To Multiple

Close to the Equator              sweating as you do
my walking does not make much noise         but
I can hear it     the snap   electric                like  a
thought that turns my leg                  into a baton
makes  it hurt halt        impede            freezes the
kinetic marvel until I stumble        make a scene
think less of it          kick                  its syllogisms
circled in red             so many times         the aim
was blurred                                the error remains
unknown          just red                 calling on   the
little bocachico does not know it is displayed in
a pile at the stall        an object       manifestation
of colour and size       a price       when the cycle
is thought does it also stop           all the tourists
want a picture with it     of it     how picturesque
I will also eat it later      fried       baked       I will
pull a bone from my mouth          why not  there
are too many              it is what keeps it all going
how multiple      forgetful even           sometimes
the wind is in your favour       and blows your t-
shirt from behind       someone said      the wind
in its all directions            always in someone’s t-
shirt          blowing                     but just a hot and
fishy breeze sticks mine onto my skin       comes
from multiple directions         this is a peninsula
the land at my back           it rains in breaths    of
awe      the rest is the setting       all that daytime
racket turned into its elements              the stage
visible                      the rush and crawling is now
contemplation                                   breaststrokes
you can’t get the whole picture                 you are
sort of liminal     like your phone                  close
to the Equator            libra solidus and denarious
are just pesos here                             the exchange
is not liminal but multiple             works in some
calculators        to keep going is to keep pressing
buttons       materialising symbols           but how
when fingers are thought                        crackling
twigs in fear                       of a lack of inscription
that can only be called on                  remember I
snap       electric          it is sick but I saw a pretty
green silvery purse shine                   and thought
of you                         it all stopped and I thought
of you   your whacky patterns                your zips
you are going to love it                and me and you
because of me              the emptiness pursuits us
but feels safe in your hands                     a leg can
also just want to say hi back          perhaps it was
just an accident and it said hi      back               in
exchange       not a levelled transaction          but
a salute        to think the stage can become tower
blocks                           the liminal can be crashed
just for the one view             who says hi from its
seventh floor          two waves keep coming back
looking one after another                       rocks are
giving away some density                     losing bits
by bit a volume that is swallowed back          and
pushed under     there     the setting           allows
coral and algae     and little bocachico     to swim
in the swamps                  eating away its detritus
in the dark          the sun is not everywhere now
it might be in New Zealand         the  bocachicos
take their turn to run in group up the river     in
the rainy season             when water pours down
indistinctly          their eggs will flow back down
to the swamps     there         close to the Equator
I can hear them                                         popping

§

  

To one

They play                                      it does not hurt
they say         I slid                        and thus blood
bursts                               the joy has not finished
in Kennington Park               a drill reminds me
of death                                       a tremor at dusk
too                                     trains are being driven
under                                               machines like
hands like orders                           mine say time
I can change it                        but nothing would
my phone does not                             the remote
apparatus measures gas                       in pounds
I am aware      of the months                I am also
part of the cycle                                        to one’s-
self I also sing          centrifugally   and   end up
wet       alone                       so many hours spent
standing behind       a bar                      it is your
learning said papa                                  money is
not real                                                      but kills
my boss is also yours                                    mine
was always high                              he was funny
in the touch                                    and who am I
you are sort of liminal                     there is only
night         a sense of ending              that bleach
only puts off         like dusk                      like me
half being          accordingly           half thinking
oh future                                   magic     balances
will make it all alright                             my fully
recovered fully uncovered                       gravitas
meandering through                              different
space-times                                           like a page
being turned                                          my hands
reach you here        demotically            and sane
having learned I disobey                        children
never learn                    a van warns CAUTION
it is reversing                                   all that gravel
will fill                                                     the depth

§

“To Multiple” previously appeared in Erotoplasty 1, edited by Colin Lee Marshall.