Tony
Kitt
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Hostilities Those beautiful deadly things... A bomb rain or a bursting night-sky mushroom. An imploding mind... If your religion is vandalism, your god is in pieces. Your consciousness, hillock upon hillock... Even your language isn't your language. The empire of dreams macadamises you with images. The sun is unbuttered bread; life gets oily under a sunflower. Taste the insatiable kiss of déjà vécu. Silencers have a thing for your silence. What do you say to a dynamite ape? To a multi-knife scarecrow? Questions, queuing up. Satiety, pencil-bodied. An abyss inside the abyss. First published in Blaze Vox Magazine, USA. Spare Parts A man goes to the post office to consign his flattened heart to a voice in the receiver. There's a queue inside; blood is dripping from manila envelopes. An open-jaw container stands ready for mutuality. The man listens to a mirror. The man lip-reads his imperfection: You are a quadrangle among circles. You no longer exist in your 360-degree entirety. It's my turn now. Which part of me should I send – and to whom? The postman whispers in my ear: You're a writer. Help me. Writer me. First published in The Café Review, USA. Limboed I move, I am the release clause of a pea pod, a skylark, a planet. If you call me the world, will you provide a fitting cradle? These non-existent "for no-one/for everyone" things: a faucet of emotions, a window mist of yearning... I could be a rain river, I could be the jettisoned air. Petrichor. Trepidations. The greener the sleepwalker, the steeper the roof. I've got no identification to write upon. Don't catacomb me here. The mirror fogs the future us. The time is now. The place is placelessness. When I scream, out comes a sea fret. First published in Axon Journal, Australia. Motherland-In-Law I discovered a judge in a journalist, a jail in a journey. Things are untheorised. I am my motive, I use a borrow snail to attain stealth. My sophistry is sleeping in the rosary. Welcome, my nineteenth objector! Our fruit eyes picture the planet as an ice globe, a melt. Every pear has a pink heart. Men who exist in written form; a night wrapped in "what you are not." Which parts of your body are owned by the department of nonsense and which ones by the mind military? Withering ideas linger in the fear-brick kennel. No eyes burrow through their fig leaves. Do we need a dogma in a tall skirt or a shot of sanity? No one hedges us into being here. History freezes our breath. Lemongrass never says never. Who will sing us into the season of no season? First published in Axon Journal, Australia. In Mid-Air I once stumbled across a man dressed in information. He antennoed his hands, as the trapdoor of space opened for him. Nothing but sparks of disinterest, or disinfection of statistics. What was mirrored in his irises? In his zen-book? He logged in to emptiness and watched the circumstances fly by. He followed them at his peril. Away with the leprechauns! In mid-air, frightened wing assistants realised they had an Icarus on board. An undocumented one. They wouldn't be allowed to land. They began rationing oxygen. The flying device was called philosophy. Everybody was asking his ozonised mind, Estne equus credibilis? The moral machine entertained the passengers with a quiz: Is there a hunter fond of unhunting? Is it so hard to believe in phlogiston? First published in Axon Journal, Australia. Note. Estne equus credibilis? is a paraphrase of the line from Virgil (Aeneid, II. 48-49): equo ne credite (don't trust this horse). Ninety Years a Grove Our articulate necks, our sap friendships... It's ninety years since we cross-specied into trees, ninety years since the rooting out of movement. First came bobtailed bonuses for staying put during the national discharge. Then we let out leaves to elevate oxygen levels. Now they cut off our limbs for fire. The parenthetical god, his trial rabbits... Why can't we make our future incubatable and reusable? We dare not speak of railways or airports. We speak of fire ways, instead of fairways. Roads speak of the absence of dust. Bulbul birds soil our hair; bush-baby drizzle laments our dead buds. The spiders who study the bark can't cobweb our hollow heartbeat. After ninety years, genetic memory won't save us. After ninety years, who can resurrect a race? First published in Axon Journal, Australia. Weather Forecast Dead warriors of the wind; their eye sockets full of typography... They pocket hailstones of denial. They spell Draco's New Law with their bodies. Death is the way to avoid further punishment, spurts the oversized voice. Billboards; the weather forecast for tyrants. The silky breeze of invasion, the clouds of zero doubt. The thirty-first tyrant breathes a black candle in his bunker. He's busy writing uninhabited poems. First published in SurVision Magazine, Ireland. Amid Crumbling Metaphors I kill you by naming you. Because people are all breath. If one speaks against autocrats, his autobiography will be kept in a cage. Man is the sum of postures he dreams up. Every vigilante carries a weathervane. Your mutation can be tried in a juvenile court. One who wields an edge may get wedged. An ex-emperor sings Blue Moon backwards as he delivers his apostrophic empire for a post mortem. First published in SurVision Magazine, Ireland. Down the Grete Stern's Well Women are flying trees wandering hands of the world Crosses dream of becoming ladders The weight of the moon is too much for you let's bleach our biographical blotches We giraffe through the continent and take a trainsnake to the eyes' coast we fall into somebody's nostrils and find our way onto a billboard A spy in the sky the self-evidence of cages Hello this is your inner tiger speaking without a mouth How far can you go if you carry non-being with you? Cages break into smaller cages First published in SurVision Magazine, Ireland. The Cornerstone of Tomorrow Life you've been wading through, its calligraphy... The boulders behind your back practice the baby smile of footballers. You collect church seashells, you invite every dogsbody to your misbalance day – all this plus the whisper of chrysalids will lead you through this green parallelogram, the trapdoor of sleep, to some "more often than not" place. Thinking is a malady of our own interjection, the stratagem of bewilderment. Do you know all your "not-yets" yet? We can see you, otherness, your eyes climbing that cliff, following the path across abstraction. The sea always sings goodbyes; the waves' mouths gasp for phraseology. Tomorrow is a chanting megalith; today, a building under destruction. First published in SurVision Magazine, Ireland. Mühlheim am Main A place with no climate Every eye sees the world in ectopic blue Sit with me by the river on the pillow of fog A body that smells of no body A loaf of bread baked with consolation Rivers are knowledge rivers are sorrow mirrors that hold us all. First published in Shot Glass Journal, USA. Dear Journey, think of me as an appleless cart. Think of the Brownian motion of idealists. Of glass, think broken. Of stars, frozen. Everything regresses to its core. Every time we arrive at defeat it is greater than a victory. It is Laplace's demon, maître du monde, your friendly "self." And who are we losing to, anyway? First published in Shot Glass Journal, USA. Not Supposed to See It Endless, reality approaches me the way Thanatos comes for a mortal: not in person. I glimpse a pelvis turning into pulvis; I perceive a mind as a body part. The ecstasy of annihilation... The future is already here. We blink the dead pulse of today's news. We swim the bloodstream shanty. The three Moirai wearing ragged flags dance an earthquake. They chant in unison: You were born too early. We'll hold your eyelids down. First published in Shot Glass Journal, USA. |
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