I feel I should come out blazing/ dead hounds bayingfrom beyond/ if memory serves/ each became unwell when addressed by an incorrect name/ (in a hunt, you know, they are not dogs they are hounds and they don’t bark, they bay/ Alexander even sat exquisitely at the piano forte upon his haunches/ glistening/ the horses stabled/ their anatomies secured in ink/ I became totally obsessed with down-to-earth catastrophes/ the mayor in a ditch/ the parson upside-down/ from a cantering stallion he’d only just met/ I was riding my horse through a flash flood/ her coat/ lightning fresh/ the electricity shatters an otherwise pastoral sky/ and is now a club kid’s neural pathway/ apace with sunrise/ much Venetian crystal is broken inside the box marked FRAGILE/ Dad made fire/ Mom slept at the hotel/ the rest of the party was drawing pictures of childhood/ clumsily with charcoal and vitriol/ down by the raging creek/ we had come to a point that had no home/ beyond rippled sinew/ I knew things you didn’t/ I didn’t know things too/ my sense of direction is lights out/ horses sleep standing/ I only sleep when I fly/ at the gong of midnight/ the bridal party monopolizes the elevator/ but my fox mask and riding silks throw them/ their gowns/ in gutters/ the gowns/ the gowns/ how they hang red/ exquisite as bloodbaths/ it’s not my wedding/ but the hunt belongs to me
"The poet is of no party." BaudelaireOur manifesto is an act of substantiation.
We reject all forms of futilitarianism, in whatever disguise.
We believe that comedy is the song of the village and tragedy the song of the goat.
We believe what is written in the books, but now we want to see for ourselves.
The single idea, beating on the same doors in vain.
The analogue and the invention.
The death cell.
The first permission.
Though we watch the stage for things to happen, though our minds wander.
By ourselves in the green field, playing our diversion.
Though the story begins with the loss of a home.
Out of the machine, we shift restlessly in our seats.