ditch,

the poetry that matters

Frances Kruk

Frances Kruk wrote A Discourse on Vegetation & Motion (Critical Documents, 2008) and resides in the sick sunless damp of London, England. She likes John Donne, Otis Redding, hot dogs, and trains.

*

something
sense something
formulas, fuze types, chamber eggs
sense by all means something
by crunch of frag talk


Roneo spectre:

jam tin is simple
in black, glitter lace
The powder The head
sense bright as tungsten

*

where things happen like zits
the work in the woods
the inconvenient later
skull blocks vatic as bulb in bare room
I will seize I will
telephone each point
on the smallpox chart
my factories, my mice, my laboratory orchestra
all still a secret blade in cake
confiture that can not see
the motionless centre below

*

((I tried to move but fell right through the eggshells, dropped a floor, lost time, lost weight. The concrete, the meat, the dust of sick & rat piss & somewhere in there the mass gum of result not worth discussing. But Problems. Wars, dead batteries, stuff. & heads. So all right sit Still in the ferocity, limbs extend with provisional sticks constructed of pencils taped to pencils taped to pencils: scribble hiss split & howl of clouds spun out. Are you still there. Which floor.

*

for while I sleep
at bones the slathered pillowcase
my greasy habit hell be silent
for the salt. one drip, two
for wet spots on the nice wall
my shake is quiet, the wound sound I
have no hate I have no hate
sugar with an angel's zeromouth I wish
to question vertebrae til they puke
their secret ice




*

(if I could press out the juice of my raucous baby talk
if that Tongue does not wither as I speak
if I do not become a spider
if I do not happen)

*

out, Things
you that is itself
the pox, lesion
fresh piece of motionless
room you is still sensing
the going is the ceiling is the bulb
height of annoyance at 1200 watts
remark the blood & hot
out out you Tin of you


*

unsure you hang in winter globe the Once
but always snow & snow & snow & snow falls up & down by shudder
fist pork flakes the village, dark quiet as dead
mice under seige under deaf seige under
tinny hum of under storm the always shake fall shake fall
drift & drift of hookless being
the noplace of Suck
that liquid & Walk the midnight water
:
Press plastic then & peer out at whatever

*

I am still as opaque
quiet does not exist but talking
is quiet as the mythic
stillness of woods
that swarm with busted zippers, mud-stiff trousers board-slapped on marshes. It is better in rooms where honest concrete tells its secrets, where circles claim no order in the frenzy of their numbers. In the motionless centre, in the oubliette of hard splayed skin I am tedious, pox, a rodent with Tins of blueprints dry inside my armpits










*

I am a wild party & you sense
something
tongue clot, illegal mouths
the basement grin has cake
sodium chlorate snakes the icing

you happen as a thing
during a picnic
Go under

*

now a smile in a Throat like that

of a sheep something happen
in a sense of 'later
there's work to be done in the woods -

(inconvenient, the woods, the work
but we are collective
responsibility
let's vigilante and suck
Dirt later

*

in the woods
in the music of dwarves

(barely legal, dwarf music.
drone drone
pinecone home
dirt-packed holes & whistling
mouths)

steel makes the acquaintance
of the post-Magneto
or the stuck tight Grin
or the Bag too tedious to tie
the radius of Fractals sloshed
upon the clay

*

For one second I am I now they say that is enemy that is swine & I ))) silent again before they cleave & pull the guts up through lungs But who has heard the basement song & not practiced agony thereafter  I say I say What is this should have been known & why the trap of middles now





*

if a tooth rank could repeat
the voltage murmur of calcium could
the jaw just leave the room
cease the marrow chatter
so this face can slip to sleep
closed mask, folds fluttered
soft before offensive



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