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This is Jacket 16, March 2002   |   # 16  Contents   |   Homepage   |  Catalog   |    

Chris Emery

George’s Song

While we must stare
And love disease
In leisured sunny days
The final crow ejecting
And you my mind again
All through the knocks
A cheap sand snatching
That seas cannot time
The quartz palaver

Stating this and thick in worn
Pyjamas again a loss of
Breathing then hawking
To itch on pale distemper
The silver flanks
Of fat and felt
In mild grey tonnes
By wild doors calls a town
Such sudden extravagance
That strays well from
Cold localised herds
Justice reeks at sky’s bevel
Stones fattened on pillows
Stones fattened on milt
A monstrance tipped again
Otherwise else in shingles
Keeps you out keeps you
In worn adulation
Ticking for the bowel crime
Rockaby queer free one now
Rockaby rockaby

The microphone
Is dead as postures now
Engines purl on purple
Indiscriminate anvils
Touching the wavehead
Headphones cracking
Whilst mother at her wash
Mouth tense ash face
Frozen up in mud wet
Seething over yellow
Caul taut and packed
With violet scenes
Of change how dear how dear
Our corporate dances
Lifting bony boxes
And soiled cubic rage
To freshen this pancreatic

All first to time’s
Sour luggage
Our shadow kept for extra
As each feathery
Proboscis scrapes across
Our tiny scales
Music failed in little days
On shifting
Entelechy a mass in which
Imperfect azimuths are love
Your sloping girl blue
Haunches glissade on stains
Over tolerant cable
The wire clear the den bright
As mouth tense ash face
Frozen up in mud wet
Knees bent to ideas
Bent as old grass still
Toils a weakened pelt
Outside the good room

Now nickel draft of tears
Iron sheets and troops
Happy under tensile steel
Happy under total
Blasting the info good
Condensing in what core
Face still hung
The cables wet above
Ten thousand
Eyes still sagging ailing
Beyond the positonic
Cleats of will
As shoddy lips
Enunciate the bitter searches
Yet again all again
A tonic for what void as
Sharpest teeth go chatter
Chatter blighting now
And biting
On the measled grapes
The tongue in its waxy haven
Shoving on and on
Cheering frozen gulls
While lips invoke
A money shot stuttered
With the tousled stars
Replete by that perspex
Room amplified but mute
Mouthing still
And still unsaid
While we can stare
And spell our pale disease
In leisured sunny days

You can read an interview with Chris Emery
in this issue of Jacket magazine.

Jacket 16 — March 2002  Contents page
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