S J Fowler 

 

 

(Indian Ocean)

 

a void is over if ever a void semen stalls in its current the race is delayed losing its original speed the bodies of men, and women are sun debris – shale, floating shit beachcomber terraformer helicopter callouses, sandglass in the worrylines from boredom the same wave breaks differently but hardly, to the colourless ogle and it goes on – allwater saltwater cannot possibly be so tasteless oil separates, admirably but blood mixes, thinning miserably and the smell of period is lost ribboning from the girl into the mouths of childish fishes, floodling, travelling and even that has to be gutted and skinned what the river carries the ocean kills not just men but depth an ocean is a giant drowning pool polluted for it sings a sirens song to refuse. so hollow it must be filled the Indian ocean is the filthiest ocean typhooned, racing broken bottles and the used arm of a doll I hate the ocean as I love the sky from its floor comes snapping to the ocean goes my severed leg and black liverblood pissing aged onto the deck strewn with crabclaw vengeance death comes anonymous enough no need for a man to disappear to be counted by seventy two bricks inbox and plaque the teeth of worms and fruits that live and move below drain the thing, save our suns

 

 

 

 

 

(Itsuko’s warren)

 

a coalescence of subject and object

Samuel Coleridge

 

common pattern of experience

John Dewey

 

if we consult immediate experience unmixed with reflection

Ernst Cassirer

 

I have maintained

     Benedetto Croce

 

the form of the crow is the crow

Basho

 

here the question arises as to the nature

of the aesthetic experience which

has been characterised above as being among other things,

single minded

 

the outline of the common pattern

is set by the fact that every

experience

is the result of interaction between a live creature and

funded experience

 

 

 

 

 

(devon)

 

through streets flapped the great, gray birds

that singled me out for expulsion

was I ever here?

Ingeborg Bachmann

 

traintops foan hohen weare tolde ill reroute

to go a hundredhousa businestates back the way

wecome back to bristol tgain south a grimcable

haseen tauntaun sigbox. I knew people

homail roome nought teach thing christmas who

reasonless bredt reatuull cidedread of the devonplains

addee ajoune itswis saken. We must be just.

were it not that people were elsewheer

engage din staring rapt in ballooms dancing

patren sticks in wit prostits policing the streets

but fello passed connvullsed and I was sated

aparted lood, drammed, stallalking to sheepish

sande fattigued soldate bulling peopl lauying

with his schtick accent intent. Shout onais laut

amid darkness, shrrifting inceste, o’ the imeriall

sails monewary competition for smallcity folkation

lisigious momotamy rhythen but I hate his girlfriend

stande the motion alle worlds. tis mye novgorod

adrownning yielt, mye outeposte, sheepdom opulence

plaiceless whiteell bredd meens carving knive

corncall for my felfulness wistful, my schomats

contende & die in devon. tubacke, made a

diionary. ill return again at christmas

 

 

 

 

copyright © S J Fowler

2010