from Omnia Sunt Communia

To push onto and into, as a screw bears down on its thread. 

Marcus sings, in the morning I surround you. 

I shuffle around the rockpool, crab recognise crab. 

You laugh at the outsized mound of decorative salt. 

Liquid pushes against its container in a hard to see struggle. 

To embed a whole social order in the deployment of passivity. 

Who here has not clenched just to break, cry, or appreciate. 

Pop song logic – the force of desire kills (complimentary).

I take off and fold up my orbiting, meshwork lingerie. 

Can I hold what is not mine, contain what is not yours?

One can but shouldn’t fuck for property. 

So much depends on weight, counterweight. 

I hold onto you with friction and its absence, call out. 

What is common is pleasure and sharing in it. 

Bones are levers!

I want to return again but each time with a new trinket. 

Arms laden to the point of a shrill ache, skin burning. 

The edge like the feeling of sliding in socks across a roof. 

I scurry up and double take, I can sometimes see my own ass. 

No one should ever expect a fantasy to speak in actual words. 

Can you see this [holds up two to three fingers]? 

We listen to the poor reactionary who disbelieves wetness. 

It’s a shame how we ‘learn’ sexuality and then live to unlearn. 

Fainting in the cubicle, shitting on demand, machine sewing. 

Everything that has passed and again desire issues forth. 

They said the communist pirates were horny as orcas.

Hunched in the archive, huffing up perversions.

You take my hand and descend the underside, the surround. 

To rummage in the dark for the shape of things to come –

Read the cut of the word against the grammar of permanence.

You love poems whispered by ghosts.

One shouldn’t fuck for politics, they say, it demands legibility. 

I love poems whispered by you.

Squint now to see it blur.

We are starlings bending air into elastic shapes. 

I would like to moan a little.

The luxury I prefer requires the end of me.

You practice eating slowly, savouring each bite.

I’m a singer who has mastered the art of whistle tone.

We insist that infinity and relation are not counterposed.

But still – 

    the impulse of closure
like the appetite of a starved dog
the determination of form
that greases the double millstone.

We share air at the threshold, staring at the shipwreck.

You must learn to fuck, say the ghosts, in order to say: 

fuck the no-futurists!

Can you hear this? 

[Sade’s The Sweetest Taboo plays] 

Have you ever searched for the little crack in the world 

that wrestles liberation from necessity? You must listen to Spicer: 

Have guts until the guts

Come through the margins

Clear and pure like love is.