work in progress
MODULES 1 - 10
was dwelling in a rented moment. The concept of free association
came to me on an asphalt playground in 1950. Golden manikins marched
out of the radio. They banged their sticks in the grey street, which
filled up with holes. Community care plans will only become available
on demand. The sea mists offer protective covering. I tap out a wobbly
fandango for those dreams of a fine bangaroo.
were boxed in. I couldn’t rewind the ropes. It’s hot in the head,
man. I was in and out of denial that entire year. The swelling of
modules was recurrent in your middle years. Now I am represented
by a piece of chewed cardboard, to help out Babe Jesus, whose name
embarrassed me. The spider webs were waist-high in that wood.
The toothy man wore a grey suit and told me about his thrill. I have
a triple key encryption service for this.
were a-he-ing and a-she-ing to the rumble of thunder balls. They
tried lust but it was no good. I raised an animal on pure liquid
gold. I can’t connect yet to the time-belt. I bought a death but
it wouldn’t fit my circumstances. She is still pushed through the
aqueous membrane that separates lost worlds. It wasn’t yet an official
joke policy. She smashed up a bottle of hoodoo wine. It was all over,
over the top of a bottom, as they say. They were consummated daily
in the name of goods and services.
trench warriors have been miniaturised many times over the decades.
The Father warned us about dinosaur stories. They got down in the
ferns, and found a sleeper. Foul smells. She danced across that bridge
in a cloud of steam. Achtung, fraulein! Someone had chalked about
their desire for ‘Sabrina’ (sic).
I flew through the rain over the twinkling suburbs. You retro-engineered
your childhood for this? Hands wandered like spiders in a moonscape.
saw no commercial application for his appliance. His TV licenced
slaughter through laughter. People in the next room were reciting
parts of The Daily Mail. Woodsmoke
refreshes the secret parts. In the hiss of night, foxes yelped at
each other. Anybody got a new angle on the patriarchy? Our neurons
fought like cosmic worms. Half a pint and you’re anybody’s
but nobody wants you. The bird overshadowed him, demanded its space
and fatter food. Nanotechs won’t rebuild anyone anytime now.
repeated that sex was fairy gold. Inwardly I was hiding from the
inevitable ripeness of death. Outside the circle, the creatures rumbled
on iron wheels. I lay back in the leather chair, overwhelmed by a
huge wad of foul-smelling damp fabric. As the gondola picked up speed
I began to bray. He’d traded all his tricks for a cloud of dust.
I like my vintage sex-machinery. I am contacting the ninth sphere.
spills over the keyboard. A world full of oil - and fools. The future
wouldn't stop twisting the night away. We all come out of the
woodwork sooner or later. Munchkins of death surround you. The glass
won’t stop trembling. Feel the blood pressure, feel good. Welcome
to my bungalow. It’s the last night of the bums.
their heads, they heard a thick gurgle in the pipework. That
night a creeping laziness prevented me from organising my parts of
speech. Astral leakage? I recognise it by the odour. A silvery
bullet was lodged in his corpus calleosum. She could hardly
get out of the chair without a faint cry. It was a person of gender.
When he looked again, the phlogiston had all disappeared. Just
wobble along like a good chap.
woods are alive with insects. The sight of the removal van terrified
him. Finally Katie was paraded through the atrium to venomous applause.
That man smells of old money. So many friends reduced to ash. Yet
I stand before you, penetrated by cosmic radiation. State-Specific
Sciences will salve your soul. The ministers are seeking my job again.
No time for the bubbling of fools.
for accepting me. Let’s go back to the Moon. So I am so wired up
and down. He fuck around all day, so they tell me. The storyline
was drawn out of him with cries of agony. Five cards were spread
across the burning deck. His face was a mass of molecules. We are
going to pay the full price of our good intentions. The operative
tells us we’re all through here.
by Paul A. Green include The
Gestaltbunker - Selected Poems (Shearsman
Books, 2012), two novels The Qliphoth (Libros
Libertad, 2007) and Beneath
the Pleasure Zones (Mandrake,
2014) and Babalon
and Other Plays (Scarlet