Do not let this question trouble you

Are you sure you want
To send me to the recycle bin?
Zeker weten? zeker weten?
I typed the word ‘what’
As hwta
HWTA

Point your nose in the direction
Of your dreaming fingers
Grub
No I won’t back down
Don’t send me to the recycle bin
A world that keeps on moulding me around
Feeling me into shape
Like a whacko gropes a church

The results of your dreams
Will be sent to you
In a letter, internally
Back down your spine
And curling round you like a snake
To disappear down your cake hole
Where you stuff stuff
Waar, jongen jij je mond volpropt
Met dreams
Should you need to dream further
We have courses available
Depending
Naturally
On how much you need
And what it costs
To get stuffed

The owner of this car is a grub
De eigenaar van deze auto is
A grub
A grub

High Wind Tears AnAsshole in the sky
Dreams pass like dogs through
A pink burning hoopla
Held by your daydreaming fingaz
Like a Johnny Tambourine

What’s that Daddy on the horizon?
A recycling bin boy

jamón y queso

The balcony in our apartment; its natural sweetness didn’t stop me throwing a fig, which landed in front of the black slab of car park. Roller-blading Gandia youth used it in the evenings, as we sat building and the orange groves grew. Or we ate ham, jamon in Spanish, something like a phenomen, the mountains like a fluffed-up pillow behind us. We built up a pan appetite, bueno appetito; balcony city, our enchanted forest, graffiti skulls as far as the we could see, each day a safe adventure, topped with booze. Off daily to lifelong learning and clickety corpora, the bus of pensioners going one way, the joggers another. We made notes and no notes through a sheaf of presentations, some with feathers on, some blunt, some on target some, uh, not. It’s like a jungle sometimes. We absorbed various bouillons of CALL, suddenly back at school, a gang of kids sharing a joke and tentacles. The sand got everywhere, even cyberspace and our dreams; Ibiza was almost within spit distance. The dancers crawled up Spanish stairs, wonderful surreal affront to the literal-minded. American women we observed casting lines of lust like fishing lines. Steve Thorne said “we go forward together” so we developed a framework for implementation, bricolage and baby dragons, the patatas bravas parallel session. The pastel tints and buxom balconies, beer on the beach Yoshiki Muraki Sake Jager Fernando Rosell-Aguillar Kurt Kohn Aga Palalas, us, using these days, wringing out the flavour, extracting the nutrients, we are good we'll be better jamón y queso

Church:

Built out of stone, it was groped into shape
by the congregation. Anger I sense in you, proof bone
Grand Cafe Jus. Approach love and cooking
with reckless abandon.

The word-dabble. My child modelled a woman
in the sand, his fingers sculpting nipples
the salt of stairs

We are alone, we mermaids.

I rolled a lion poster in a tube, blew my name
over sea spray, rejoiced my anime.
I rejoiced at non-urgency, anarchy's
ornate pagan cave.

Catherine. You you of all people, of all Autumn cottages
have kneaded, punched and pulled my hairs
into free directions and funky weakness.
Aided by white horses I am stronger
in the building-as-instrument's notes.