"

UK TELEPHONE HISTORY, R Fishwater.

"… [William] Gladstone had one of the earliest telephones installed at Hawarden. It was there from 1880."

p391 of Gladstone, Roy Jenkins, Macmillan ISBN 0-333-60216-1 (1995)

the nineteenth century

schools for the rich doctors for money properteers vote

justice is bought

the twenty–first century

schools by right doctors by right votes by right

justice is bought

1.

right justice

requires good law

and balanced judgement

2.

all those principles you should be thinking of

listening all sides not taking bribes

consistency consequences completeness

retribution mercy

how can balance be

without every one

3.

good law's for parliament

that's another row

4.

too many courts

don't bother announce a case

don't effort to hear defence

don't report pronouncing

don't treat balance

as worth the cost of phoning up

and hearing each opinion

that's two pence

of their billionaire flow

5.

without water there is no ocean

without balance there is no justice

no phone

no email

no fax

no messaging

just write to be ignored

as though the fifteenth century

had a stretch of sanity

and forced their judges to accept

king henry's mail

but the courts reneged

by castrating written pleas

as dementia

7.

and when answering an accusation

how does where you are now

affect the facts then

yes

if you're there

the prostitutes of barristing can interrogate

can leer at body language

can opine honesty

but why prevent all the distance interaction

why prevent so much expression of defence

authorities proudly claim

in almost every money case

there is no defence

"so make your rampant accusations

on our network site"

they'd sell titanic tickets

"sail the ship see the ocean floor"

walking sticks and hobbled men

balance and justice

kick a stick a helpless man falls

kick defence justice fell

10.

a simple means to say

could simply be accepted

it's quick to make the phone secure

as do the banks

11.

or is technology monster

frightening decrepit law

declining childhood

english civil law broke

when phones became so popular

ninety years ago

english civil law was corrupted

when phones became ubiquitous

fifty years ago

and for those who don't understand

than an alternative is not an obligation

yes i know not everyone has a phone

a mobile email the web fax

and whatever geek creations

make tomorrow strange

nor does everyone have a home

a postal address

yet the law presumes

and insists we all pretend

the snail

that inefficient polluting collapsing archaic

postal service

is perfection

14.

email uses seconds and costs as zero

to translate the world

the post uses days

and costs infinitely more

to cross the road

15.

if civil law had justice

all defenders would be heard

generations have been prevented

law can't be arsed to fetch defence

nor permit its presentation in the manner of the time

this is more than mere rot

this is more than britain's culture of incompetence

english civil law's corrupt

18.

boil the gargoyle

i recall the proud pronouncement

in nineteen eighty ish

that computers have become

the most complex of systems

created by mankind

now this complexity has grown

ten thousand times

like embryo to adult

english law has not

yet computers do not need a ring of nerds

advising any mundane man on how to what

telling them which click to where or when to mouse

complexity is simply used

no expert stammers round

law

that such a simple system

needs heards of clever beagles

merely to operate

condemns itself

those system shapers that legal club

if choiced by some mechanical decision

with balanced either or

one excites the wallet

the other does not

they'll drink the golden shower

for neither cause fair thinker fuss

yet else the greedy will irate

such choice may flare

just once an equinox

but sum across the centuries

from socrates to now

to find our folding note bordello

this is where cold thatcher air needs to hail

a "Legal Relations Act" perhaps

competition investigation

cartel disintegration

hard regulation

i have confirmed

by "watch the system do"

not "hello really nice people

tell me all the faults you've got"

they won't commit

a simple coin

to lift a speaking handset

to help a hearing fair

but they'll commit

the cost of brothel nights

driving petrol and pollution

bullying enforcement

to be right that great principle

isn't worth a penny

for power that great corrupter

they'll spend a hundred pound

anecdotally on the net in mailing list or usenet news

it's quick to rant a hate or fire a sniper shout

insulting people somewhere else

discarded phrases causing rile

but on the net in chatting space

it's hard to turn away apologising balm

the cleaning up of conversation mess

natter mutter data

unworded taken back

in conversation your draft asserts are chopped

before they set entrenched

when you set a written down

there is no sneering chuckle

to put you back to right

you guard your silly place

more retreats and more defend and more assault

it's all more hate and time

if a problem's for resolve use a conversation

if a problem's for exacerbate use a written down

who likes to writ and word

who charges by the hour

when accused in ranting print

when clever nicely lines attack

moon

a genuine summons grudges defence

admitting attackers may only be imperfect gods

but i have one telling me

i shall plead guilty and how to pay

it does not accept the assaulters might be human

it chants con

the summons states no phone

none on the paperworks none on the 192

how can i ring check confirm

the aggressor the self belief perfection the local council

haven't done the work

if i doze in stained underwear

so be it

if the telly mumbles so i turn it loud

so be it

if you cook lunch so late i shout

so be it

food has no flavour

arthritis burns my temper

i sneer your silent fear

saying you'll kill

or killing

which is worse

ignore the polished junk asserts

binocular to english civil law

see the done

now dream a balance scale

dump a barn of glisted tricks on a single plate

that's it—that's their balance act

with no civil court

no crass imbalance in almost every case

there'd be no judicial wrongs enforced

having no system's better

than english civil law

fixing the leather's not enough

shoot the horses

slide the entangled net

on the intellectual radio

a british inventors' society man

strongly chunks support for patent laws

but admits to one disadvantage

if your patent idea is stolen

by some glass–glare water–floss corporation

whom in defence of livelihood

you take to court

you'll make each lawyer more in months

than every penny ever to be earned

by any man who spends his life

pulling lives from burning fire

no matter it's your invention stolen

the men of theft will reboot court

until they victory

pissing cash to drown

so if you and your back garden inventor's shed

have no rapacious millions

financial psychopaths

rape the construction of your life

how things would change

if justice had import

to english civil law

i've received a citation

i think that means a summons

from a scottish court

post case

no preceding note remarking its existence

no call acquiring my defence

no court report

no number for me to seek what's happened

no email

no fax

no web

no courtesy

i fear the scottish system's as rotten as the english

a mother's convicted for killing her child

the barristers hid the medical fact

the child was dead by meningitis

innocent grieving convicted

the husband informed the system it lies

the anglo–legals belted him bankrupt

justice to them's a charge not a right

innocent grieving convicted

a decade or so the destructor's exposed

the corrupted asleep by clarion woke

the criminal system its title fulfilled

innocent grieving convicted

democracy at least

enables change of government

without an insurrection

or civil war destroy

we who vote

we own the result

we choice the politicians

we choice the consequences

if a cornered state

has some nasty act to make

which angers many citizens

if the tumult people do not own

if their politicians fail to salve the anger

opinion may coagulate about some other means

to reparate the state

revolt insurrection civil war

this is risk destruction

like when a rag hysteria

incites a pride of fools

to lynch a children's doctor

so politicians flurried

when half the voters slept the last election

politicians flurried

to pre-empt denial

of no easy choice

the courts are unelected

but we can meter consent

by black box counting

voluntary attendance

we can mark their foul pride

of only one percent defend

this unconsent to judgement

it risks an unpredicted

coagulating anger to collapse

judiciary democracy stability

this piano is always played

but slowly slowly loosens pitch

drifting keys flex a growing dissonance

the pianists do not hear

they are exercising ever exercising

as the tone declines across the octades

we

we summonsed

we hear their scratching clash

we see their schadenfreuderern

pillocks in the audience

mirthed

enough

i have hired the sphinx's amplifier

speakers the size of pyramids

the rasta dj

they're on the way

the courts for sure maintain their free to act

but i'm concerned by parliament

independent supposèdly of courtly ways

it needs it must be able

to cure a justice mess

the plebiscite can like to vote opponents in

legals the largest brat amongst MPs

can like to keep their outside skills alive

but don't have time to educate for change

so lawyers still have strong appeal

to tinker with the courtly flies

and let a justice failure be

like drivers in always shunting goods yards

who only see the slowly moving wagons

not the stretching railway

not the can't–stop–in–time ramping express

they'll not decide to fix a mess

they haven't noticed happen yet

the executive part–neutered parliament by whips enticing power

justice part–neutered parliament by colonisation

we need a rule that legal lads both girls and boys

are barred to candidate for parliament

unless their justice membership be eternally revoked

so what to do when faced with courts believed corrupt

the arguments of lawyers are reputèdly superb

their clever pose can talk a jury into saying

"the birmingham six they did that bomb"

when all they did was cards

it helps was fixed the evidence

of course no advocate would aid in that

corruption burns the soul

once you've broken conscience it doesn't die

even strangers note a smile and reflex tick

you'll have no repair

you can't depend on history to lie

you'll never able calm

soul demands you avoid corrupt

but if you stay away the court aggressing credit pushers

or local clockwork men or chancers on a vampire trip

will legal blag your property

golden showers or freedom

mister jones next door or ghandi christ the buddha

property or soul

which would you prefer

predated by a seizing bailiff

as predicted

the cost for keeping conscience sweet

my caressing photo kit

long silent for poetry

now silent for eternity

a consequence of metering

the corruption of uncivil law

she wore disdain the bailiff

a funeral prinz–net

closed across her face

arrogant as conviction

an archaic heirach

eyes closed to the active world

judging not by cultural contribution

just tit dropping and easy marionette

perhaps if i were given proof

that all we'd ever done

us colleagues in the corral

destroyed its own intent

could i state my doubt aloud

or suppress the subtle evidence

burk the person proving

yes

i should have paid the revenue

but they assured they'd free and never did

the cash of mine they'd stolen "accidentally"

redundancy had paid to me

all those years ago

and they may have done

if english civil law

had thought balance

worth the pence of phoning up

and hearing each opinion

my bones

my worthless political bones

imagine a year or few

and civil law corrupt will media aware

five more and "something must be done"

ten to "burn it out start again"

twenty to incinerate the bureaucratic clutter

introduce a fairness bright and whistle calling

a shrine to light a balanced court

too long

plans must be right now

for a system new to activate

should democracy be startled

right justice requires good law and balanced judgement

go beagles go

break create ready make

the american medical system

is like the himalayas

so many peaks of excellence

it's quick to blind to valleys in between

where more children drown in childbirth

than is honourable to a pirate

our nhs

has no peaks of bright

nor that sinful count of infant death

it bureaucrats on greatest good

not on greatest wallet

see you affront your eyes the balance scale

the civil legals dropped accruing foul

and flaw the high court statue holds the fail

unbroken in distruth so falsely proud

of rules to gloss defence unsaid one side

ignored is not a neutral test except

it's just to parasitic eyes the bride

of parliament has kept her scales unswept

to concentrate on cleaning rules as life

is run as cause rotates to nought as crime

gives history to gentlemen of strife

and rape the maid of law is shining grime

look burn the rot make clean the darwin glass

the nation's moved catch up with us run fast

black box analysis

investigates complexity

should you cannot look internal

or too much there is to see

you won't understand a crab's desire

by breaking it's life

chasing tracing counting

neurons veins cells

no leave it be

let it sense let it do

watch

compare results ideal

if crabs contradict ideal

ideal is wrong

if justice contradicts ideal

justice is wrong

53 women physically raped

suicide tried and lives distraught

the criminal doctor's imprisoned

53 victims financially raped

suicide tried and lives distraught

the criminal lawyer's embarrassed

i see so simple

so obvious so wrong

what else corrupted

lies beyond eye see

6.6.6