Digital Poetics 3.21 Everscapes by T. Person
We are standing
in the Q for a club.
It’s morning
you say: “let’s talk.
Torso troublants weren’t
in our playbooks nor is
self-charm in our mirrors.
≥ Remembrance ≤
with a little c,
doesn’t require memory.
I couldn’t want desire,
when we first loved,
I’d pickle quick
plums in the night, sad;
then before sunrise I’d
boil all the eggs
& return them
to the carton,
cackling, yawning.
Our body was a site for
kisses, scrapes, elements, leather.
An object of payment
bruised with sweat sparkles.
Out of love, falling
in Hamnavoe—
tumbling sounds: stairs
to the shore where
rose, haw,
here, rose hep, look:
itchycoo
dogroses snog
in the
psychopomp park
*****.
Hermes, harbinger
deliver[s] parcel[s]
across plains of light, into lustrous
uploads of the cross-over, 0 Aphrodite,
Herma-
phro-
dite:
the sweet melting of genders
into passwords:
H3rmaphr0d1t3.
Nobody’s home.
Is it twilight or dawn?
The night is
whispered, plainly;
their dawns in ink
shimmer
lime lights, that
rush four to the floor. Our
nostalgic doubting heart circular,
the autophagic pleasure
of crowds, live
ketfeethugs in
the dark room; in
the dance chamber
where we’ll live together,
our electric
manifold is
the image
is the image
ipse dixit —
show us the door, a
boundary of ruffled
passport next to
sea squad and the
simplicity of travel
like kein mensch
not tonight, Freund.
Jener mensch
ist illegal
in therapy
a provocation
a weight a
calendar of
thoughts, a
wish in
the loch
below sight
above sex
seated
winking at
the local
therapist
across the mind’s
post office; visible;
he’s ill from the
blatant suns, the
dog roses, the cuffing
honeysuckle
complexes, the
cobwebs of the
right to remain;
what if you were
ordered to
dismantle your
own home
or pay for
its destruction?
Knock knock
clause 9
Forced eviction
Forced deportation
condemn expats
to be named immigrants.
Hermes
deliver[s] parcel[s]
between 9 and 7.
This time it
belongs to our
border guards, so
we take it
and build
this mirror
we look at
together, right now.
The inflected loses itself.
can you hold
me like that Greer Lankton
doll? I asked remember.
remember
I invited everyone
over for my birthday
and once they’d all arrived I
screamed ““everybody out.””
I can’t even say my house even
the property in which I
currently dents-de-lions even
pissenlit løvetann
dandelion, yes Löwenzahn
teeth, flaxen lion tooth. I
just can’t even Louis Vutton
out of this love mess,
this urban space battle in your
estranged flesh suit, a
mist of Electra’s complexes
O my legs refused to walk
away // John Clare \\ are flowers
the winter’s future? //
To spite O, to spite E
love of my life no.7 ate
love of my life no.9 but
we’re all still friends
in the Q for the club
we’ve been in all this time
pushing the furies
for this new reality. No,
not a fucking Utopia;
waiting for scotland, so
please be seated
for the incremental
dissolution of the crown yes
to dance with reason in the
tonic of the pulling Clyde, in
the irresponsive Firths;
we burst in our own way
into twilit summers with
hot, limp wrists
that slap the blues
out of the sky
unquiet.
The Q moves forward a step.
We celebrate in criticism
the latent futures of
fishnets, our haptic love
shifts under inclement
and substantial
weather systems that flip
landslide fevers into chip shop
conflicts like salts from above yes
& there under vinegar moons
the bouncer admits:
THREEFOLD DEATH
musclebound, leathered
st. cuthbert of
lindisfarne is here
in the Q fishnet flex
tailed by a sneaking
monk and emerged from
the north sea— ””death””
when, as if by nature,
the bouncer reports,
a bevy of otters dried his feet
with their fur and licked
him dry; the sneaking monk
confessed to St. Cuthbert and
swore himself to silence.
We move forward a step
figures emerge at the window
unmasked
that opens to tempt
the Q-ing crowd, a torso
immanent in calcium light
surveying the prophecy of Merlin
in trace of Myrddin Wyllt—””The Wild:””
a boy presented to
him, how will he die?
He will fall from a rock
Presented again in
different clothes
He will hang
Presented in a dress
He will drown
the boy falls
from a rock
hangs from
a branch and
with his head
submerged
in the water, drowns.
The bouncer regal boi
musclebound refuses
a skein of dys-, another
gaggle of gigabytes so
we turn to each
other and kiss, at last;
the Q is 30km long, so
I take off my shirt
waiting; dark
the gentle, sudden
lift of private
recessions, the rate
of intramural
vision doubling
into tensions of blue;
the falling of history’s
curtains
where pixelated
the parallax of the
panorama milkshakes melt.
There Cailleach—””the hag””
an anapest
a trochee
sweet substances
of dys-skin pushed
against cosmic glass;
muscles made
of microplastics flex;
I put my hand
on the fence, but
the lattice is covered
in anti-love paint;
you carry your phone, the
mortal harvest of desire, a
passing of crystalline days;
in September the structure
of kanikama, karaoke
capital & the crabstick:
I sing, I am singing, I will sing
the greys of acid circles like a
dashofself in memory of our
coldpillowdiscoure;
our imago, a
moulting attachment
to one another
and now what? We
eat the symbols of
the blues: hi-viz beat
in latest carceral fortune;
yes they’re visible, we
share tongues, we
keep sharing tongues,
in the Q,
we keep sharing our
tongues, yes we
don’t talk, we hear
a song from the first floor
above a neon palace
and a torso;
our promise of pleasure in the
simulated divine in the Q
where we wait later
touching, gazing at
the pineal centre, the
banjo pull, the
memory of
the first disobedience;
the toddler’s—””The Nation””
first steps towards hegemony;
the neck in front of us:
a tattoo snake,
an apple,
a pearl necklace.
I miss you.
Q-ing. So
we play mishaps
of the body;
our tensed
copulas unisex
and silent in-
side
our
latent
forms;
inside
a
lush, mirrored
anxious s**g
against the railings
of the nation state
the horror! I say:
B.D.S—
M.
I want you;
we want to go inside
but don’t push in front
so we wait & sweat
falls from the sparks
of our last
crush & extinguishes,
in perfect cadence,
the house of
lords, & so through
naming, we notice the
diversity of life
says Anna Tsing, so we
wait besides one another
in a new naming
of skins; you whisper
the invincible
privilege of
XxXexpatriationXxX
against this the displaced
Binary logic of
the spiritual reality
of the root-tree.
We stand adjacent
to this dichotomous
ekstravaganza.
Our hands,
touches of
negation
not-I, I
not-you, you now.
Call me, we’re in the Q.
Our text is an
island?— a wee archi-
pelago.
It’s possible
to kiss gelato? But
we wattle any way.
Call me, text me,
tell it to me:
my boughs are the sheen and
how ssssssssssssss
textual it
became
after you
left
our dearest toys
in gestalt and art.
Our dearest septums
boarded up
on PVC
coastlines
-isles-
else where
threads, dominant winds
wheezing, whoop!
Through beachgrass—
silk’s sway? The
largesse of
digitless
figures,
the impish
twist
of truth
p i n n a t e & s y m m e t r y
I walk
dressed
as an ache or heartburn
towards seasonal Kabbalah;
Chicken chow mein;
Hungry with after
morning light.
Mirage: translucent.
We are
fleshing out
into the weight
of our wounds.
We gift our trauma
our dreams.
A tension there
tickles their
bodies
never
alone
many
bodies
together
make
possibilities by
proximity;
collaborative
acts of
love cadence
chime the
salie̸nt
ethics of
smoked glass
and hi-pass filters but
radiant torsos soon
tempt our thoughts.
Their sills.
Their pewter
lunettes mouth speech:
an analogue of earth. We
start snogging: we start
wearing trousers.
Pentimento traces on skin.
The repentance
of my dearest, troubled virgo.
Another spectacle in
the cattle feeder while
we Q with everyone.
They see
our fall to grace.
We nonetheless
bear gifts in
our pockets and
someone yonder
chats about who
they’re saving and
how and how much
it costs;
someone yonder
chats about who
they’re sleeping with and
how and how much
it costs.
This infinite
work complex
and how neoliberalism
saved me from
the weight of
a vivid inner archive;
someone behind again
talks about who they’re
shagging and how often
and what that means in
the grand scheme of
neoliberal love;
Images appear of
latex, of lucky fuschia, of
resurgent sex supply chains and
crying salvage rhythms, at last the
vast, abusive economy of bathing,
of sobbing
is booming;
the power of six, the
sweetest; I spill this
rosacea cocktail just when
everything was
going so swimmingly, but
distinctive like skies,
the fat conscience of
the known possesses of
her what nature lacks
in leggings. The exhibitionism,
Gerti, the besetting mould;
the iron believed the
orangepeel’s thought
of the lean unlovely,
where our hermessengers
master a resilient temperament.
Don’t worry, my
dick gets my foot
in the door.
The real-
ised and relieved elsewhere
confess their absence.
Small satiny years
murmur You did that,
you lived that BUZZ.
With white and yellow that
frontal pleasure music sings:
Come, you alleged end.
The old, bad, bright, merry
displacement of people;
the occasional and endearing face;
the lampposts above charming glimpses;
these provisional midnights decide such
feels. Convince myself
to lather softer skin
on likely firmer ground.
You refused
the sequence true for you,
first turning
nosey and whistling
the channel eats a
sinister something: pansies, they
Bloom Bloom eyes not twinkling
and which modernis-
m
hasn't lost more than five
shoals of soured friendships. Those
engulfed by the soul don't help
anyhow. Outside of wailing want
and timbre the just just might be
right there. The
flowered train was due
likewise to a spiritual
almost ivory; his red purity
awned the streets whose
land Blooms into thought
gazing chords, making it simple.
cry nice here and the poplars
speak like the world with
the ear blind and they say
appendix etc pleasure etc.
There when such pleasure of control
sets that morning ocean and
the seas though overjoyed
sob in loose aromas; this
learning happy drowsy
silence is a queer, gold glimpse
of lapped moon in violet;
the colour tightly embraces
them male; those sour, sweet new
garters, when falsely stated
the tall pink etiquettes
craved by those
waiting on the platform
cast votes out of her mass
bosom for Brit-
ain.
Without all this misery
from the middle
clays, the colours leave
the garden between She,
our nation, the mauve
fire, the rose face; an
empty tang; their droll eyes,
their gentle grey suit
turned to Madame Tussaud’s
where collecting there
gnawed all who sin in
their fire-snogged ancient
selves; but all die many
ways with priceless
fear: all through the dark
thoroughly lefthanded, the
criminal lushness eats the
ocular shove of attraction.
We had naked garments
at last. The first water.
The final fireworks.
Toe to toe and two later
the lord’s curious,
leering mouth piques only
a judged taste, treated
like hygiene; the pro-
phylactic authority all
forms the offic-
ial versions from
that morning madame suit.
Only affordable transit will
save the commuter;
they swing their dress for
the good looking sovereign;
and there's more where that
languor came from and
we hear this laughing,
this delightful crying
from the front of the Q;
more delight cried
could never satisfy
the passions, the grief,
the help for the
returning tomorrow.
Our residence in this softly, softly
reflection of the fallen state.
It’s brazen for fresh
breath minted
in an inverted
tory sickness.
His, yes, proof of the arranged
cottage off the street
under that ordinary night
where the simple substance,
sertraline, settles in.
There’s still a Saint
then suddenly a Could;
a young voice besides
the CISSY; the
platonic licking of the state
and those policemen sweating
another five thousand
prisoners into
their shirts; the Burned
hundred and the banks
get hotwater without tender
and that citizen burning burning,
fire fire might his best kind beings
and memory pfooh relentless.
I remember the absentminded
dirty brutes under
General Garland Garter, my first lover,
here have been
discovered by remote parties
like the agent for this patriotic
grey state; I’m stuck talking
to an insurance company about
my imaginary possessions;
this will therefore pull the flesh off their ears;
I’ve heard faintly who has not hoarsely
whispered about derelict windows in
kinning park where you can buy cheap .mp3s;
homely you break this news in two,
then break down yourself, irl
you’re my valentine
peace treaty and read, relish, need, exhale,
and say you little prick then they them. Aye, they
lamp there, that’s putrid. Don't crows look
excessive like Dedalus, for they said
only thinking of a darkroom’s secrets?
The process of the and which male and
female chats about; she sets aside another
space and time. When I call, I wait so long for the call,
may the fringe, the noisy quarrelling knot
and their breath displace its memory
adjacent to the glaresgame this concentrate
imagination plays on; every morning
is a throne: grouped, prone, change the question.
Dys-
diminishing parity, no party, near the old
bay silent like the shoulder, hips
lapping ocean and sea, but no there’s just
wind and head, the sounds of sucking
air through teeth and a low circle above
the plinth where we’ll dance later, yes we’re
halos holding heated agreements and necks
with learned futures there injected with a
bright, terrible yellow. The sign glint eye eye:
the nose and pen nodded from under some stuff
that peels our stagnant forms. How beautiful
this fuschia time warp. Don’t worry, my
dick won’t get us through the door.
I won’t show it to them;
they just have to think I’ve got one
with its familiar power, motionless that
begins with rare balance and when
the stakes were movements, exceptions
the colour remained invisible. Unknown the
glass, farewell, the oil, roses legitimate our deft,
soft persona. Like many
others this tuck hurts and your gaze hammers;
your sudden resemblance to the divine shocks;
already seated, sour eyes had lifted
some dark curtain; this cycle enamoured
daddy’s dividends, touching a pleasure etc
entangled in issues of private rust where
this sex included body and rights, exhortation,
the modes and one fact: there imaginary,
experienced, articulating theory far
queerer than that other deeply important
spark, traces. Fashion has many other
issues in uttering; they speak genderfluid,
nonrollerskate gossip through songs for the
popular drag historical art art. Arts
FIGURE their way into married, merging
untruths that ultimately form this hybrid rarity;
the term Why This Body? and The World; horror,
performance and performance examine
awareness; it’s all very literary anyway; I acknowledge
meat bodies, fabulousness, November,
History. Archives. Mythmaking. Silly little games; love
all becomes, starkly, the Joy political
which honours the many sexed systems of
our escape, feeling real but destroying reality.
I perform otherwise, get the sense, blindnesses well
vulnerabilities. Another way
I perform feeling real and destroying
current gender theatres, this mighty real
just the Prologue to belief. Present modes
allude throughout haute couture poetics
and through the blues rock this sweat mingles
relationality which counters high art.
The term and concept, the meanings attached
to our self sense sack the popular conceptions
from the board. It’s
2010. The beginning like reworked mannerisms,
evoked key actions and relational white
politics. One way or an ‘other’ interrupts the visual grotesque
down on inflation beside an on-paper perfect lover with 20
mayfair superkings going spare outside the
toby carvery next to the don bridge where
vitreous, foggy nature rains onto our somatic
synthesis; this is a game we play with
Thanatos—nickname “”Dan, from the Bridge Inn””
‘cept our own death feels
further than the earth’s—he says.
Life underwrites death:
can’t have one without the other, despite
the musk in the haar, the lack of visibility, there’s
hotties on the platform waiting for the end
of Britain, the holy fire of always saying yes to
spite desire, yes to want for the
stars: an evident lack, a fatal
insecurity or yes a complex around crisps
and lagers. I just want to snog a gas giant
at colossal velocity, since the love
of my life no. 11 Mr.Blobby died in a skip
outside tesco at the forge; it brings
the concept of the cycle back
into this growth mindset where
speech and will oppose the distortion
of well-being; the explorations in which play
stresses the feels, the sensation gay and their body
extremely muscular. Oh my, much thinking
about physicality; now in common language
the returning buff FIGURE is forever young;
The stress Clowns hand
sculpture your performativity;
this crystal flex subverts the trained, fleshy
suits and thread s
coercions into five streams of tears
down their faces;
the concepts vogue and the spectators absorb
the yearned automatic thinking;
the way performing bodies can
pulp such questions; the modal cone of
distress. Wanna be genderless and at home.
Three rather long, gendered Somethings
walk into a bar: hold on, it’s a knife, a fork and a spoon.
After a quick bite to eat this vibrant
dentist beat the window theatric!
The fall of man begins in the mouth.
Those boys dress like mortals;
they are masked in new violet
garters that pair Britain with the erotic:
designing female greens, plucking then the satin
rose throughout aid funds for lifting fingers
framed around the walls; images recognise
one another; for the moment sex hides
these private bronze gatherings and undoes
the sheaf with its toenails: death by itching;
living by scratching. A flap smile; flood ears;
fat proximity; group birth; such literal realness;
queer jowls; she plays Occam; stage blouse;
bacon call; blessed penknife; the
desperate fact; this problem queen from the forth;
a loom wends in Paisley;
gold gives us heartburn; one poison bouquet please;
Yes Delivered please, no anonymous, yes 10 Downing—
Dedalus’ unstable hands; themselves
unthinkable paper the mud; the devotee;
the narratives;
the last Easter glow. Further down the Q,
where we wait,
someone says: round and round
the murderous border protection
the ragged home secretary ran”
*
T. Person is an artist and writer living in Glasgow. Their work and writing has been shown in Gutter Magazine, Erotoplasty, SPAM, Embassy Gallery and at Hidden Door Festival. http://www.tperson.xyz/
*
The moral right of the author has been asserted. However, the Hythe is an open-access journal and we welcome the use of all materials on it for educational and creative workshop purposes.
