I want to be as though new-born, knowing nothing, absolutely nothing, about Europe.

—Paul Klee


No matter what the soup is now, I sample. Mid-urge, a psalm fire sale of resting pray glazed opposition. Buy debt. No butchers but right where I land. Gin out of, that out of, faltering city, of hardening hive. Dreams that outflank all the evidence.

Careful sticks probable knot, the sack top and tones for the rites.

Mine kneaded ink softly in light of the office, be nova.




I, the pulse. I, the task. I, the ions of the documents extant. I, I, I as in, irrealidad, ingles, intruido. Neon ox hide bees out of hake. As in V, as in van, as in vallées relues, the difference in leasing to lash is bewitched in the face of words due. Hake is for hire, and bee is for buy-as-if-new. Exit from I-am-relief. I am the market’s bingoni.




I—I am the I’ve-but-the-bees. I—having no die, to be union.

Peons of trade, ear off an order-in government.

Eye to be I-double-you.




No way up in the van, harbour clearly unsettled, stock razed. River won’t say but that milk’s not returning. Who soars in a team if it’s torn by a will that it suffers? Eye on a union it stitches, adjusting a rip to acquire a near-you. If dogs are to lore us, then water the willows. If not on the sore well it sunk in the nor-would-it-suit.




Vile beyond sets to atone for debate on. Nigh on protracting bingoni.


Beyond a deal, aye, the knot suits.




Draft agreement fog returns Brussels not bred in bantering up to the searing. Write up the wheel of no fibbing, no truck of yours, or relations, or mirror. No roll check of weir routed sea crooked being at bay, no plays the green gerbil that wrecks it.




No one for it’s quite-a-picture?

Hake as in help-of-a-you?

Ha—ew. Hard off political munting.

Tighten besmirch or you fuck uppa bees fucking do.



Image © Harry Kernoff

Not the Foggiest Notion
Three Poems