Blubber your syllabilly tremblone,
betatest dreams above your workstation.
I shall spend my next five days
letting light lose itself inside a screen
neuromarketing an ingestments portfolio
until a piece of me opens and images
exit like flies from a headwound.
If the air spoke inwordly.
nobode of the deathsent is
murmurmuring into an eartomb’s
elevensing to milkclot the governmeat.
Listem the striplit signsongs
the schlosch of heroshimmers
the cleptoparasite sups, ushers, shushes
upon its gluts of ingotten illgots.
Crystaleyed the wind somewho
flows like a house at night and creates
words the length of tongue, refracted to
myself yet goes crazy as a cast of
silence and nightblooms inside
longunsung songs we understand.
Children cloud round us and from some
where an animal is still sobbing:
it so much wants to be human, to
build a house that is sentence, the wind
sticking to us the names of things.
If our eyes break open weight of dayness
we accentuate the apple in its bowl
its blue-green shiny back sickens
into the song the illness of words.

Giles Goodland


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