friday sonnet (#207: fucking gunma)

i grew up in & so on & so forth, she said.

we’re none of us lou reed but sweaty?

my god, you’ve no idea. push the right

package, you morons. puma hi-tops

leave footprints on your arse. i grew up

in japanese now in tokyo station not

my fault it’s raining, right? after we

finish talking about heather & missing

money &, outside, ornamental bamboo.

it’s still raining, puma hi-tops leave

footprints on your heart. you guys

& your scripts, that’s the wrong problem.

i grew up in fucking gunma, she said.

ornamental bamboo / rain falling softly.

korean poem

broken by loss, & life, too,

teasing those arcs that diverge

in darkness, yet are we

helpless, atonal, the rattle of trains

arriving in the terminus

where they all arrive,

wild pokemons chattering in front

of the tv in language

you pretend sporadically

to understand? as if there’s nothing

to be done. as if your heart

isn’t connected to the isthmus.

kleptomania, envy,

overheard in the kindergarden.

redeeming the offer in

each coupon.

americans stagger around,

near to falling. the aussies, when

pissed, are less mobile,

oft mistaken for statues or

exhibition pieces, their affect

missing in action.

if not for something between

the days, surely? facile & empty &

the zealotry of depth in the essays

you attempt to read as diversion.

on to the very end,

what else?

we scratch our heads.

all that bullshit & endless return.

here on the beaches

in the subway, under

the capital that once was japan.

best foot forward, alright matey?

response & responsibility

hedging your tone, as ultimately you will,

the will being mother to the afternoon

edition, piled up outside so much

real estate. mayumi is laughing & jun is

clearing tables & hiro wanders around

near the kitchen. you may be spending too

much time in this bar. another

new prime minister. seasons change

but the weather’s more or less the same,

where by weather you mean your moods,

their swings approximately diurnal, your

heart’s petty fascism helpless against

the competing rush of chemicals &

enzymes. the song’s structure mimics

the body’s, the body mimics the buildings,

& your head’s full of useless crap. you

worry about everything / paroxysms &

getting hammered in the park with friends

while your & miscelleanous kids clamber

over playground equipment, defying gravity.

only young once, but that was years ago.

friday sonnet (#206: hot in the city)

happy in gadgetland, where a 3 course

combini brekkie hits the spot, not quite

aimless, not quite still. invariably at

the mercy of others? what set you free &

brought you to, uh… the intention of the

organism is to survive? something like

that. invariably out of sync & approximate.

the anti-contemporary vapid response

squad arrives to dictate your emotions, but

why tie yourself to that particular sausage

machine? not like we ain’t spoilt for choice.

aging gracefully, you bet. you & duran duran.

keep cranking the handles. dressing up

your limitations as the basis of poetics

has to pale eventually.

postscript:

(so optimistic this morning. me & the

emperor, reconciled about lack & empires,

& where the hell do these ants come

from? sliding into ginza, the wish being

precursor to electrical signals the nerves

respond to.) question everything.

maybe try a little reading? tomorrow i’m

gonna stop drinking, eat sensibly / start

living within my means.

near tokyo station

hula hoops & suntans, the whole

axis of evil shudders & crumbles, found &

replaced here on the marunouchi,

insane demands notwithstanding, not so

handsome, dressed down, out of time,

architecture & predictive text versus

retro. spandex or lycra could be definitive,

incipient transfers, conflict & theology &

fetish catalogue for the win. shy, shy, shy.

remember? didn’t think so. day turns

ugly, i mean, it’s 9:39 at night,

it’s hard-pressed to get uglier &

the chances are zero to none, just saying,

languid & self-assured & who wants the

odds reassessed? exactly. bus don’t come.

openings & opportunism. stand still /

pucker up. your muffler astonishes.

friday sonnet (#205: blanket)

work it, honey, save the falling rabbit or

let the fucker drop. man’s world, with all

its limitations. data quality, you

shimmering ideal. (something in the way

she moves / attracts me like no other

spreadsheet.) pokemon descending a

staircase. not lack of remorse, nor able

to think, & once more into the day,

the sea so far from the seaside, your

comfort leaves just a hint of lack showing

between stations, staggered, beyond

belief, fabricating inputs to upset the

empiricists. anyone seen your blanket?

house full of mosquitos, full of ants.

apologism

morning, & already too much to do,

too little inclination to get it done.

you watch cops mill about outside

the koban &, fleetingly hangover-free,

under clouds stacked over garden place,

your footsteps echo in the skywalk

as volleyball players stifle yawns.

make a phone call, catch a train.

it is 6:30 am in kamiyacho.

town of the shops of the gods?

no scholar, no correspondence

entered into. it’s all a little blurry.

the extent of your ambitions is

to function, more or less. it is

7:12 in hiroo & you wear your heart

in your chest. today it is 9:04

between roppongi & hiroo, hibiya line

full of residues, summer suits & too

much tv, too much attention to detail.

once you tease out the form & abstract

the process it becomes mechanical,

like changing channels to a genre

of your very own. wrong end of the

stick? of the platform? pick one.

station attendent takes off the gloves,

has a dig for nose nuggets. meanwhile

the subway leaves you mildly vertigo-

stricken, messing your perspective,

like it needs the help.

friday sonnet (#204: exiles)

arid biotechnologist bothers & flashback’s

not the recommended way to approach

the moment, but whatever, it’s a dog’s

breakfast, squabbling over the problem

you can’t define, let alone resolve. ensigns

of industry, everyone of them, leaving us

rat-fucked, the rat-bastards. we’re crazy

like foxes & easily, uh, screw you guys,

we’re going home. & in the morning,

running. always running. hungry like the

wolf. why not press the panic button, over

& over? eventually someone will come,

picking their way through miles of arse-

coverage. life’s a circus, spot the clowns.

friday sonnet (#203: attention to detail)

the working group for discussing the

options talks about the possibility of a

show of hands to gauge interest in

an informal vote on whether to consider

a non-binding, well, hardly a

recommendation, more a suggestion,

really, about how it might be nice to get

something done on occasion but can’t

reach a decision. more variations on

sleeping standing up. several floors in the

sky, deep underground. our faith is in

local currencies, that’s all. those & our

libidos, following the fx rates in almost real

time. still, why go home if not to fight?

friday sonnet (#202: horizontal elevator)

who knows what you were thinking? the

search continues as algorithms sleep it off

in the bar / train empties at kamiyacho,

not quite rain falls on tokyo. along the

platform & up the stairs & onto another

train. emotions murmur to yourselves,

more or less integrated. today? somewhat

less. defense or residual desperation? the

world flat, grey, & toneless. how else

would you develop, peering up through

chemicals? engineering wonders

subverted by logic. later you download

foucault, punishing yourself for imagined

crimes, your excesses of nostalgia.

friday sonnet (#201: some rustic business)

voiceover land, in the fabulous animal

realm. armed with a whole packet of

peanuts, an array of fatigue toxins.

dishonesty brings relief & that’s why you

do it, cleaving the path of least resistance

the way everybody sweats on the train.

smokescreen or shrinking violet? baby or

shirt factory? bored by the crosstalk,

proving you can live without the people

you can’t live without. (homeowners, i

don’t mean you! keep your herbaceous

borders trimmed!) birds gotta sing,

angels gotta fly. a long sigh, & a deep

breath. luxurious, like taking a bath.

friday sonnet (#2: penultimate)

manage risk & control the message.

tractors bring you home. too risqué, too

suggestive. big wheel keep on turning.

educational? maybe a little. anything

to flirt with disaster. you’re welcome, &

thanks for coming. she said, i just don’t

understand him. she said, you don’t even

know which him i’m talking about, do

you? tractor chugging away. checking

each other out. anything further than ten

stations is the boondocks around here.

control your technique, or at least remain

aware of it. its limitations. notes passed

in class. our lingering exit. our endurance.

friday sonnet (#1: & in the end)

terrific & soporific we might fuck if

we can stay awake or we may never meet

again so shed your skin & let’s get started

you’re comotose i’m not far behind it’s

not so much the free drinks as the

morning after takes a toll & why else

were kitchens invented? if you want food

there’s an entire economy just down the

street. now it’s thursday again, truth be

told or damned you fumble speed dials

like a total budget pimp under grey sky,

lean on me til i break ain’t gonna fucking

happen, ok? ain’t gonna fucking happen.

terrific, soporific. let’s try to stay awake.

friday sonnet (#200: obnoxious bastard)

suck baby, suck. start professing. there’s a

brand new dance. (goon squad coming.)

you’re against the road /

doorway breaks into pieces.

if you want it? you’re older, wakaranai.

throw a rock (makes me feel important,

& free). silhouettes & shadows. no more /

like any other candidate. there’s a bar

thing, smile at least. darling.

down at the end where i can meet you &

hope, boys, is a cheap

friend. you can’t say no.

go to pieces. we’ll buy some drugs &

i never done good things.