Sunday, November 29, 2009










those double-fronted
properties laugh heavy 
at our weariness after         real urban experience
determined us done.

with revelations we scoured famine histories 
while dealing with allegiances mixed and mistaken.

²               look at our empirical scars, 
      they are empty but make for good conversation.

skies disagree and we return humbled to dozing.

inevitably the surrealist seems distant from those anchored to reality: he sits, uncertain, but smiling while contortionists surround him in a show of solidarity.

it is thirsty work.

with four cut rhetoric
we are acid bright
scratch markd
we fill ourselves with
in the quest for global parenthood
 we are casual in our devastation.
 we protest with slogans like:


flying with your mouth filled with lust;
more concerned
with malignant little conservatives whose perma-fried propaganda is thought thieving and malicious.

 naturalism is incidental
 with blood
 under my fingernails
 and suspicions that
we are not alone™

We yearn for the optimism of the radical dead from 1967 or 1789,     
and the dread of those exiled dead from 1943 or 44      

(at the inconclusion of history)   

®                      we can expect terrible suffering
®                      we can expect a terrible death

We wash down “live moths”
with lukewarm milk.
rape is described
 as curiosity on

wincing does nothing they have drawn lines on our behalf & all there is to do is pull  faces indicating our discomfort shrugging as a symbol of impotence in the face of such an organisation.

(in black uniforms)
march past Barna Buddi
without remorse or a sense of history.

In flatlands we dream
of umbrella plans with obsessive detail
as witty kitchen sink vignettes
comfort us all.

deviation makes conspiracy
while my hair shines in the sunset:

creativity is not enough –
childlessness leaves us empty.

the beauty of fountains is that they try too hard to be beautiful,


much like those faded Edwardian seaside resorts dressed up fancy in the rain,


crumbled and cowering under neon lights of cheap & dirty arcades.

These enormous skies make us teary,
      leading us to question if 
      marple england really exists.

 Sincere journey of vertical lines,

is your “truth” a complaint?

looking them
in the eye
with manly
and the art
 of rhetoric,
parade your
with your hair down.
I must have your shapely calfs.

The melodrama of a threatened womb is no match for the proximity of death, mother turned into mermaid deploy your weapon of melancholic beauty

- nineteen years to go ...
gentleman vigilantes
and fingerprints
always on the axe,

§  The crimson petticoats of a martyr,
§  The quiet contemplation of a person watched unknown.

what a way to start –
with a boy that can't be bothered. 
bureaucracy turns tribal
as postcode wars
are televised
and supporters clubs
organised for cage fights
umpired by

affluence has ruined glamour: 
we build yurts
(to make a point about sustainability)

& receive
unending invitations
to gain
three inches.

do young models ever look at Janice Dickinson and dread their future?
you have thirty seconds to answer the question, the sound of the harp will let you know when your time is up.

Rachel Warriner

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