WAITING


to force these intensities to a shape, to burst
or dilate. Body without cause, so detailed, so collate
and threaded, you find yourself together making verbal patterns,

visual attachments, which you can't unless willing
an escape. If you compere, all concepts can be made concrete,
released suddenly, a movement in commonplace, maybe over

your head. Like I've been searching suddenly all over
for justification. Dicing through bends in the time.
It's suddenly a wall of laughter - warping occasion

on a determined faultline. Or, we are all attached
anyway. Not the same as attack. Bent on understanding,
see? And it will curve us as we lean it out. The response

which was so automated, so confused, is more like
keeping up chance, smirched now in the
temperature of the room. High order, it was heady

lately. You had to be there to experience. And even though
one left early, odd throbbing away, ready to hatch.
And though you lay your ear very close to the side of it,

which side have you taken? Responsive or servile?
Others' needs don't curb in the zone used to blast
others' intentions for. Can it be generous while qualifying

embrace? The area is warm where thought pounds on it,
day after day, bending pale green shade afterwards.
That's unclear. Or maybe the eye which makes light of or sense anyway





Confirmation        
tear-
ing itself
away
from this world   
or
whatever.
       
              This
              space
taken with
-out &
beliefs.   

Form
arisen in
prejudice.

Clearing a    
pattern    domain   
for a
complete
attempt.          Launch it
with
 you,

alternative
cipher
re-launch.
   
My
attempt
no longer   
embedded in
your
attempt.

Let's get
alienated.

Always approach with
extreme uncaution.   
The topic is   
clearing   
untoward.

Similar                 traces
except
               operate
              English
in understanding.

              Always
             approach.    

It
arrives
late.
Determinate being
    has pure
reason?

There has been
in wilful
blindness
a mechanism.   

When we            expect
dialogue,
jams
the effort,
always end up        
miming.
           
Some of us after the opening.
Some want confirm or reason denial.

Reason it myths on
outgoing
HARD LINES.

What eliminates
after.
What shows   
      is a
"new tradition"
in new tongues
or new ear pieces.

I had meant to tell you the meaning,   
grasping
a new slight, licking
a vantage
point.
   
But it dreamt up this
frenzied
surface,                                clung     to it   
faltering   
hungry
& churlish   
suggestion.

(I'd never meant        
that hard).

Meant that   
marking it,   
faltered
a site
& hit on,
except   
starting to    
fuse combined.

In our outgoings
climactic accounts
of it-
self.
   
Recognize slowed,
    wanted
& culturally
hit on
"purpose."   

Not lacking but
slipping,
the point   
shucked of   
denial.

Afterwards wanting   
what came of    it
reason,

all futural
meaning
suggest
-ive un-
synchronized.




Road Accident


Who handles one over     thegap    & thecrash?

When it's all over, cut from it &     grab wilting over
some warm desire -     metal -         the    wish of.       
     Trailed
salt cuticle     draped
from an edging.      Nobody's     inched along perfect.

Behind     thepowerfulwreck,     just your
soft outline     bruised     hedged -
in       dripped formatting. Not least before,    but that was
-a shame not to
kiss it     goodbye.    

Well     more
important     wait on at the
ploughed skyline.    

EYES up - reddened on
both sides     before the rise.

Could've told one    as good as new.
Could've stuck to          thesideline. Like  reliefs -
marbled in signia -       swan's nests on     mini     oceans.

 A drunk 
faltering &     spitting,
   one time out of ten
will there  actually do something.  

Others, smell it,  theFEAR.
    Warm engines            pump out
their love
of the ether.

     What cry,     what matters    gathering hurt to itself?
No,                                       waste drips all over
every    one     is

ruined    fields

, of no     fault
but their own.
      Ambitious
meldings    gathered & raised
to all
but the last     purpose.







HAMBURGER LANDING (sung to the tune of Goodbye Lenin)


It's a homology, honest.

Scratching the surface aesthetics -

will knowing-love-holding-this-stereotype-origin.

i'm for this TOTAL then-nature -
i'm for grappling always, not raising potentiates.

Thinking it over, specifically NOT reading enclosure,

intended technologizations -

having this sped-out-&-stretched-over-brutalized-culture.

Pouring off line-endings - we talked in the meanings of Java.

i'm for flagellating the i's off centralised wording mechanisms -
One line too many & it's all corrupted.

Conscripting party sensitives, somewhat quiet about
interference.


Order: a U.S. rare beef steak to go -

Don't allow those influences into your homes. Yet the animal magnetism
- radiates into the cracks,
- gets in everywhere!

    Who crept under the microfoil. It's something other than -

large blockades of information. There's a recent buzzing, it happens ALL THE TIME.

Maybe i'll cadge a lift
into the soda stream
                of your love
if you offer.

Having someone appointed to talk about
- except all that screaming around 2 a.m. You show up to the house
choking on your own conformism.

It's the wording at those things whores my imagination.

Minutes around notes deaden further into the cracks.

Where were you outside McDonald's in the vision anyway?

Make your surrender quiet in the former airbag, where you're
ALMOST
a hologram. Note having met you before relapse, but never quite after performance.

Can't it absorb fallout from the

song-&-dance routine agony columns…

             Doesn't it come - two for one - with a cut-out, a face like Lavinia 
Greenlaw.

It's a monotony, sometimes. But then inculcates into -


somebody else at the side-show department.

Going to blow this subtext if you don't FOR ME ridiculous sublimate details.

            That sliding in almost-assurance, which said increments frustrate over
a certain hatchet job, lets call it (convenient) D.I.Y.


Impossible figures, not a word now about dictate origins.

How many questions to go, i have none, except in my head.

i want to be outlawed from culture when I grow up.
 
Having the recent primary aims to be happy is all i care about.

Quietly censored.

OR, money's a cruel aggregate.

Waiting to plug their fantasy headlines into a whole.




WHEN EXPECTATION RELINQUISHES UNDERNEATH ITSELF


in concentric myth-lines.     Formal the plot -
not deleteriousness.     You expect forward motion.

To act -     not just in a field - but over a field.     In it,
heading out,     spreading.     Plotting one's course
beside familiars.                        Perhaps rendered, getting a taxi
or plane.

There in reversible relation
are more fields     - consciousness permits. Grounds for ill-feeling,
due to closeness. The heroine of a book mirroring a complex
(is disconcerting)!                      You're due certain erasures,
and for courage read luck.

Untold properties push you outward. Messages will not bear you
though masquerade readiness.

In the morning,
more seething than usual,     because seeming uncertain,
sleep is dolled out -     whimsical by the hour.

Smell of barbarism each time     put     to the unconscious.
Describe,     briefly,     her lips. But cannot.
Only parallels emerge -     peccadilloes. And careless attentions.

These always -    but they can't - namely -     control measures.

Microscopically viable.     Lingering over     real joints -
visible to the few.     Over like coloured rows.     The two parts heady in contrast.

Live transmission of a calf muscle     being     segregated -
literally     torn apart -    placated.

Or unconsciousness (paraded).     But there is NO SUCH THING.

By remembrance I mean:
always exceeding the mark.

Rows disjointed like heads,     automatically piled.
Not even cheap
but free, biting the point, as if to enlarge it.

What was it that first got away?     What muscles left that are moving?

Are all the returns fervent,
trenchantly uninformed.

Con amore?  Or could that tell when it was ‘broken.’

So much morality
drenching the lost production.

There were dialogues, but they was interested / bougie, with no matter but
who        re-settling       all scenic routes     this way     & flawed.

I realized that what made us happy contravened
ourselves. Prepared armament. Remembrance.

And once you're not happy     - I will have gone.         Or conversely,
once I've gone               - you won't have noticed me. Or your freedom.

Regrets shade from exactly this distance    im-
promptu release.    

And why should we want to grip on that
unfinished scene




emily critchley holds a PhD in contemporary, American, women’s poetry and philosophy from the University of Cambridge. She is the author of several poetry chapbooks, with Arehouse, Bad press, dusie, Oystercatcher and Torque, and her Selected Writing, Love / All That / & OK, was published by Penned in the Margins in 2011. She teaches English and Creative Writing at the University of Greenwich, London.

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