Stu Hatton



coming off heavy meds

even the simplest causes can case mis*&^&*understandings er atep8uy stick opaque tape over the inbuilt webcam um the house departs owÔ YOU live in a field in an eggshell sickroom /.,making practice calls &&&&& to map the face apply cobweb HPIH banalisation wire-frame piss off ___-+__+P any # phenomenologists on board? they’ll set the penguins on you even if they exist @watch yer turbines suffer from a high #$%^&*)(&^ some air lost the flight grammar of sad is? was? sustain stationary unfinishedness effing ^%&* slow-shot lapse into intelligibility ritual restoration of O8^& proper order hereto hetero IY& G*g97(76g baulks words a strain, sloppy remains encrypted as if a corpse were blind forensics G8G*gp8 a poised violence shat out may /// preclude certain forms of response gamings VHYT&TTIT upset for more formal reasons (*^ long burger may be a hotdog labeled as such **T utopia/dystopia um startling similarities (&U_( carefully gated error themepark Giou/b making holes ((_ unselving headwinds


their worlds hold them
(a ‘terminal’ based on John Tranter’s ‘Mary Jane’)

Traces of empire persist in the lung
but one, are not labelled as such, and two,
mask other problems – such as a gushy, upsold memory.

No wonder they drink and run to a book
to get their lying under control; they live in their eyes
and at symptoms of beauty flex claws, turn vicious –
bodies are not obselete, are
prototypical of histories that will decide the present. The heart
is where they all intended something else; the head
an unearthly planet from a very bad novel, artefactual taper
that lights the cave thick with description. But neither tables the city
as candidate to chair discussions of the no-show dream,
that earnestly xenophile garden.

One sip and it’s gone; God checks the dictionary: his rain
proves a mock deterrent to those who seek the mists of the flesh
or the underlying grammar of bone.


your watery astrolabe

Who now would love you
as you measure out a dose? Not
the day, nor those with whom

you do not wish to share
a language. Who now would dare
seek an altruist? You have no use

for leadership (the harder-won,
the worse) or news of the palace
hosting a barbecue to honour

asbestosis. Grudged passage to
another landmass, where streets
no longer function as intended,

and knowing there is much to do
then undo, all the while
you sniff yourself compulsively.

Much of this may have proven
easier while your boat of skin
had eyes. Perhaps it is not so

insignificant that ‘depthless’ may
mean devoid of depth or infinitely
depthful(?): toss a coin over

water. You have your choice of
tissue-paper dwellings, needing
time alone to do the unthinkable.


intercepts

you can’t eat the road are you

in the right world? gains privatised,

losses socialised obviously using

marauders to collect all the masks before

the meeting they wrap their

phones in tinfoil stick them

in the freezer to fail like other

double disguises in one of those CIA/Time

Warner garden paths with cool smoke

effects in fact pictures of math however

much you try to be enjoyable you are

shown as z’s on the time-map cracking

the shits & indeed have one new mess


md & k

half-lit in tastelounge to remain
undetectable we sit in black
saucers asking each new set of
pupils ‘who’re you flying with?’

answer: ‘michael douglas’, which
must be drug-code or some such
subception the VJ fastforwards
80s videocassette How to
Powerwalk we half-nod to
fluro headbands leggings
strutting the plasmas all

conspires to stream a place
we didn’t know we had the
fiction effect our streaky gaze-
coordinates get realmed the

quasi-jungle mazes dance matter
out of place skulled bassheads
wild it out intercorporeal no
nostalgia for the future’s the
condensation point wherever
beats’re aware of themselves
underlayers form a derm &

atomshake the realm of hungry
ghosts desire sells desire our
needlethroats our tongues
extra pennants of the hex


you have the wrong cards

It was fun creating money

a screen. Well aren’t you a bleedin’

identifiers for each. How can you sleep with that fuck-off generator next to your

central bank. O, I misspoke. Bummer, I

a virtual currency, said the

caravan?

It was fun

money, more thin air, numbers on

Reserve Bank of Australia and every other

inventor of BitCoin. A geek with a rack of CPUs harvesting unique encrypted

tin-rattler? we’re all recycled

creating a virtual currency, said the

the most informed people are the most hopeful

line of logic requires is to create more

misfelt, misemoted on that. All this

how to cancel your death and total and permanent disablement

writ small




Stu Hatton is a Melbourne-based poet and freelance editor. He also works as a mental health researcher at the University of Melbourne. He sometimes posts things at outerblog.tumblr.com.
 
 
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