Mondrian Green

Sitting with your back to the elm-filled window,

laked extract of ripe Buckthorn berries

retro-teaching skipping girl how to skip,

you applaud the absence of Mondrian Green.

Faulty pylons screeching sparks into the cindering

daylight Semaphores in the first night Purgatory

of the Act One day the child of Dickens new

corridor transitions burn misrecognised in

the vinyl overlays of heliotropic figuration

Fast Green Lake sprays panoptic quietude

in the TEx mEX panoply of bands named after

words: if all of our communications belong

to others and the minimal distance between

your shirt and my shoulder is all we can share

But the cosmic exposition of the passionate two is also nature itself

So the muscles tensed for flensing in the trigonometry of information

fail the test of morning Stepping out into the molecular heresy of leaves

subjections of signs give play to the dissimulation of danger

What can I do? A goldfish swimming in a room full of skulls is not

indiscernable Outside my office window the throng of voices

Rises up on the paralytic point by point Escapade of natural oblivion,

your voice leaves its name to join the soundtrack of the new world Spring

mist plots a graphic heteronym that I call nature, each leaf distinct as

illness Numbering the pages of a parallel history in which we marry and spend

Mondrian! There isn’t a poet alive who would disagree with your conception of nature.

For them, the Sublime is a handle for the grinding of sausages. Sublation is useful in the construction of powerful individuals. To be a poet is to hold

every opinion, to know that nature does not exist and to tolerate

the impossibility of whole parts. I confess:

The Lilliputian threads of the old ways make me want to lose a limb

I have tried to be everything and I cannot do it.

stupid permanent estrangement

promises to forget childhood promises in the forging of our new life

In the shrink reduce distinct of Bentham-by-way-of-Burke

our silence is creating new forms of interaction.

Giving in to what you will not be, indifferent personification

gasping in the terrified light Your terminous gaze imposes

movement on the move from impotence to impossibility Flees

inductive exposition of the count says An easel is a guillotine

by means of which we exploit image, comparison and

rhythm Ideally, we would have nothing of subjective confidings

Yet, to love poetry is to love not being able

to choose On an intransitive note I think

the light transfigures you as you speak – Lisbon 6am

slip insert desire for describe

Harem skerrick of horse Twice-listed how you become me

Presentations of liquid description annihilate the disperse and leak of

thirsting for armature, the dry pad trickle of foreign Projection

Dissembles in the prevaricatory jungle Assembled incontestate at the

frontier :  I like your idea of an objectless love

drawing of a tree

Atrium’d windache apocraphies bending situationist branches

Fouled by the gold leaf declensions of Eleven shimmering

navel oranges descending Incrementally