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.