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Sean Bonney |
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the “commons”
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the
“commons”
The cuckoo is a - BANG - he was a big freak: weirds have wrappt his hail & gunnery, his pronouns & his minds: watching some documentary scales, words stalked them, warbled as they - equated money with intelligence, used the word ‘reverie’ clean as a dipped saint - I don’t eat that bread / yesterday I was still dead. My character was taken was not yours, who secretly my small thighs & the british anarchist movement stayed indoors: halt, magnetic sea & shun mad company. halt, intelligence I got my goose shoes on & talk eclipse, the town is stupid love fool love, or we could brick their windows the aged parents broken, exposed to annoyance & danger ■ Back when I was still cruel - OK, say that again this time with malevolent roses, some specks of lords, some totally harmless character: the town’s last cinema is broken, & the rest were maimed & slain. OK, say the word brain, this time with malevolent roses mumbled as in a ‘reverie’ like lingerie & a clean blade OK, do that again we got from London what we needed slaughter the fascist BNP. O bitter magnet, we shine inside the most vivid colours -archaic pop reference here - but my methods are scholarly like many a gallant gentleman I lay gasping on the ground magnetic & flashing as any wild-wood swine we spoke with hail but my methods - “most fertile yuppie scum” my methods are - I seem to have anarchic tendencies but I hang around with Trots. ■ O bitter mag - what her lawyer called a brain snap was a naked man, was cruel after suffering: you can’t have your eyes / ran trickling although she is your wedded weird - I bet he did I bet he ran trickling down his knee, by fire I bet he fell down those warbled thighs - you cannot have her eyes - the final host of the murdered soul net obviously they read books in hell: they are passionate and scared, intersected at bitter angles / the british anarchist movement, its scales & documents splintered under a false full moon embroidered over with burning gold not we don’t know who they are not intersected at oblique angles, the power to hurt, for example splat - in London town where they did dwell. ■ anyway, eclipse, as I was saying with my small brain broken inside the most vivid moments with hail scales and etc - yuppie characters - slaughter the suffering moon or watch some documentaries flashing like zombies or intelligence inside our rumoured eyes - oh pity / aged anarchists are scared but obviously this reverie, intersected the police system of knowledge gargled with gold. I bet she did I bet she got up & performed his ambitions my malevolent shine gonna build me a log cabin night of the living dead jokes about gordon brown something called the english democrats on fire: she would beat them to ashes with a ring of teeth & roses - say cuckoo - got up this morning performed my alienations ■ Meanwhile, in the fast world of banking they are thinking in blocks of sound blank ones reduced to little knots of hair & teeth we were speaking like any gasping swine, the still full moon his character splintered under a london town that didn’t become power: I, trickling down her ‘reverie’ of impending cash doom & how to eat brains. History is irrelevent with - archaic credit reference here - the sun has been disconnected & we, with our downturned mouths are maidens, our credit ratings threaded with flowers. & we are bleating, & we are fucking immense shrieking with gibes & curses - history, too, is a sort of zombie secretly swallowed by insatiate fiends packed in every domestic second forgetting to pay the bills. ■ The cuckoo is these moments of sobriety icy fierce spikes through the centre the burning hedonistic disks our lives are intersected by police brains joined in flat orgiastic newspaper headlines this is hideous to regret all knowledge this tongue of seething rust to be born a thousand years ago stupid as a seagull or a sky O enchanting metonyms you don’t know what you’re getting into: anyway, it cancelled my passport & I just took some, yeh, whatever - ok, say it again o enchanting ring of coins inside every nation’s sobriety slaughter / credit / passion & bleating knots of ring a ring of BANG go out to buy records give up all this english blood trapped in such a mindful stillness ■ Hiding inside our anarchists and as scared - saleable glimpses of dying in 1993, in acrylic zombie flip: he had rented it all back, & was wrecked, stranded outside his favourite laws, free as seas or unbounded hail as a spore left inside the language, not a code made of letters, but social utterance flaming, everything was wrong but it happened. Such thinking forgets vast territories of our sected selves: “all is ours”, the police power to hurt & how to eat in hell where my wits were lost in splintered oblique english secured the preternatural rain grazed upon our seriously, trickling down our passer-by with malevolent archaic sound my bag a long knife carries. ■ Unaroused by official culture history has been stashed below a system of false brains reduced to his ambitions - democratic - gold, falling inside there are flowers & we are bleeding with intelligence & gunnery - weirds have warped us, his pronouns & his freak, we are silent within his good clean mind - night of the ludicrous fink. Oh fucking cosmology - oh mad spit - the ‘reverie’ is a stop, oppressive line “is this is that” like a mystical shudder? yeh, that’s hideous. anyway, false, as I was saying was watching my character was yours, became a clear system, an impotent closure, not saying anything in particular, just sick, just everything. ■ Just lick (oh, please - inside the most vivid words had wrecked them & their stunned town - favourite epoch here - ate its fabled sticks & starved - - would flash just like a - - insert enemy here - would flash just like a - please - meanwhile, what were you saying? just, like,detourne yourself (stuffed with walls, insects & teeth But I was taken with stillness & malevolent lords would eat the living hail back when I was still blood intersected by police democrats were threaded with hell but I was still coins like any stupid cuckoo blade “the baser & poorer sort such whose lives were burdensome” but I, for example was quite simply scared but anyway, inside this language there is no word for sky |
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