Wednesday, April 29, 2015


The cohort that isn't heard now, I am its voice,
And it shall be heard through Apparationism.
Russians mistake my verse for steganography.
Mint and ginger, lint and mink,
Woken up by my own smell,
My reliance on myself
As subject.

Tuesday, April 14, 2015


Whims and vermiculating worms, Will Self, himself excepted, opined;
Is proprioception in foreshortening, war mankind, warm and kind,
Inchoate in the precariat, so that depths encroach, unprocessed,
Or being that near things have undue depth, is it that I am recessed,
And Apparitionism accounts for this?

The exclusion principle states that no two fermions can occupy the same space. But is it possible that they can mimic each other, like puns with the same sound but different meanings, so that they appear to have the same state? Fermions doubled up in mimesis might explain this accentuated depth I see, the row of poplar trees at the opposite end of Hook Meadow and everything between that and the bench I sit on horrifyingly in relation to each other. Hook Meadow, a turquoise-rich place somewhere between Bowling Alley and Clifton Barns, where I see the park keeper chatting with that man we encountered last week in the churchyard. 

No space but this thin place for me, as art's consensii sits entrenched, but I will not mimic; and these depths are culture's spines, deepening, hooking derivatively, whilst publishing is a reflection of community; and I will stay in this thin place, this place that makes turquoise for the wider meadow.

Is the want of space sustaining, do I long to be excluded more,
Contrive to fade, that the culture I mistrust mistrusts what its eyes saw?
Hooey! Boo! I am here! I am here, recessed ­– try and sample my mood,
Like fermion-worms and vermiculations traced by the pollster's snood.