Imagine the wayThe dog darkenedSlipping beneath the staticOf night-time wood. Oxleas Wood, past-nine, Fuzz-flooded. Formless,But suggestively grey. ImagineArriving home, my sister (visiting)Stoking a voice on speakerphone. ‘I saw your dog… Mistaken… Sure. Moonlight swept the hall…Soaked the rug.’
There’s a toddler out thereswinging mitts on strings —store-bought woollen pendulathat shatter water — I can’tfathom the mystery northe malice of it — hedisturbs the peace withextended grasp andwithout frowning adultsstepping forward three geese rear upand snap —not biting buthissing venom —funny howin springtimethey were yellow — a mild cycle suffered scantly if at all …
Board like an ape,chewing on my chinon the slow train; face sky like a net,hauling clouds to groundfor my spear; and the night is an oil slick,a real pit of traffic, so I crab-walk — to where the windows of my houseare the windows of my house, and my key fits. That’s business.
Spreading cross-sections of engineers:The way we move.Thumbing the cratered cheeks of farmers:The way we feed.Stroking the silken shorts of fighters:The way we lust. The heat-blood-toilOf Thomas Hart BentonFloods this chamber. Twelve panels’ worth of big-letterVISION: Black sows, white cotton,Steel ships, electric cities,Soda fountains of jazz and money, Furnaces jewelled with sweatAnd carbon. Drink it dry. …
make my ears bleed baby scream yerself raw and sickpour your woes into my holesbring it fast and thick make my ears bleed babyplay a savage tuneshred guitars and bang my drumfrom dusk til dawn til noon leave me quiet babytheres a coma that im in a sweptout cell inside my skullbut boy the walls …
Flotsam of a morning; Jetsam for a moment;Like foam, my breathing’s bursting,Drawn in deepest blue. Fling my tendrils; take me;My limp and drifting endings;Arms and legs sidewinding,Deep through deepest blue. Mesh for messy movement; Marsh of grid and branches; Force from far-off places;Deep-stacked, rolling through. Ground me on the shoreline;Wreck where wits might find me; …
My spine,My limbs,The divot aboveEach buttock:These grumble,But grind againstThe pitted,Man-made shore. It is hot in ChicagoWhere foreheads gleamLike quartersAnd rows of brickAnd limestoneCrack open thatUnctuous Sun.
Three dread words — laid in a row My first formal title was Efficiency Planning Manager. And the role was bestowed with ceremony. My boss clicked through vast spreadsheets and explained the title’s constituent parts. ‘Efficiency’ was when the numbers went down — a good thing, something to be desired: It’s all about maintaining the …
They carry themselves.How, I don’t pretend to know. Their shins, skinned.Their nails, splintered.Their lips, cracked. (Did medical staffReport these changes?)On. Holding no voiceBeyond reedy breathing:“We are human.We are human.We are.” (Another time,We would be neighbours.)On. That wretch —If he could stop,He’d find lung forTreatise, sermon, song,Civics or bawdy humour. (Fairy tales affectSuch transformations.)On. Those bones …
True crime. Popular since Cain brained Abel. So let’s make room for the genre and its tensions and its foibles. Let’s talk about two dramas. One serialised on Netflix. The other in The New Yorker, 60 years prior. Richard Gadd spilt his guts Baby Reindeer was mandatory viewing in 2024. Richard Gadd played himself, reliving …
