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Journal: Cowboy Builders Yodel

Journal by hachete

As the steady state of molasses is a lie
and the speed at which we spin to stand
so the shortest distance btn
2 of yr blue-prints pinned inside a red balloon
inflating rimwards with my guestimates -

show me a plank of fine pirana pine
planned to nanometric perfection
and I'll show you a good time
showered with a million shavings
and a tooth-pick made for slipping in hair cracks.

So play me the black notes, mister,
you're missing all the best beats with your bones
of base abstraction, straight-jacketed out everything
but your mean meanings and bland beauty -

elegance may be the smooshest, cashmered, routed joints
but sorry, shop closed, signs out, no tickets here.
As good as enough, the 80% must ship it,
plug'n'play to a waltz by an almost-there quartet -
a fishbowl organ, a bread-bin fiddle and a washboard rythmn-ace.

User Journal

Journal: Travel

Journal by hachete

running swift, swallow gladly
into each lanscape - woodland,
scrub, rock desert, so serif thrown off
the TEU left behind, swallowed
from bollard and twistlock swung drunkenly
into the DSSSL ringing standby for RTF or HTML
or the sitcom patio, next year's headlines,
some hombre slouching the wide open range.

I know you're moving west again,
the scouting parties are thumbing ALta Vista
for Victorian realtor, so best plates packed
stylesheets ready to translate. I shall
stumble on your tracks and curse and thankyou
equal measure. I sniff the wind and watch
birds wheel. I must refix the pen-nib, rebarb pointers.

I have spent happy times pitching tent,
making fire, dusting tracks, slowly stripping
syntactic sugar to be here, nothing but
bone semantics, some well-worn plates
leather bindings for the horses, tools
to fashion arms to pit at multi-engined giants.
They shall have no more, only twisted seeds.

There are occasions when I wish sans
not a chivying force, that weight would hold me
and the blue hills - but the flat horizon
is a long circuit I recall from blue -
a lariat flirting the run's irresistible arc.
At the water-hole, beneath the stars,
to the whisper of the dry wind, I wind
my birds up for all who will listen.
I wish them a flight of surprises.

User Journal

Journal: The Lightning's Forge

Journal by hachete

The cypress elm spreads it's dark green bowers
across the lawn. Beneath it's dark warm heart
pheasants court, compete, complete pursuit. Oh my!
The black squirrel hangs by it's toes,
thumbs it's nose. Fissle material such are dreams
handled carefully by the quiet fantasists
shovelled into the furnace, ignited, fired,
often more Frankenfurter than Frankenstein
but once in a while, the eager blackbird
attacks the mirror, the bees come down the chimney,
we fizz and spark in a quiet obsessive way:
a little less mole-hill than wasps' nest,
more swallow dart and dragonfly pause
on the mock orange's tip - unsteady it seems -
than continuing to dilute the hours slowly;
yet, my lays are trammelled in the rare snow.
I wait here in the shadow of the brioche shrub
honing words for the darting breeze of a summer's day.

User Journal

Journal: Shakespeare is Dust!

Journal by hachete

Sharp-shouldered bloke at the end
keeps elbowing people out the way -
n I've been waitin for an hour now -
tapping a tenner on the bar.
Him and his dusty shoulders
cleaner fish sucking flakes,
brickies clearing and plastering
the outer flying balustrades,
clumps of cliches at his feet.
Bugger. He's given me a clowns fucking
words and then minted coins for a Crimson Bucaneer
to thief gold, those bright red
double-deckers over Tower Bridge
to HP sauce, and a hospitality tent to boot.
You can hear them, fired by the sunrise:
drunken twist of paper dancers
to the chapatis spin around the rim
beneath bloody skies.
Divest the chattels of yr past,
break the debentures of yr future.
Burning Shakespeare will not be enough.

User Journal

Journal: Judgement

Journal by hachete

Forensics are here for you
labelling everything in their path,
weaponisation of sealable plastic bags.
Just what were you doing that moonlight night?
Stray radio voices from France Inter emerge
the cat's miaow. Mpegs scattered across soft landings.
I suppose you could expose a few dodgy workmen
on the scam, a quick buck. The gain? Some purity,
I suppose, styro-foam pleasures after the money-men from Sue, Grabbit and Run
have stripped Bugs of any quirks but his signature
"what's up Doc?" What's up? A short walk up the stairs
to the tall scaffolding by the tall grinning shadows. Look down at your right-hand sleeve,
look closer, a thread trails an addendum with very small serif typeface.

User Journal

Journal: Triplet

Journal by hachete

Calligraphic remains of a Roman fort:
white staccato stones sink into grass
watch over a three-valley meet.
Heft a legionaires shield,
a redjacket square and gatlings jammed
bloody bayonets fixed straight
straight contentionless narrow
as toes grip to razor wire.
May you be that square peg touted dovetailed
interlocked braces? A magnificent
18th Century Dresser of an Information Act.
With knobs on.
Slide yr toes further out
ignore temptations either side
boxed in, punchy, out-boxed
a door leading to an inner sanctum
heavy bouncers at each door ticking lists.
You could always say you knew Pandora intimately,
ask to reach in and take out a white-rabbit
or a Comet, or a rack,
or two power grids colliding -
just make sure you've got your lower torso
when you leave. Now the white-haired
old man has appeared from behind the curtain
Dorothy would like to go home, please.

Loopy Loo likes the triangle
the most unloved of the orchestra
                a single note
ting ting ting
Dangling her feet over the pyramid
she sharpens her toes.
We, like surveyors - say, Mason-Dixon,
Flanders, Burton - triangulate and
pin down the smallest error,
a way to the stars
srat eht ot yaw a
re-arranging points to make sense of circles.
On misty nights, headless horsemen canter by
an illicit couple check text messages:
slide rules automagically glide into place
quill pens scratch positions of guidance
summing up yr position in the grid.
What hiding place when hawks know everything?
Chivy the slightest cocked hat, my fine young
puritan, greater accuracy within the framework,
whips to the bar, carved from chaos.
Loopy Loo likes her frameworks handmade
self-hewn. She walks these mean streets
with 3 blind mice for guidance
and they're going to have a word
with the fine young puritan.
They have some pink triangles stapled
in their scrapbooks, three beats to the camp quartet.
As shadowed red, some Watneys, the 5th Division
moves over the start-line.
Kirk all flash and phasers set to to stun
reveals 12 beats to the brain
at the heart of Cheyenne mountain.
Spocks thoughts thump heady as mosfet gates trip, reset.
Kirk comes with
                Tough Love
        a nice cold shower
get some new rules, invent yr own. The planet
is harsh on the surface but you'll survive:
knowledge is a skinned rabbit not a bad sonnet.
To everyone's surprise, the exterior
angles add up to more than 180.
A wooden pony rocks Loopy Loo
to sleep, razors cannot cut the rope.
A sharp wind shakes her feet.

Hyperbole of bandstand rotating cornets and tenor horns, raising their throats snuggle deep into the cogs and flywheels my apple-cheeked child. But, wait, what's this, our clean-cut hero has reached the inner sanctum (to no one's surprise, he knew the matre'dee, went to school with the restauranteur, Pandora was his second love after Miss Peabody) and now carries Orak, the Mechanised Integral, son of a difference engine laid bare, the priest hood undone, codes broken, seals cracked, safes unpicked. Glimpsing into the static, Po, his heart beating fast, opens his belly to a harsh wetlands winter, shining disks of water framed by reeds. From beneath the refracting surface, brooches swirl, grey eyes point skywards. Come Dance With Me on the infinite case - point two-three arc, connect horizon, three-four and slide to vanishing - this is the loop of the long now: choices, red, pickle hard, hard against the pendulum's edge. Danegeld salt to no one. Hie to the long swing and away.

User Journal

Journal: Skin Wobbly

Journal by hachete

Two minutes fast: sentinels question me
as to my effectiveness at winding quantum clocks.
Have I lost the key again? Could I not find the neutron sink?
Resonators stand as rebuke. Precision captured
as ping-pong balls spinning in hypertext clocks,
italicized birch trees ticking
        to the duvets' silence -

        - a rabbit, on cue, beadles on to the golden stubble
between the family hour and the working week's
semantics -
        now that Kelly oh so loves Felix -
staggering like field mice
before their extinction event.

Grass seeds, scattering over the lower field,
boot-strap into the next second
dynamically acquiring unseen targets
along the herring-bone edge of a hill-sides' sinusoidal wave
cradling lightly the plumes rise and the swallows'
swift ascent into the radar's field.
A broad stream of stardust flows overhead.

Winking lights emerge from
collections of real numbers
tripling amongst themselves,
chisselling inwards-out from rock.
Star-stuff is left
by the late-flowering laburnum tree for a better day.
Will the Lone Ranger
appear by the broken stile?
Will our bones whiten peaceably
beneath the black-hills vacant night?
Do I want to be the pudding that ate Chicago?

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User Journal

Journal: munge

Journal by hachete

Here comes the terminate: silent thief
shuffle-shoe slither, unstoppable enveloper.
On EVA, it appears the laser-sharp advance
of a great meridian, beach-ball for Ursa Major.
At ground zero, it's maw opens before us,
fingers thickly lifting the duvet's edge, figurines
dipped into it's baggy repose, loose-jumpered horizons.
A chuggy-pig rumba treads a finer line, my carapace
to the light, blinking to glimpse faint outlines
a bat-whispered keening for blurred data.

Sing luminous seeps of PERL, my shield at this hour!
The watch-keepers unprepossessing pre-processor
is handed over to the next and will be
as we dance slowly on monochrome grass, slipping
through Turing's mind, trying to avoid -
patterns sliding into place overhead - caught here
as \s\g of replaceable bits, swapped-out.

'^rowan\s+{[azAZ]}(.*)$'

kde_patch by

'.*birch\s+$'

on

'[Hh]awthorn.* structures$'

A purple elephant hawkmoth hovers in the dusk
slipping slowly toward the upraised trumpets,
laying down on viscous damask, each heady breath
shimmering those yellow wings, redolent waves brushing tender antennae.

Here the bright-eyed Erinaceus europaeus rumbling
under the shrubs by the fence,
seeking the rough-pawed embrace of a night-time's hunt,
the violent shake and snuffling of couplings. I wait crouched
by the shed, peering unknowing but eager into the shadows.

Thymus vulgaris forward under the honeysuckle's ombre
blows drunken mauve; the weight gaits
harder on green-eyed fingers, palms-up to give.
Desire is a smooth green spike, ever-green held
by a warped stem; shadow weight laid over
Salvia argentea, Thymus citriodorus, Petroselinum crispum.

Rowan grids tilt, intersect, a coordinate of no precise dream,
some half-awake frame, arms rising,
lace leaves curling a chirping robin
among the clumps of diffraction-thin birch trees.

Hawthorn leaves synching sullen data-structures
busy with large shiny ants feeding at the capillary
(uneasily I feel my throat: a small scar)
of a seemingly loose-typed language:
but not quite: in their free samplings
of chlorophyll, at a head hatching
deep in an alien mothership, they revert
to 8-bit integers.
Gentle notes of a bush cricket, set for the South.

Slow beats shiver moth-clung plate-glass
their dryness trembling with cellular clenching.
My sweets, dogwood, we'll yaller hollows
in the dusk, carry bats forward on a dark wave,
moths tumbling by their death's head, our winter's
shadow-fax the bottom orchard. The nightingales'
last visit, our first knowledge, crystallises slowly.

In the dog-shed, a dead butterfly stands
antennae streamed, wings folded upright,
coloured night.

Matching crows patch sulphur over a dry brook,
diffs sit unhappily beside each other on a wire fence.
As when I found myself there, hard claws gripped to the cold metal,
trying to decide which way the temperature would shift,
luminosity gradients glow or dim. As now, a cars' horn,
I cannot tell where I sit. You know what it's like
to lay a five sided carpet:
evidence pointed both directions
and feeding it through an event driven parser wasn't about to start helping.
Neither was a tree model. On which node did I lie?
Red or white? When would the garbage collector strike?
When my truth values morphed untrue?
By the ellipse's ascent, was that a fox...or a wolf?
I could see the leaves shiver silver,
a birch tree in autumn and I wished me a forest.

A metal chain attracts coulombs,
fist squeezing out cumulative reactions,
beat against the whipped part of bull-rush
blundered by a surprised heron,
a cascade of frogs in it's wake to their death.

Dawn's toxic flare wastes the eastern sky.
Stars lapse their tractor wheel, sleeps' trails
slither my eyelid. A swing of the axe
cracks the rotten hawthorn trunk.
Ripping ivy from the garage-roof angers bees,
who struggle away in a wet autumn shroud. The shredders blade
chews flesh, grate'n'grind, a fresh swig of gin.
Clearances go on everywhere,
even by the arching indents of the mock orange and buddleia
where the walk-through finished a while ago. Digging deep into the ground ivy
the hard earth yields a hole. The piled earth
smells clean, the cut of the mattock,
granp's arm with mine, binding
to the rowan's sigh.

Each morning, a cat's gift to the two-legs:
a vole, dead from a heart-attack.

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User Journal

Journal: Entry

Journal by hachete

A small room painted institutional green:
a radiator murmurs, no windows.
I long for a cigarette. Long for a cigarette.
The little man in the darkness keeps asking questions about Spain.
Occasionally, his neat hands appear in the light,
playing with a reservoir pen, sometimes making notes.
Now he's talking about Spain. I know my mouth
is making a thin line. So hard not to. About stretcher bearers.
At the foot of the ridge,
by the blasted shrubs, lie bodies, a burning cart
and a braying donkey. Now stopping, then braying.
I pledge, religiously. Spain was a youthful indiscretion.
Some boys get drunk. My friends? Oh, the usual crowd. Punting
on a sunny afternoon, horseplay on the Cam. Tennis
then tea on Sundays. Their names?
My cigarette dangles. I watch the divers
brilliant bow connect the shimmering water.

S...h...a...n...k...l...y

I'm a simple poet, whose orbit
is merely an A4 block of paper P...a...i...s...l...e...y
You fall in with the wrong crowd,
they give you more credit than you deserve....
S...o...u...n...e...s...s Those lyrics?
They were just drafts. They're soon corrected.
H...o...u...l...l...i...e...r...That sailor in Berlin?
No. I never knew any sailors. Only nice people.

D...a...l...g...l...i...s...h

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User Journal

Journal: Eliot

Journal by hachete

In a corner of a dim carraige
Eliot is serene. Edinburgh. Glasgow.
His tweed turn-ups jut over hand-lasted.
A Captain, RA, coughs. "Didn't I see you
at the Kit Kat?" Eliot elegantly declines, turns
to his notes. The captain coughs again. "Norway."

Swansea, University College Wales. London,
the British Norwegian Institute.
In the corridor, kitbags are stacked and .303s clatter.
A Capstan is lit - "Oi vey!", "Watch it me ol'China!" -
it flares in the darkness, a Sergeant curses.
Eliot standing on a sand spit, braced by Hanseatic gales,
grasping Goethe, ignoring the fast tide gripping his feet.

Donne, Vaughn, Traherne, South Wales Borderers
doing their bit as darkness swirls and Dutch fields
double dug with famined hands. Herbert, Cranshaw.
Eliot, sleek and mannered, cements his thin red line

and smooths the page, it's Royal Vellum dazzles.
Eliot at cocktails denying Blaestein, who will fall at the wire.
London. Minnesota. Eliot picking his way between Army boots
and civilian bodies. The lights go out. We harvest weevils.

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User Journal

Journal: Joker Wild

Journal by hachete

1.Tobruk. December, 1942.
The horse-race is on. He stands before a W/T truck: tall, blonde hair combed back, moustache neatly trimmed. His long shorts cover legs that don't look like the worst knobbly knees on Blackpool Beach. Desert boots planted firmly in the sand. He has the look of Chapman about him. On the table behind him, just out of reach of enlargement, is an open notebook. It's cream pages and blue lines slowly turn in the desert wind.

That night, the fox's yelp gave way to radio-chatter, shell-bursts, screams.

2. False Memories.
recalled a horrifying incident that occurred when he was four or five years old. His teacher caught a book of poems, cut out some of its lines, smeared the alliteration over his body, and then handed the pen to him, expecting him to finish the animal. When he refused, his teacher poured burning pentameters over the remains of the book.

3. Phantom Limb Syndrome.
Researchers who search for lost information frequently report that when they are touched by "good data", they feel as if the sensation came from the missing limb.

In 70 per cent of disregarded writers, there's a continuation of sensation for the lost book or poem. Some researchers even believe that those lost artifacts still exist.

4. Delivery
A brown envelope arrived today at the Porter's lodge, addressed to me. I spotted it's overseas stamp standing proud in the labelled pocket. It lay on the table as I sipped tea carefully. I couldn't...stop myself pawing the envelope with sweaty fingers. The envelope came apart clumsily.

5. Goethe
Yeah. Even Goethe was suckered by Ossian.

Goethe to Henry Crabb Robinson: "Werther praised Homer whilst he retained his senses, and Ossian when he was going mad."

Yeah, right. Can you believe that bullshit?

6.Forensic.
To establish the truth, the correct cause of death, we will have to defrost the body one more time. We know there is an arrow head buried in his shoulder. We need to see whether or not it was this that caused his death. We cannot be sure until we do so.

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God doesn't play dice. -- Albert Einstein

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