freedom is

an absurd grandiloquence

scribbled by a poet of Pretense (me).

freedom and all its very tall comrades

slide glistening off the tongue

with grotesque and sophistical


and what an irony

that we (poets of Pretense)

will quibble with vigour

over the fluidities of language

and how to define ‘sardonic’

while that grandiosity

with a false face,

its only face,

inscribed by arrogant quivering pupils

mocks us,


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I haven’t asked him for his number because now I am known, now the I-I-I am afraid, now I am up there on the raggedy cross with Christ: no longer unimaginable (so a little breathless), no number, no d

a better question

In the end, I suppose the better question is: how does the ocean feel about us?


I emerged from my door and carried into my present moment the quivering skeleton of a whom this poem is for, a what is trying to be accomplished. We are the escape artists. We point the way out. We pa

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