Canine Exhalations

See all the faces hiding in that picture? Silently and silently they see the revolution in our head - the sounds of small rebellions, kicking out against the dot and dash and stop of good and systematic writing, against the rhythm of the prose and stream of filth that betrays origins. here are all the clichés that we get away with just because they sound right and switched to try out new things, break up sentences into staccato bursts of nothing, just code in wireless, code in air.

We, the independent, feeling it deep like code blue crush, the external beat, external breathing for us in this shuffling group of those engaged and paid to save us. Scents of long ago, of bread and sweet things in the old crushed leaves of parents' dances in the village hall. Deep bursts again of well and echo, nothing more than drum and voice.

Poetry in solo drum, a voice of failure, outsiders down the years of tragedy that mark a family.

The world ended yesterday - at least I think it was yesterday. The receipt said yesterday but that is no matter now we have to live with the consequences. Not sure what you can see of this over there and to be honest I'm not sure what I can see of it myself. But something happened anyway. The sun was so high and rained down from the sky, turning the sea to nothing more than a sheet of stars and something blue and intelligent. I know it is all just senses but everything seems to be different today - like someone was whispering in my ear - ordering me to do something I don't really want to. I am trying to wrote it down as it happens and though everything seems so slow around here at the moment, writing it down just makes it all speed up. maybe it's because I'm racing ahead of the thoughts, trying to define the next sentence, trying to work out whether this punctuation mark is better than that one. I have just realised that it is the punctuation trying to hurt me. There are armies of neglected apostrophes, baying for revenge. And somewhere in the dizzying depths of the Special Forces, the long-lost mystery that is the mark of irony; the mark that dares not speak its name for it does not have one.

Marked up and spell-checked in the face of the arresting officer, we are paraded before some initial judge of grammar who looks like he has just fallen in love with that literary ingénue over there - she makes eyes and just about knows who does what in the world of poetry. "She hates Daddy" mantraed over the background of grafted stories all wth proper plots and atmosphere above anything the accused could manage. We can only do this once says the judge and he admits he sees nothing wrong with what the prosecution have just handed him, a manuscript of scruffy pages, crumbed and stained from days in cafes slightly cooler than our houses, wheezing aircon lifts the pages gently and still the sun rains down and pours in off the sea to burn the dusty concrete and seep into the ears and eyes like thoughts projected. Maybe we are the madmen with the radios in our heads. Over the bay they have some fort, some military complex where they check your badges at the gate and wave you through to libraries and guarded terminals. And they all have perfect skin from drinking all that water, avoiding sun - Parisians all of them - wasted in the tropics and all with faces like defining a plain in Euclid. Myths all of them. My accusers go higher for authority and have found nothing but indifference. Seeking no point and no penalty they let me go, back to derelicts and subsistence.